Chapter Fifteen

The Horizons of Deceit

1.

THEY BEGAN THEIR final descent.

The rumble of the cutter belied the silence. No-one spoke. Stone’s cutter was the first down, a small battalion of marines following in the second. Boon and Tally sat side-by-side. They had started chatting soon after being introduced, and even in these tense times a burgeoning friendship was apparent to all. They had spent the trip to Calcutta telling each other stories of times long past and just gone, with Tally quizzing the experienced agent on what Tooler’s offer might entail, and all he might have to look forward to in the service of the Bureau.

Annabelle was rested, but remained edgy. Bedford knew it was pointless telling her to remain aboard Sovereign. For starters there was no guarantee she would be any safer there. Secondly, if she were with him he knew he could protect her better, and thirdly… Well, thirdly he knew if she were with him then he had his own angel of protection. If she were elsewhere he knew he would fret about her safety, become distracted, maybe even make a fatal mistake. With her by his side he felt better in a multitude of ways.

The co-ordinates turned out to be a small patch of wasteland half a mile from the North-Eastern side of Black town. As the cutter approached, Barry turned back from the cutter’s helm.

“They’ve got forces waiting, Commander,” he said to Bedford as he eased their descent. “Russian marines, a couple of dozen. Tanks too. Two other figures there, I can just about make out… Though one of them ain’t hard to miss. Christ alive, he’s the size of a shire horse.”

Nathaniel and Tally caught each other’s eye.

“We need to be very, very careful,” said Stone.

2.

KLOPSTOCK, HIS EVER-PRESENT cigarette holder clamped between his peg-like teeth, puffed contentedly as he brought the binoculars down from his eyes and smiled. The holder jutted up in his mouth like an antenna.

“Second one!” he said, in his quick, nasal tones. “Has to be. If you will, Mister Potsdam.”

Potsdam lurched forward, his tread heavier than usual. Strapped to his right arm with leather braces three inches wide was a boxy, mechanical contraption the size of a small chest of draws. The corner opposite the straps had been cut away to reveal the mechanism inside; a huge and tense lateral spring poking from the bottom in a semi-circle. The whole device was patterned with Klopstock’s trademark flourishes, oak polished to a sheen and gently carved fractal patterns. Parallel to Potsdam’s arm was another arm of less organic origin—that of a finely wrought, clipped-in catapult. A small, brass crosshairs flipped up automatically as Potsdam hefted the weight perpendicular to his body. His smallest movements mirrored that of Sovereign’s second cutter; he stepped back, clenched his fist, and fired.

The catapult arm shot forward, releasing a cylinder that drew a faint black-green mist behind it. It arced into the sky with perfect aim. Potsdam reeled from the recoil but quickly righted himself, watching as the projectile flew, the peaceful and soundless seconds as it whipped through the air. It drew a perfect curve, catching the second cutter square on the port midship. The cutter shot horizontally some thirty feet; far more so than would be expected from a conventional explosive. After that, there was no pretence to lift, no hope left in those engines or for the luckless men that burned inside. The cutter dropped from the sky in a graceless plummet, slamming to the ground without fire or fanfare, a mishmash of metal in which no-one could have survived.

“Y’know,” said Klopstock, turning around and patting Potsdam on his free arm. “The nicest thing about that was how it was all so unnecessary.”

3.

“YOU SAW WHAT we did,” called Klopstock from several feet away, as the door to the cutter swung open. “I assure you we’ve rewound our little trebuchet again, should you desire to leave this world as a flaming mess. Keep your weapons down, your movements slow, and…” He squinted at the figures filing out of the surviving cutter. “Why, dash it. It can’t be.”

He screamed, loudly and uncontrollably.

“Stone!” he screeched. “Stone, you bastard! Baaaaah-stard!” He started stamping, then jumping up and down on the spot in an irritated little circle. “And, and…that bastard Mick you dragged along! Here’s here too? Bastards, bastards, buggery cripes and blasphemy! Don’t you understand!? That was my masterpiece, the months I spent crafting… And you walked away! Walked away like, like…a pigeon! A pigeon from a… Gah!” He started to hop around again.

He finished his tantrum and breathed out heavily. He pinched the bridge of his nose, regaining some semblance of control. Potsdam remained impassive. The bomb-maker turned and addressed the Russian platoon.

Ne trogat kater. Okrujite ih. Svyajite ih. Zavyajite im glaza.

The Russian soldiers began their advance, marching in rows, their bayonets ahead of them.

4.

THE JOURNEY IN the tanks had been rough and uncomfortable, but otherwise the group had been handled gently. Even Klopstock ignored the possibility of a swift, cheap punch while Nathaniel was prone. When they had reached their destination they were ushered out with the same firm but undamaging insistence, each of the party with a Russian hand on their shoulder, guiding the blind and bound.

When the masks were removed, Nathaniel and his party may well have wished their captors had the compassion to keep them in the dark. But compassion was in short supply in the monstrous scene that confronted them. The first thing they saw when the blindfolds were removed was a charnel house of corpses stacked around a green and glistening stump.

They were in a rough cave, the stump sat in a shallow dip. The bodies of the slum’s disaffected and disposable lay in piles, arms and legs entangled, elderly and children alike wrapped in rags. Wide yellow eyes stood out like headlights from emaciated faces, bones jutted from hips, a withered pile of discarded human jackstraws going soft in the omnipresent heat. The buzz of the flies was almost deafening. A semi-circle of Russian rifles was pointed towards Stone and his compatriots, steady, unmoved by the stench and the slaughter. A Russian thug on the right of the line stepped forward, producing a glinting dagger from his waist with a soft, sharp schink. He approached Nathaniel and stood behind him. The barrels of the rifles continued to point.

A thick Russian voice came from behind, made all the more ominous by its mixing of the malevolent and the horribly familiar.

