by Paton, Chris
“I refuse to believe it,” Stepan held up his hand. “Moscow would never agree to such a proposition.”
“And yet, Kapitan Skuratov,” Bryullov pointed at the mammoth walkers positioned behind the soldiers, “there is your proof.”
“I still don’t understand,” Stepan stopped by the side of the cab. Ignoring Lena and Oksana, he jabbed his finger at Bryullov. “What gives Moscow the right to give up Arkhangelsk, to let a foreign nation take over one of our cities, for the sake of,” Stepan clenched his fists, “mines and resources?” Stepan pressed his fists to his temples. “Our resources, Kapitan Bryullov. Russian mines, Russian resources, Russian people.”
“You are angry, Kapitan Skuratov,” Bryullov wiped a speck of Stepan’s spit from the lapel of his coat. “I understand that. But the expansion and protection of our borders is expensive. It requires technology that we, unfortunately, are not yet able to produce. Our German friends,” Bryullov nodded at the walkers, “are quite advanced in their designs. Arkhangelsk is a small price for the greater good of our motherland. One day, Kapitan Skuratov, I think you will agree.”
“Do you?” Stepan gripped Bryullov’s arms, his fingers whitening as he squeezed. “I have a wife and child in Arkhangelsk, Kapitan.” He pressed his face closer to Bryullov’s. “My wife is sick and my son is,” Stepan shuddered. “My son is lost.”
“Kapitan,” Lena walked along the running board until she was level with Stepan. “Kapitan, let go of him.”
“What?” Stepan looked up at Lena.
She nodded at the soldiers forming a circle around them. “His men are restless.”
Stepan turned at the click of flintlock hammers being pulled back on the muskets and the whirr of cranking handles charging the Lightning Jezails. He let go of Bryullov. “I am angry, Kapitan Bryullov. I wish to file a complaint.”
“I understand,” Bryullov straightened his jacket. “But you will have to accompany me to Moscow.” Raising his hand, Bryullov pointed at Lena. “You and your Cossack.”
“Very well,” Stepan nodded. “But perhaps you will allow me to draft my complaint before we depart.”
“Of course.” Bryullov waved at his men. “Stand down, men.”
Stepan turned at the sound of jezails powering down and musket hammers being lowered gently to the pans. “Forgive me, Kapitan Bryullov. It has been a very long day.”
“Yes, I understand.” He looked up at the locomotive. “At least you did not ride all the way from Arkhangelsk.”
“Have you not rested?”
“We arrived two days ago.” Bryullov pulled a pipe from the pocket of his coat. “Yes, we are rested.”
“Hmm,” Stepan looked up at Lena.
“Kapitan?” Lena frowned.
“Let me light your pipe for you. Oksana?” Stepan caught the engineer’s matches. Cupping his hand, he struck the match, catching Lena’s eye as Bryullov dipped his head and pipe to the flame. “Get ready,” Stepan mouthed.
“Thank you, Kapitan,” Bryullov puffed at his pipe.
“Perhaps you have some writing materials. We left Arkhangelsk in quite a hurry,” Stepan shrugged. “In your travelling bag, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Bryullov beckoned to the soldier holding the reins of his horse. He waited until the horse was alongside the locomotive. “I will rip a page from my diary, Kapitan. I hope that will be sufficient?”
“Two pages,” Stepan pressed his palms together. He followed Bryullov to the horse. “If you can spare them.”
“Two pages. Of course,” Bryullov reached into the saddle bag. Pausing with his hand inside the bag, Bryullov looked up as Lena padded along the running board just above the horse. “Kapitan?” Bryullov flicked his head toward Stepan.
“Now, Lena.” Pulling back his arm, Stepan slammed his fist into Bryullov’s nose. Pushing Bryullov to the ground, Stepan leaped over him, kicking the Russian soldier in the shin and elbowing him in the neck as he doubled over.
“Kapitan,” Lena shouted over the grating of the metal door as Oksana dashed into the cab and locked herself inside. “Climb up.” Holding out her arm, Lena gripped Stepan’s forearm as he stepped onto Bryullov’s back and climbed onto the horse’s back behind Lena.
