Chapter Fourteen

Illusions of Choice

1.

DISARMED, STRIPPED OF equipment, Enderby was led through the hot, dank corridors of Imperator like a prize on parade. He knew the two men that followed, their rifles aimed at his head and his back, would be keeping a steely gaze on his every movement. When he passed open hatchways off-duty Russian sailors would mockingly raise their tin mugs to him, jeering with rotten or knocked out teeth. Those in the corridors would flatten themselves against walls and hiss threats or derision, once or twice yelling feral obscenities an inch from his face, goading him into a reaction that would surely have him shot. As the procession turned corners, Enderby would flick his glance sideways and back, noting what he saw.

Then he saw Folkard.

The captain, still dressed in his Russian uniform, was standing chatting with a pair of soldiers like they were old chums reminiscing at the bar. All three figures turned to watch Enderby pass, and as they did his eyes locked onto Folkard’s. The captain’s mouth tightened, his jovial chat interrupted, and for a moment the two men simply stared. Then Folkard nudged his compatriot, nodded towards Enderby and made a low comment in Russian. The three laughed bawdily, and as Enderby was marched out of view the mocking hoots followed him.

For over an hour he was marched around the ship. Everyone, it seemed, from cabin-boy to captain, had to take a look. Not that he was brought anywhere of importance, of course—they didn’t even approach the engine room or the bridge—but surely that was half the point. This was all about humiliation, but no matter. Enderby’s mind was still his, and though he knew now was not the time for action, he began to look for the possibilities of a plan.

After his forced march through endless grimy corridors, the kitchens and the comm bay, he was at last taken down to the hangar where the cutters sat in rows like coffins. Enderby had learnt much from his tour; far more, he assumed, than the Russians assumed he would. The other side of the coin being, naturally, that he could learn as much as he wished in what little time remained to him. The knowledge, ultimately, would do him little good. He had no illusions that they were to kill him soon, but it wouldn’t happen just yet. He knew the way these barbarians worked, and something else was planned—something dictated by a power far greater than the boy soldier with a barrel to his back.

Enderby was shoved roughly into one of the Russian’s cramped cutters. There were no windows and the benches were made of tin plate; one had to shuffle to even attempt comfort thanks to the hexagonal rivets that stuck up from the seat. On one side sat the captive, on the other four surly, distrustful Russians that passed a foul smelling cigarette between them. The smoke choked the air and the ceiling was too low; it stank of oil and rough construction. With a jolt that nearly punted Enderby from his pew the cutter took to the skies.

The soldier directly opposite Enderby looked him straight in the eye. He took one last, deep lungful of his dry, powdery tobacco smoke and threw the nub to the floor without even bothering to extinguish it. Still holding Enderby’s bold gaze the Russian—the largest of the quartet by far—reached behind him and produced a hessian sack with a rough hemp rope threaded into the opening. Grinning slavishly, he leaned forward and dumped the sack down heavily over Enderby’s head. When he tightened the cord he did it with a heavy-handed sadism until the brute was sure the rope was cutting into Enderby’s neck. He could barely breathe.

The Russian chuckled to his comrades as he sat back down. Enderby listened for a moment. There was no more noise.

2.

SHE WAS BEATING his chest, pleading with him, she remembered that. She remembered him holding her shoulders firmly, trying to look into her eyes as she shook her head to dodge his gaze. How can I leave now, she was screaming. Not now, I can’t! George was there at her side. She felt the irritation of the Navy boys, a demeanour she had come to know so well, anxious to set sail. Their work in this wasteland was done. Nathaniel’s head bobbed as he tried to look at her, Annabelle resisting, Geronimo looking on sadly from the sidelines.

Shi ma, came a voice. It was small but strong. Shi ma. The Apache word for mother.

I’ll find them, she remembered hearing, that small voice still strong. Me and Shiwoye, we’ll find these men and we’ll find each other again.

She had felt Geronimo’s old hands, strong and gnarled as an oak, turn her round from her daughter so George could wrap his arms about her shoulder and lead her towards the cutter, Sovereign hovering placidly above. She had looked back, seen the strong, small girl and her wise old protector, the defiance in the eyes, the hope that her mother would travel to the stars and right a greater wrong; to unseat a more desperate demon. She kissed her hand and waved it to her daughter; the daughter kissed her own and waved back. The old man smiled. All three, as the door to the cutter slammed shut and the naval slang was yelled back from port to starboard, knew she would return.

