by Paul Crilley
“And what is yours?”
“Tell me this,” said Sekhem. “What would you do to protect those close to you?”
Tweed shook his head at this sudden change of topic.
“Think. Your closest friends. You family. What would you do to protect them?”
Tweed thought about the events of the past year. Of all they had gone through to rescue Barnaby, of all they were going through now to find Octavia's mother. “A lot.”
“But how far would you go? That girl from the warehouse. What is her name?”
“Octavia,” said Tweed grudgingly.
“Octavia. She is a friend, yes? Perhaps something more?” Sekhem waved this away. “It matters not. What would you do for her? Would you kill to save her life? If you had no option?”
Tweed hesitated before answering. “If someone was deserving of death,” he said slowly. “If it was her or that person…I might.”
“What if the person was not deserving? What if it was a simple choice? Her or an innocent bystander?”
“I wouldn't make such a choice.”
“You have to. Otherwise they both die.”
Tweed shifted his weight. He felt uncomfortable, so much so that he had to actually check he was still holding the gun. It felt as if Sekhem was turning the tables on him, gaining the upper hand.
“Where are you going with this?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don't know what I'd do.”
“Liar. You know. You just don't want to admit it to yourself, that you could make that kind of choice. You would let the other person die. Of course you would. Everyone would. There is no shame in that.”
“That's where you and I differ. There is a lot of shame in that. Why are you asking me this? What does it have to do with you turning Tesla's weapons against us?”
“I am simply trying to show you that I am not some insane murderer. That I have my reasons. Let me ask you another question. All the advancements your kind has made lately. All of your new gadgets—the Difference Engines, the Adas, the Babbages. The airships, the lights, the coaches. How are they powered?”
“By steam. Tesla Turbines. Wireless energy.”
“Ah!” said Sekhem brightly. “I see. Is that what it is? Tell me, what are these Tesla Turbines?”
Tweed shrugged. “They create power.”
“Out of what?”
Tweed opened his mouth, then closed it again and frowned. “I…don't know. The Ministry doesn't let that kind of information out.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“They're probably scared foreign powers might get hold of the technology.”
“Ah, is that why?” Sekhem smiled a bitter smile and shook his head. “What if I told you something different? What if I told you that far underground, in this ‘Hollow World’ of ours, in Hyperborea, we have a power source. It floats in the air, just like your sun. We don't know where it came from, or who created it. But it is the same to us as the sun is to you. It gives us light. It nourishes us. Feeds us. We call it Tak'al—the giver of life. What if I told you that?”
“I'd say go on.”
“Ah. You do not dismiss me out of hand. I like that. Good. What if I also told you that these amazing Tesla Turbines of yours, the technology that drives the British Empire, is actually drawing power from Tak'al, draining it. That all its energy is now directed upward, to your world, whereas it was once directed down. That my people are dying. Our crops are failing. Winter is coming to our world, and all because of Nikola Tesla and his wonderful inventions. What if I told you that?”
That…that couldn't be true, could it? People wouldn't stand for it. Living your life at the expense of others. “Our Queen would never sanction something like that,” he said softly.
But the Ministry would, he thought.
“I once had a wife,” said Sekhem in a tight voice. “My sister, she had…” He stopped and shook his head. “No, I will not speak of her. Many caught the sickness that the failing of Tak'al has brought. My wife was among them. She is gone now. But I am nothing special. Thousands of families have lost loved ones.” Sekhem leaned forward. “What if I told you that I am doing what I am doing to avenge the deaths of thousands? To send a message to your people. An eye for an eye, as your famous book says. Look what you have brought upon yourselves with your greed, your obsession with progress. Look at the price of your airships, your automatons. Your comforts are purchased with the blood of my people!”
Sekhem stood up. “Now tell me,” he said, his voice trembling with fury. “What would you do if our roles were reversed? What would you do to save your entire race? To avenge your family?”
Tweed stared at him in amazement. “But…Molock. He is one of you. If this is true, why is he trying to stop you?”
“Molock is a coward. He thinks we should hide away. That we should wait for our scientists to come up with an answer.”
Tweed's thoughts raced. “Why don't you say something? Approach our government. If word of this got out, the British people wouldn't stand for it.”
“Yes they would,” said Sekhem bleakly. “Oh, they would feel bad. Perhaps. But once they realized that helping us meant losing their comforts, they would soon put us out of their minds.”
“You underestimate us,” said Tweed, his anger rising. “No person could call himself a human being and ignore something like that.”
Sekhem said nothing.
“I can help,” said Tweed. “I…I know the Queen. Let me tell her the plight of your people. I can't believe she already knows this. She wouldn't stand for it. When she found out that the Ministry was experimenting on human souls she shut them down. She is a good person.”
Sekhem turned to stare thoughtfully out the window. He leaned over the writing desk, his face striped with sun and shadows from the half-open blinds. Was Tweed getting through to him?
“I applaud your faith in the human race…” began Sekhem.
“You misunderstand me,” interrupted Tweed. “I don't have faith in the human race. At least, not like that. We are barely more than animals. We kill for money, food, love, hate. Sometimes we kill for no other reason except that we can. I frequently despair of being classed amongst the sniveling, selfish lot of them.”