“Ride,” Stepan gripped Lena around the waist as the first volley of musket balls bounced off the side of The Voskhod.
“Where to?” Lena kicked the horse’s flanks, spitting on Bryullov as he rolled away from its hooves.
“North,” Stepan tugged the pistol from Lena’s bandolier. He aimed at Bryullov’s head. “Take me to your father.” Sighting along the barrel, Stepan pulled back the hammer with his thumb. Pressing his arm into Lena’s back, he steadied his aim as the horse picked up speed. Wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, Bryullov glared at Stepan. Stepan breathed out and pulled the trigger.
҉
Luise slipped the leather cap over the tip of the diamond cutter, hitched up her skirt and slipped it back into the garter around her leg. Picking up the cogs lying on the notebook page, she pushed each one back into position along the spine inside the impediment machine. The cogs locked into place with a snick. The pre-dawn light lit the bridge, reflecting in the eyes of the German soldiers as they stifled yawns with the backs of their hands. Gathering her notebook and pencils, Luise stuffed them inside the satchel. She slipped the satchel over her head and shoulder and stood up, clutching at her stomach as she straightened her legs.
“It is ready?” Cairn leaned forward in the armchair. He watched as Luise nodded to Jacques, following him to the armchair opposite Cairn. “Then we can begin.”
“Yes,” Luise rubbed her eyes. “But no matter how curious I am, I stand by my original warning, and the knowledge that the demons are not interested in the likes of us,” she looked at Cairn. “They shun our weaknesses.”
“You have explained that,” Cairn gestured at Jacques. “Which is why my nephew will be assisting me. I look forward to comparing notes with you, Miss Hanover, when we are finished.” He pointed at the table. “You will wait over there. Jacques?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“You may begin.” His gaze fixed on his nephew, Jacques leaned back in the armchair.
Luise returned to her chair. Flanked by the Germans, she stared at the machine in Jacques hand.
With a quick glance at Luise, Jacques gripped the handle and turned it one full revolution. He paused to change his grip. Wedging the impediment machine between his knees, Jacques steadied it with one hand as he began turning the cranking handle faster and faster. The side panel of the machine popped open after five full revolutions. Jacques slowed as he peered into the machine at the spine of cogs spinning inside, the khronoglyphs inscribed on each one glowing brighter and brighter. A creeping smile stretched across Jacques’ face as he watched a wispy vortex of particles suck the dust from the air, taking shape and growing in size, spinning faster and faster inside the machine until the vortex split in two and the shadow vortex spun out of the machine, describing circles around him.
“Look,” Cairn leaned forward. “It grows.”
Spinning in an ever increasing circle, the shadow vortex gorged itself on the dust in the air, towering above the Captain and Jacques sitting within the perimeter and forcing those outside to look up to see the top.
Craning his neck back to stare up at the funnel forming at the top of the shadow vortex, Blom walked over to Luise. “What is the meaning of that?” Tossing Hari’s kukri onto the table, he pointed at the lips of the funnel, smoothing into a broad opening.
“That is where the demons come out,” Luise clenched her hands over her knees to stop the trembling in her legs. She glanced at the balcony.
“How many demons will come?” Blom moved his head to follow the vortex as it spun in a tight circle around the armchairs. “Eh?” He glanced down at Luise. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” Luise stumbled within the grip of the guards as they pulled her to her feet. “Two. One for each of the men inside the circle
.”
“Here comes the first then,” Blom pointed at a wisp of translucent blue smoke emerging from the lip of the funnel.
“Yes,” Luise breathed.
The demon, a female, pulled herself out of the funnel, resting her behind on the lip, snarling at the men watching her as she spun with the vortex. She caught Luise’s eye, staring at her until, with a sudden jerk of her incorporeal body, the demon scrabbled for purchase on the lip of the funnel as she was sucked back inside the vortex.
“What is happening?” Blom and the guards clapped their hands over their ears as the demon opened her mouth, filling the bridge with a high-pitched scream.
“I don’t know.” Luise’s brow wrinkled. She squinted, protecting her ears with the palms of her hands. She watched as the demon’s head disappeared from view, the creature’s claws furrowing through the lip of the vortex until they too were gone.
The screaming stopped.