3.

“LET HER SLEEP!” yelled Bedford, his knuckles closed and white.

“Commander,” said Stone, without emotion, “I know…”

“You know nothing, Stone!” yelled Bedford, slamming both fists on the desk. “Nothing! It’s like you’re some bloody calculating machine, not a man anymore.”

The two of them had retired to an unoccupied cabin on the starboard side. An ensign had brought them a tray of tea that sat cooling on the table by the bed. Bedford, in truth, wanted a cup desperately, but Stone’s sudden and uncharacteristic callousness had infuriated him so much he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pour without spilling it everywhere—or pelting a china saucer at the professor’s head. He just didn’t understand it. Why was Stone suddenly so insensitive to Annabelle’s health? It was clear she needed rest, even if only for an hour or two, before he quizzed her.

“By Christ man, don’t you care?”

“Of course I care, which is why it’s so important.” Bedford stared at him again. There was almost a flicker in Stone’s eyes, like a tic, that he remembered the friendship he and Annabelle Somerset had shared, or the countless number of times they had saved each other’s lives. Perhaps something had happened in Dublin that had irrevocably changed Stone. He did not know. He had briefly been introduced to Tally Cahalleret, Stone’s companion on that trip, a gent who seemed roguish but dependable and who clearly had a lot of respect for Stone. If only, Bedford thought bitterly, I had the same right now.

“What’s so important about it, anyway?” he asked, finally overcoming his ire and pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey.

“The stump of the tree you mentioned. Tally and I saw one too, in the cave under Phoenix Park. This mineral, Commander, it’s deadly. Its properties are manifold and utterly destructive. I need to find as much information about it as quickly as possible, even the smallest thing you or Annabelle might have noticed may be of the utmost importance. It’s vital. Can’t you understand that? For all our safety.”

Bedford relented somewhat. At least now the professor seemed to be coming from a place that held their welfare at heart. “Of course, Stone, of course,” he sighed. “But I’ve told you all I know, which isn’t much. A stump, much like the one you yourself described. I fear you may have missed a trick, however.” Stone arched his eyebrow and looked at across at Bedford, his head still.

“Trick?” he snapped. “What trick?”

“Old Geronimo. He seemed to know a fair old bit about it, told us about how it used to be some gigantic glass tree. Said his forefathers had been looking after it for aeons.” Stone shook his head sadly, made a gesture of impatience as he turned back around.

“With all due respect, Geronimo’s stance on the crystal is unscientific. It’s jumbled about with superstition and fables half-heard or badly retold, a ransacked and reconstituted oral history. No. What I need are facts. You and Annabelle have no small experience in these matters and, as you know, some sort of psychic resonance may be the key to a greater insight. Even the smallest observation may unearth a wealth of information, however insignificant it may have appeared at the time.”

“Well there’s one thing that isn’t insignificant, dear chap—the presence of that Drobate skeleton. Could they be behind the whole thing?”

“In their current state? Unlikely, especially considering the age of the remains. But there must be a connection. As to whether the Drobates brought the crystal or were in search of it, I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m working with assumptions and half-baked theories, Bedford! Is it any wonder I’m keen to get as much information on this whole sorry mess as I can?”

“No, Stone, it’s no wonder at all.” There—that terseness had returned to Bedford’s voice. He set his cup back down before continuing. “But Annabelle’s health and recuperation must come first. There are…events of which you are unaware.”

The professor cocked his eyebrow, and this time the mildly patronising gesture irritated Bedford to his core, making him start to hate the offhand and supercilious attitude Stone was taking to him, and Annabelle’s distress in particular.

“Which are?” asked Stone testily.

“It isn’t for me to say. And if your emotional intellect was even a fraction of your scientific one, you certainly won’t go asking Annabelle about it until she’s damn well good and ready. And if you upset her, Professor Stone, by God you’ll have me to answer to. It seems to me now that there are many things beyond the comprehension of a genius such as yourself.” He snorted, sardonic. “To think you were the man whom we always turned to for answers. I say that less out of spite, Stone, and more out of pity. But I warn you again: Do not upset my wife. She has been through enough.”

The low thrumming of the engines was tempered by the gentle rattle of the teacup in its saucer as Sovereign cut through the lower atmosphere. Bedford was unsure as to whether his words had touched Stone, made him rethink his conduct, or that the professor had simply retreated within himself and was ignoring them.