Sekhem glanced at him in surprise. “Then why try to convince me they would do anything but stand back and watch us die?”
“Because we are also capable of great kindness. We rally around when a neighbor loses a house to fire. We collect for the poor, even though we barely have enough to feed our own families. We go to war to help a nation a thousand miles away, because they asked us to save them from tyrannical rule. Thieves, vagabonds, and murderers will rise up and drag a man to jail because he beats his wife. Or because he mistreats animals.” Tweed sighed. “We are a race of dichotomies, Sekhem, as I'm sure your people are. And I know, I just know, that we would not stand by and watch what you describe happening.”
Sekhem turned around to face him. “You are wise, boy.”
Tweed didn't know whether to be flattered or patronized by this remark.
“So you will let me talk to the Queen?
“But you are also naive. Your Ministry is killing us. The Queen might not know, but they do. We have tried to talk to them, and they turned us away. My family has died. Thousands of others have died. What else can we do to get their attention?”
“So you'll start a war?”
“No. They started a war. We will end it.”
And then he looked up. Tweed followed his gaze just as something dropped from the ceiling directly on top of him. He had the briefest glimpse of yellow, rage-filled eyes, then something hit him on the head. A harsh, white light burst across his vision, stabbing into his brain.
Then only darkness.
When Tweed woke up, the room was empty. He blinked, confused. His head was throbbing. Tiny motes of glowing dust danced in front of his face. He sat up and winced as the room spun sickeningly. He grabbed hold of the chair and
felt around for his Tesla gun.
Gone.
As was Sekhem.
The plans!
He looked around frantically for the box, but it was gone as well. Tweed punched the floor angrily. He'd had them! He'd had the plans in his hands! And now they were gone.
At least they didn't kill you while you were out. Silver linings and all that.
A very small silver lining. Because Tweed had let the enemy know that he, Octavia, and Molock were on board the Albion.
Tweed had a sudden thought. How long had he been out? What if they had already docked in Egypt? He pulled himself to his feet, swayed for a second, then staggered over to the window. He yanked up the blinds, blinking furiously at the bright light that burst into the room.
He pushed the window open and leaned out. A few wispy clouds scudded past on a wind so hot it sucked the moisture from Tweed's eyes and mouth. He blinked rapidly and leaned out even farther. The ochre sands of North Africa drifted past below the airship. He looked to the right and could just make out a distant series of low bumps wavering behind the heat waves.
Was that Cairo? If it was, then they were close. He had to find Sekhem and Nehi before the guests started to disembark. If they escaped into the cramped streets and alleys of the city, they'd never find the pair.
He left the room. The corridor was filling with excited travelers eager to test the wares of the foreign city. What should he do? Just wander around and hope for the best? No, better to tell Octavia and Molock what had happened. Then they could search together.
Tweed burst into Octavia's room and staggered to a stop. He blinked and turned his head, taking in the chaos. Chairs had been overturned. Glasses smashed. Chocolates strewn across the carpet, and then trodden into the weave by heavy boots.
Tweed closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He heard Barnaby's voice in his head. Remove yourself from the equation. Take all emotion out of it. Think logically. Reason and deduce. Never feel and act. That was a big mistake. Feeling, and acting on those feelings, was a pathway to…well, to all sorts of terrible consequences, according to Barnaby.
Problem was, he was beyond all that now. His time with Octavia had made him realize just how wrong his father was. That taking emotion out of life wasn't a worthy goal. Unless you wanted to be a lonely old man who talked to himself and kept a collection of snails in the bathtub. (As Barnaby had once done.)
Sekhem and Nehi had been here. They had taken Octavia.
And Tweed was very, very angry about it.
He was just turning back to the door when he saw a note on the sideboard. It was addressed to him. He ripped it open.
Mr. Tweed. If you get this letter before we arrive at the pyramids, come join us on the upper deck for some fresh air. If you don't get this letter before we dock, then I'm afraid Mr. Molock and the lovely Miss Nightingale will have taken a fatal dive from the ship.
Tweed burst out onto the upper deck of the airship. The ornithopters were being readied, pilots warming the engines in preparation for ferrying the passengers to their hotel. The massive collection of gas-filled balloons billowed and bulged about fifty feet above him, the heavy cables fighting to keep them in check. He ran to the front of the ship. The sun was setting behind them, stretching his shadow far across the deck. He could see the Great Pyramid drawing closer, the bright sun shining full onto its refurbished cladding, glinting in the hundreds of windows that had been installed in the newly-built rooms. He searched frantically behind every piece of machinery, every ornithopter, every shed.
Nothing.
He sprinted toward the rear of the airship. At the far end of the deck was a series of buildings that served as offices for the watchmen. Tweed sprinted around the side of the buildings, then skidded to a stop.
There was about four meters of decking between Tweed and the railing that curved around the airship. Octavia and Molock were both sitting on this railing, while Sekhem and Nehi—both wearing their human faces—stood before them, guns pointed at their chests.
“You made it,” said Sekhem “Good for you.”