Within the boundaries defined by the spinning vortex, Jacques and Cairn moved their heads a fraction at a time, looking up at the funnel as a second demon appeared. Larger than the female, the demon spiralled up out of the funnel, claws and fingers curled at its sides, its tremendous head twisting upon a powerful neck to stare at the men slowed in the armchairs below him. The shadow vortex evaporated into bands of smoke coiling about the demon’s body, adding layer upon layer to the muscles of his legs and arms. Striding across the deck toward Cairn, the demon gripped the Captain around the throat, lifted him from his seat and hurled him through the window of the bridge. Cairn disappeared beneath the bow of The Flying Scotsman trailing a shower of splintered glass.
With a massive hand, the demon pulled the impediment machine from Jacques’ grasp, crushing it in one hand, he flattened it with two. Staring into the wind whipping contrails of smoke from its body, the demon cast the flattened metal cylinder through the shattered window after the Captain. He turned his gaze upon Jacques.
“Jacques,” Luise screamed. “Run.”
Chapter 17
Hamburg Dockyard
The German Confederation
June, 1851
The whine and clump of mammoth walkers striding into position on the Hamburg docks drifted on the breeze, tugging at the lines and teasing at the tarpaulins protecting Wallendorf supplies and equipment from the rain. Luther Wallendorf worried a patch of dirt from the leg of the chair opposite him with the silver tip of his cane. Ignoring the cup of coffee on the table by his side, Wallendorf leaned forward and approached the dirt from a new angle, sliding his cane up and down the chair leg. He looked up as a shadow crossed his face.
“Ah, Schleiermacher,” Wallendorf pointed at the chair. “Have you seen this? Dirt all over our chairs.”
Schleiermacher stooped beneath the canvas tarpaulin stretched above them. “Yes, Herr Direktor. Many things are a little dirty today,” he gestured at the men and machines moving into position on the docks.
“What?” Wallendorf looked up. “Oh, yes.” He leaned back in his chair, placed the cane between his legs and rested his hands on the ivory pommel. “And where are the emissaries?”
“If you will, Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher gestured at the map of the docks on the table in the middle of Wallendorf’s temporary command centre.
“Yes, of course,” Wallendorf held out his hand.
Stepping to the side of Wallendorf, Schleiermacher supported the old man’s elbow as he helped him to his feet. “We have ten emissaries in position, each of them have a small unit of riflemen protecting the controller.” He led Wallendorf to the table.
“Riflemen? I say, is that really necessary?”
“Experience from the north would suggest it is, Herr Direktor.” Schleiermacher leaned over the table, spreading the paperweights to the far corners of the map. “Here are most of the emissaries, between the derricks and cranes.”
“And they are armed, of course?” Wallendorf leaned over the map, peering over his glasses at the points indicated.
“Yes, Herr Direktor.”
Wallendorf placed his hand on Schleiermacher’s arm. “Do you think I might see one, Hans?” the wrinkles around Wallendorf’s eyes creased. He leaned in to Schleiermacher. “I am rather fond of my boys, as you know.”
“Yes, Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher nodded. He tapped the map. “The closest one is here, with a good view of the sea.”
“Very well, Hans,” Wallendorf straightened. Tapping the ground with his cane he picked up his hat and walked out from under tarpaulin. Schleiermacher hurried after him.
“This way, Herr Direktor,” he steered Wallendorf around a group of men opening a row of crates and unlashing equipment from hardwood pallets.
“Such a lot of activity,” Wallendorf nodded at the men as he passed them. “Fräulein von Ense’s telegram has caused quite a bit of bother, don’t you think, Hans?”
“The President seems to think so, Herr Direktor. It has been a while since he heard from Minister Bremen.”
“Ah, yes,” Wallendorf wrinkled his nose. “He is rather meddlesome. If anything has happened to that man, well,” he leaned closer to Schleiermacher, “good riddance, I say.”
“Yes, Herr Direktor.” Schleiermacher placed his arm in front of Wallendorf as a mammoth walker shuffled backward, the navigator shouting instructions up to the driver.
“This is rather exciting,” Wallendorf waved at the crew of the walker as they continued. “I rarely get out of the factory you know, Hans. But I wouldn’t miss this chance to impress my daughter. What do you say to that?”