The door banged open without a knock. The ensign who had brought them their tea was in the doorway, breathless. Bedford and Stone both stared at him.

“The bridge, gentlemen,” wheezed the ensign. “The captain wants to see you. There’s been news.”

4.

“DECISIONS, DECISIONS.”

They had landed in Calcutta some time ago. Shortly, Enderby found himself in a large stone cell, more-or-less a perfect cube twelve feet square. They had removed the bag from his head—not before the Russian sailors had given him a few hard and cowardly knocks and dragged him here—and now he found himself faced by a semi-circle of six malicious figures, arranged like dolls on show. Two stood to his left, three on his right, illuminated by lamps directed straight down. In the middle, directly opposite him, a man sat in shadow, the one who had spoke. There was no light above to show him—here was a total silhouette, with nothing to discern beyond his outline. The voice buzzed in his ears. Russian accent, drawling yet urbane, and was there the hint of something deeply and disturbingly familiar about it? His head was spinning and his vision was fogged. In his current state he could not be sure.

“There’s a choice on offer, Mister Enderby,” droned the shadow.

Enderby betrayed no emotion, staring ahead at the black form outlined by the other lights. He would not give this torturer the satisfaction of surprise, that his name was known; Enderby was resolute he would not give an inch. The blood from a cut on his eyebrow had dried down his face, and even with the smallest movements of his breathing he could feel this coagulated dribble start to crack and peel away. Still, he stared.

“Not the talkative type,” came the voice again. “Hardly surprising, considering your unenviable position. Poor, poor little British agent. Let me introduce you to the choices on offer. Kindly direct your gaze to the left? Now now, don’t be petulant. A man of your training should take such an opportunity to know his enemies. So I implore you. You’ll surely learn a lot. Excellent, so, going from your far left inwards…”

The man on the far left leaned on a cane, dressed impeccably in green tweed and a brown, shallow-brimmed hat sloped at an angle. His face was ratty, sallow, looked pockmarked and ill, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a flat nothing of a chin. Clearly a degenerate, he smoked from a long ivory cigarette holder clamped between sharp, too-small teeth.

“This man, Mister Enderby, will kill you with fire and fear. Very quick, very violent, but not, it has to be said, neat. It’s the word quick there that’s the problem here. Not to mention that to waste his talents on a single victim is somewhat, if you’ll excuse the pun, missing the target. So, onwards to the left. His companion.”

A great hulking thing, towering two heads above everyone else in the room. Wide and unmoving, dressed for winter even in these scorching Asian climes, the goggles that covered his eyes seemed white with the light’s reflection. He held his hands dumbly by his sides, one holding a ragged and bloody stump of flesh. The hands were surrounded by some sort of metal brace, catching the lamps at odd angles and distorting their light.

“Now, Mister Enderby, this is more my style. I mean, really…look at him! Imagine what a giant like that could do to a man.” He paused, self-consciously dramatic. “Only we don’t have to imagine. If you would, you vile monster, show the man what you can do.”

The behemoth stepped forward. It only took him a couple of strides to reach the seat where Enderby was tied, and he leaned down without ever changing the set, thin-lipped expression on his face. He raised the hand holding the gore-soaked thing and slapped it down into Enderby’s lap, as if he were tossing some begrudged debt. He raised himself upright again like a machine, stepped back into position. As he did, Enderby looked down.

In his groin sat a face. Or part of one, at least. It was the right-hand side of a skull, ripped from its other constituent parts, a claggy maroon around the edges and pale where the skin was, tattered at the side with bone-white splinters sticking out. Still damp on the underside, and soft. Even though the eye had been torn from its socket Enderby recognized the features.

It was half of the face of Edward Coyne.

Trying not to show his disgust, Enderby bristled, and shook his knees sideways to dislodge the lost piece of that man. The brute looked on, impassive.

“I think that neatly demonstrates what our friend is capable of. Though I’m happy to elaborate. No? Then onwards still. Next in line, you’ll notice, is me. Thing is, Mister Enderby, I don’t much go in for the dirty work these days. As such, we’ll pass on, and move to my right. Now, isn’t she a peach?”

The woman was clad in traditional Indian dress with studded brass plates stretching across her breasts and hips, fabric tightly hugging the seductive curves between them. She was flawlessly, effortlessly beautiful, with numerous rings and piercings in her ears, a snarl to her lips and cool lust in the vortices of her eyes. She had the poise of a ballet dancer and was ready to strike.