Tweed studied Octavia. She was pale and trembling, but if he knew her, she was trembling with rage and not fear. She didn't look hurt in any way.
“What are you doing?” said Tweed.
“Giving you a lesson in life.”
“I don't need lessons from you.”
“Oh, but you do. You see, it is the duty of all adults to teach children that life is not fair. That life is not black and white.” He pointed the gun at Tweed. “I don't think you've been taught that lesson.”
Tweed took a step forward, but Sekhem held up his hand to stop him. “Please. Don't. Otherwise they will both die.”
Tweed stopped. He looked quickly around, searching for something, anything that could help him. Octavia and Molock were too far away to reach. He was outnumbered. He had no weapons.
This wasn't looking good.
“Now to the lesson,” said Sekhem. “We talked a bit about choices earlier, remember? Of course you do. I'm going to give you the choice I was never given, Mr. Tweed. The choice thousands of my people were never given.”
Should he just rush them? But if he did that, Nehi might push Octavia over.
“Pick one,” said Sekhem.
Tweed tore his eyes away Octavia. “What?”
Sekhem pointed first at Molock. “Pick him, the man who probably has the best chance of stopping us killing hundreds of thousands of your kind. The man with the intel you need to possibly stop us.” He tilted the gun to point at Octavia. “Or pick her. Your friend.” He smiled. “You can save one of them. Who is it to be?”
Tweed shook his head. “You can't force me to make that kind of decision. I won't.”
“You will.”
“I won't!” Tweed shouted. “Could you make such a choice? If you were given the chance to save your wife or your sister, could you pick between them?”
Sekhem walked forward a few steps, his face dark with rage. “Make the choice.”
“No. I won't do it. There has to be another option.”
“There isn't.”
“There is. I won't pick which of them will die. But…I offer you myself in their place.”
“Tweed!” shouted Octavia.
Sekhem's face registered surprise and Nehi let out a short laugh. Sekhem tilted his head slightly. “Really? You would do that?”
“I don't want to. But I won't play god, Sekhem. I won't sentence someone else to death.”
Sekhem thoughtfully tapped his teeth with the barrel of his gun. He stared at Tweed for what felt like hours. Finally he shrugged.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He reached behind him and shoved Molock hard in the chest. Nehi did the same to Octavia.
“No!”
Tweed barged past Sekhem and slammed into the railing. There was no sign of Octavia or Molock. Just empty sky and the sand far below.
He whirled around, but Sekhem and Nehi had vanished. Tweed turned back and stared helplessly at the sand, squinting through tears of rage.
Octavia was gone.
He had killed her.
Octavia didn't think they would do it. She really didn't. Who pushes people off of moving airships?
But then everything happened in a blur. Nehi placed the barrel of the gun against her chest and pushed. Octavia tried to grab hold of Nehi as the air dropped out from behind her. Her fingertips brushed Nehi's shirt, but the woman took a step back and Octavia was left grasping air.
She plummeted past the hull of the airship. She tried to grab hold of something—anything—but there were no handholds. The sides of the airship were smooth.
Octavia twisted around to see Molock tumbling through the air a few feet away. The sight of him falling, with the sunset behind him and the ground far below, froze her heart with terror. She was going to die. This was it.
Her life didn't flash in front of her eyes, like some people said. All she thought was, So soon? But I haven't figured anything out yet.
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A surging blast of air suddenly snatched at her, pulling her clothes and hair. It got stronger, yanking her closer to the airship. She saw vents in the hull, descending like a ladder. Every time she passed one, a great in-breath of air jerked her closer. What was this? Something to do with the Tesla Turbines? A safety measure?
Whatever it was, it was pulling her closer to the Albion, and as she was about to leave the airship behind there was a final pull of air, sucking her beneath the hull.
Octavia screamed as she was thrown about. She tumbled head over heels, narrowly avoiding crashing up against the bottom of the airship.
Then the wind stopped. She floated lazily for a second, then dropped.
She hit something and bounced.
Octavia looked wildly around as she came down again. She had landed on a rope net. She grabbed hold of it tightly, staring down at the desert floor hundreds of feet below. Wind whipped her hair around her face, but it wasn't the fierce sucking air that had saved her. It was the wind created by the Albion sailing through the sky.
Octavia took a deep, shuddering breath of relief.
Then she heard someone calling her name.
Molock.
She looked wildly around. The rope net spanned the entire length and breadth of the airship. She searched everywhere, but couldn't see any sign of the Hyperborean.
“Over here!”
Octavia turned toward the sound of the voice. Molock hadn't made it onto the safety net. His foot had become tangled in the rope and he was dangling over empty space.
The wind buffeted him, shoving him back every time he tried to pull himself up. Octavia started crawling toward him. She could see his foot starting to slip. He had managed to loop the rope around his ankle, but the wind pummeled him, blowing him back and forth like a leaf on an autumn tree.
“Hang on!” Octavia shouted. But her words were snatched away by the gale and flung out into the clouds.
Octavia found herself struggling against the air pressure. It had to be a safety feature, something generated by the Tesla Turbines. The makers harnessed the outflow of air and used it to save anyone who fell overboard.