“She will be very impressed, Herr Direktor. Although,” Schleiermacher paused.
“Hans?” Wallendorf stopped. “You look like you have something to say.”
“Yes,” Schleiermacher clasped his hands.
“After all these years, Hans, it is not like you to hold anything back,” Wallendorf studied his assistant’s face. “Well? What is it?”
“The telegram, Herr Direktor...”
“Yes.”
“It suggested,” Schleiermacher looked at the dockside, gesturing at the activity around them. “It suggested we be prepared for anything, Herr Direktor.” He placed his hand on Wallendorf’s arm. “Forgive me,” Schleiermacher paused, “I think we should be prepared for anything. Especially you, Herr Direktor.”
“Hans,” Wallendorf patted Schleiermacher’s hand. “You are very kind. I shall be all right, you know. Now then,” he pointed his cane in front of him. “I do believe I can see one of my boys. Let’s go and have a look at him, shall we?”
“Yes, of course, Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher clasped his hands behind his back and walked alongside Wallendorf, flexing his fingers to the tap of the old man’s cane.
“They are impressive,” Wallendorf smiled at the emissary’s controller as they approached. “This one is blue, Hans.”
“Yes,” Schleiermacher nodded. “He is one of the reserves, earmarked for the President’s campaign in the north. Minister Bremen suggested that blue would appeal to the people of Arkhangelsk. It is a naval town and the Imperial Russian Navy is...”
“Blue?” Wallendorf smiled at Schleiermacher as he took a step closer to the emissary. “That’s quite a sword,” he tapped the emissary’s weapon with his cane. “Do you think I can see what it can do? Just a short demonstration, Hans.”
“If you will stand back, Herr Direktor.” Schleiermacher nodded at the controller.
Wallendorf strolled to Schleiermacher’s side as the riflemen attached to the emissary joined them. “Just in time,” Wallendorf smiled at the men. “We’re in for a bit of a show.” Leaning close to Schleiermacher, Wallendorf whispered, “Do you remember young Finsch?”
“Karl Finsch?” Schleiermacher frowned. “Yes, Herr Direktor.”
“I remember when he activated the very first emissary,” Wallendorf smiled. “Whatever became of that extraordinary young man?”
“Well,” Schleiermacher began. “It is quite a long story.”
; “Save it then, Hans,” Wallendorf pointed at the controller. “The show is about to begin.
“Herr Direktor,” the controller opened the wooden box attached to his chest harness, reached in and grasped the controls. Steam piffed out of the exhaust tubes behind the emissary’s head as it straightened, lifting the sword with one hand, holding the other, fingers splayed, at the end of its outstretched arm.
“Oh, this is very good, Hans.”
“It is your design, Herr Direktor.”
“Well, yes, but,” he beckoned to Schleiermacher with his finger. “My son, Ludvig, has tinkered a little with the design. Just a little,” Wallendorf pinched his finger and thumb together.
“Of course, Herr...” Schleiermacher paused. He took a step to one side, ignoring the emissary as the controller worked it through a set of fighting combinations.
“What is it, Hans?” Wallendorf stared in the direction Schleiermacher pointed.
“The ship has arrived.” Schleiermacher shielded his eyes from the sun. “People are jumping from the bow,” he turned to the riflemen. “You,” Schleiermacher pointed at the commander. “Give the order to stand to.”
“I say, Hans. Did you say something about...”
“Not now, Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher looked past Wallendorf as the commander ran to the nearest mammoth walker. He waited until the driver blew the mammoth walker’s steam whistle. Turning to the lowest ranking rifleman, Schleiermacher beckoned to him with a sharp hand signal. “Escort the Direktor to the command tent. Stay with him at all times.”
“Hans,” Wallendorf tapped his cane on the ground.
“Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher clasped his hands in front of him. “This man will take you to safety...”
“Safety?”
“...and I will join you as soon as possible.”
“But my daughter...”
“As soon as Fräulein Wallendorf arrives, I will be sure to bring her to you. Now,” Schleiermacher nodded at the rifleman, “if you will, Herr Direktor, I have work to do.”