“This exquisite little example is quite the firebrand, Mister Enderby. She’s been known to make men weak at the knees and she’s oh so very smart. How will she dispatch you? Well, if those looks of hers don’t get you first, she’s quite the mistress of the khukuri. If she doesn’t break your heart, she’ll slice it out.”

The woman smiled at Enderby cruelly, twisted her left wrist around twice and tugged. She was holding a black leather leash that arced down to the clasp at the top of a laboratory coat. The ingratiating animal dominated by the Indian siren whimpered, a frail and beaten, old, half-dead thing with yellow skin stretched across a scuffed, bruised face and hair finer than cobwebs stuck with dust. As with the giant, he wore black-tinted goggles, simpering while his hands quivered ceaselessly around his drooling mouth.

“Now, this one doesn’t look like much, I’ll be the first to admit. Indeed, if you could reach far enough to kick him you could kill him, and if you did you’d be doing him a favour. Ah, but the things he can do with poisons! He’s a master there, not the wreck he appears. Agony for days, weeks, if he chooses. An assortment of chemical brutality or bliss, the doctor with the deadliest medicines. Excuse my foray into the florid.”

Enderby snorted mockingly. The man made a brief chuckle of satisfaction from his diaphragm, equally mocking in return. He waited for a moment, giving Enderby enough time to reply and break his stubborn silence. When the agent still refused to talk, the shadow of a man continued with the jolly tones of a salesman’s patter.

“And so,” he said, affecting excitement, “last but not least, the wild card. The final player in this band. And what do you think of him, Mister Enderby, hmm? What might his speciality be?”

Of course this sadist would leave him for last. Years of training allowed Enderby to feign indifference in the face of trials and physical pain, but that didn’t allay the sickening of his gut and the hot, pure anger that is commonplace to every mortal man. Out of everyone in the room, this last in the line was the only one who did not look at him. He gazed upwards, a bemused child distracted by a passing butterfly, his eyes unfocused and his face a saggy, lop-sided mess. His clothes were covered in filth and he looked malnourished, his arms dangling straight down by his sides.

Arnaud, thought Enderby. By God, what have they done to you?

“If I had to pick,” the silhouette continued, leaning back in his chair. “I think I’d go for our plucky fallen hero on your far right. All the others here, well…I’ve seen their work. Their craftsmanship is a joy to behold, but without putting too fine a point on it, I’ve seen it all before. This new toy of mine, however… What is he capable of? What would he do when commanded to kill? Ah, the thrill of Chaos, Mister Enderby. It’s intoxicating.

“But maybe it’s not for me to pick. And so this is the decision I have for you. If you had to pick, which one would you choose? Poison, dismemberment, the slice of the knife? In all sincerity I’d advise you, at this juncture, how inadvisable it would be to keep to your vow of silence.”

Enderby stared out, desperately trying to make out a feature—anything—of this man who sat and threatened him. But the darkness of the figure was absolute, like a slab of obsidian that drew in and jealously held any light. Still, he continued to stare. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Ah ah ah,” interrupted his torturer. “Before you decide, I should point out that your friends are on their way, so there may well be an audience. An audacious rescue plan is on their minds, I shouldn’t wonder! Hope is such a wonderful thing. Don’t you agree?” He sat forward slightly, but his face was still utterly obscured. “And with that on your mind, Mister Enderby, have you made your choice?”

Enderby swallowed and smiled.

“I’d have the coward do it,” he said, his voice low and strong. “You, you craven bastard.”

A short burst of genuine laughter emanated from the dark shape of a man.

5.

THEY HURRIED THROUGH Sovereign’s corridors, Nathaniel’s long legs allowing him to take the lead ahead of Bedford and the ensign. Their haste seemed perfectly in tune with the mood of the rest of the ship. A restless energy buzzed in the air, naval ratings noticing their swift passage and putting it down, as ever, to trouble ahead. The whole crew seemed to sense that this was no ordinary mission; the rumble of the engines at full steam were felt with an uncommon clarity, and even the smallest tasks necessary for the ship’s wellbeing were performed with an uncommon speed and precision.

The door to the bridge was open, and Stone sprinted in before jerking to a stop. Bedford was only a second behind him, and without even pausing to catch his breath he turned and ordered the ensign to fetch Tally, Boon and Annabelle—so long as the latter were sufficiently rested. The ensign saluted and left.

Nathaniel always felt a thrill on the bridge; there was something indescribable about it, like looking out through the eye of a leviathan. The sleek wooden panelling and the brass glint of instruments that stretched before the observation window, the chink and hiss of delicately tuned apparatus worked by the nimble fingers of highly-trained men, men who went about their work with a quiet, intense pride. Yet there was a ghost at this feast. Even now it seemed as if Folkard’s presence lingered still, a disquieting feeling which still seemed, Nathaniel noted with interest, to affect Commander Bedford. As if to hammer this point home, the captain turned from the bank of instruments at the helm.

It did not help that Captain Benjamin Theobald was no match for Folkard when it came to commanding Sovereign. His experience previous to his promotion had been wholly Earthbound, his rise to captain more a matter of politics than prowess. He knew this, of course, but was a proud man. He was loathe to admit Bedford’s ability greatly surpassed his, yet remained an earnest and solid—if slightly unimaginative—leader. He seemed to have aged slightly; an increase in the grey of the mallen streaks around his temples, a darker shade of black around his eyes. His relief at seeing Bedford, his second-in-command, was almost palpable. It was as if a weight of culpability had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Gentlemen,” said Theobald, nodding gravely. “Let us not waste time. The matter in hand is twofold, and as ever, Commander Bedford, I would appreciate your views.” The fact he admitted this was worryingly indicative of the seriousness of the situation. “Firstly,” he continued, “we have received reports of a…presence over Calcutta. A battleship, apparently Russian, of a greater magnitude than we have ever witnessed. It is currently stationed above the slums, hovering like some Godforsaken bird of prey. Our forces deployed there dare not take any action against it. While it has not yet exhibited any antagonistic action, descriptions indicate that it is heavily armed and primed for firing. It is a threat, plain and simple.”

“Surely Sovereign can match it?” said Bedford.

“Commander Bedford, I have as much faith in this ship as any man on board, yourself included. But to put her in the line of fire would be too great a risk. Besides which, another matter has arisen, one which has a far greater bearing on how we should proceed.”

“Show me,” said Nathaniel quickly, stepping forward.

Captain Theobald picked up a small piece of paper lying next to the aether tiller controls. “A heliograph,” he said, “apparently received from the comm deck of this mystery dreadnought. You’d… You’d better read it yourselves.”

He held the paper out and Nathaniel snatched it away. Bedford crowded by his elbow to read.

Cyrus Grant is mine. Stop. Folkard is mine. Stop. Come one, come all. Stop. My blackbird will sing in Calcutta. End.

The note was followed by a set of co-ordinates. Nathaniel swallowed dryly, unconsciously crumpling the missive as he dropped his hands to his sides. “Worse than I thought,” he muttered. “Worse than I thought.”

Sub-lieutenant Barry turned in his seat from his station at the horizontal inclinometer.

“On the approach to Calcutta, sir,” he said. “Naturally enough the captain ordered that we keep our distance for now.”

“A wise move,” said Nathaniel. “Seeing as it’s clearly a trap.”

“What choice do we have?” asked Bedford. Though it was said aggressively, the statement held no malice. It was merely a reflection of powerlessness, the panic of the ensnared. “We’ve been chasing shadows, Stone. Putting ourselves and our friends in danger, and for what? To turn around and go home? If there’s hope we can fight back, hope that there’s the slimmest chance that what we know to be right could prevail? Who are we to turn our backs?”

Sovereign’s broad observation window, hitherto misted and specked with the condensation of cloud, began to clear. Suddenly, as the last of the wisps of the nimbus cleared, the city spread before them like a toy thing, a military map on which figures of soldiers were placed and knocked down. The splendour of Calcutta’s noble city, defined by solid brick buildings, wide boulevards and white brickwork, spanned to their left in a serene and careful order. Then came the river, a meandering muddy split, and beyond that the smear of the slums, a cancerous mould of smoke and ruin.

Above the slums hung the great black battleship. Even from such a distance its scale was obscene, its stillness in the air a promise of violence. Like a bruise against the blue of the sky it sat there, angular and squat, the beckoning bully-boy of the horizon, just waiting for the weak to get close enough to punch.

“The result of the stolen blueprints… There is no choice,” said Nathaniel. “All through this… There never was.”