“Nathaniel Stone,” it said. “No, don’t turn around.” As his name was said, Nathaniel felt the rope that bound his hands to his back cut away.

“Commander George Bedford. Welcome.” The soldier with the knife stepped to one side, snipped away George’s restraints with a flick. He moved along the line as each name was intoned.

“Mrs Annabelle Bedford, née Somerset.” When this was said, the voice seemed to crack…Annabelle’s maiden name pronounced with an almost American twang. Annabelle stiffened.

“Charles ‘Tally’ Cahalleret. And last but not least, Mister Bertrand Boon. Welcome. Welcome all.”

The thug with the knife rejoined his line, slung his rifle up and pointed it at the group once more.

“Now you may turn around. No, wait,” there was a pause. “Now I shall allow you to turn around.”

The prisoners did so in unison as the voice continued. “You may think me proud for unburdening you of your bonds. You may think me foolish. But you think that from a lesser position, one of weakness, a place that hopes for the smallest of victories. Let me assure you that no such victory is possible. I allow you total freedom because you pose no threat to me; none at all. No more than a fly can pose a threat to a bear. You are useless. Inadequate. So much so, in fact…” He spoke a command in Russian. Vy svobodny. Vernites na korab. The guards lowered their weapons, faced to the left as one, and marched out.

When they turned, all of them—Nathaniel, Bedford, Annabelle, Boon and Tally—were confronted by a raised stage, behind which lay the grubby windows of a small laboratory. A row of figures stood on the platform. Potsdam and Klopstock, a beautiful Indian woman who held two chains in her arms, one attached to a decrepit walking corpse, the other to Arnaud, now a grinning, insensate fool. Nathaniel almost flew forward at that point, to wrench his friend and lover from that far-off grasp. In the centre of the room, the legs of his chair jammed perilously into another, smaller pile of Calcuttan bodies, was Enderby, his mouth taped up, breath ragged through his nose.

Above this ghastly scene was the face of a man whose appearance made Nathaniel’s blood run cold.

He sat in a high-backed chair, the comfort of it incongruous compared to the death and desolation over which he presided. He was leaning to one side, one knee across the other in a pose of total relaxation.

It was the face of Cyrus Grant, his eyes ablaze with madness.

Nathaniel glanced at Annabelle. The horror in her eyes was intense, although how she managed to keep the emotions from her face was beyond Nathaniel. Bedford looked at his wife, concern and anger quite clear on his own countenance.

Smiling like he owned the world Grant looked down upon his captives. Since their last encounter in the Admiralty labs his face had grown pale and hard. He had shaved and his hair had been neatly slicked back across his skull; a different man entirely to the one who had acted as Annabelle’s guardian, who had worked with intense rigour alongside Nathaniel to perfect the most wondrous scientific advancements of the age. Insanity, finally, had consumed his last shred of morality.

“Uncle!” cried Annabelle, her voice faltering with heartbreak.

“Annabelle, don’t,” warned Bedford.

“Don’t what!?” spat Grant, and again his voice seemed to crack and once more take on his usual transatlantic inflection. “Don’t reason with him? Don’t play his games? Look at me, Annabelle.” He slammed his fists down onto the arms of his chair. “Look at me, all of you! Do you really think—and I say this to you in particular, Professor Stone—that I would have ever granted you even the smallest chance of success? All of you, no more than puppets, dancing to my tune across the four corners of the Earth.

“You saw those stumps of the mineral trees because I wanted you to see them. You cannot imagine how long I have been working against you. Ever since the British government kindly allowed me to set up the research team, while they sent you off on your mission. Guided by the Heart, but working for me without even knowing it! We finished mining weeks ago! All I needed was a little more time to complete my plans, so I got your attention with that little bang on Horseguard’s Parade, split you up and sent you toddling off to buy the time I needed. It was insultingly easy.

“Admittedly, Professor Stone, I would have preferred to have you die in Dublin, but life is full of such little disappointments. More so for you than me, naturally. And yet my victory is only just beginning, and it pleases me that you will witness it—you, above all, will appreciate all I have accomplished. You see, this epic deception of mine was just the start. Your dissolute Empire would never allow a man such as me any real power. You feared my genius, all of you, and so I sought out an ally that would respect and cherish it. I will find Plypolyplon, Stone…”

At this Nathaniel smiled; it was subtle, and with everyone’s attention focussed on Grant, none noticed.

Not even Grant, who continued in his rant. “…and from thence the might of Russia will grow to encompass the entire Solar System. And I will not do it without assistance. There is one final deception, my dear old friends, a betrayal so perfect as to make my ascension truly immaculate. Here is your worthless spy, Enderby. But what of his cohort? What of your friend, the gallant captain?”

“Folkard,” breathed Bedford. “Dear God, no…”

“Dear God yes, Commander Bedford. At present Captain Folkard awaits my return aboard Imperator. Together, he and I will traverse the asteroid belt to discover the worlds beyond. You took me for a raving fool, but the brave, stout, loyal Jacob Folkard… How could any of you have ever doubted him?”

Grant watched with a sadist’s smile as the weight of his words crushed his captive’s spirits.

“I have achieved everything I needed to here. Imperator awaits me.”

He stood to leave, brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his lapel, and turned to the room. “Potsdam, Klopstock—kill them all. Use your imagination. Moonsinge, come with me. I still have need of your talents.” He started to stride towards the door to the lab, but stopped suddenly and turned, theatrically raising his index finger as if he’d remembered something “Oh! And, Professor Stone?”

Nathaniel glared at him, his expression impassive.

“They’re going to make sure you die last, old friend. The frantsuzskiy korova will not be happy, but…” Grant waved it away with a smile. “Enjoy the show.”

Annabelle, so silent during the whole exchange, suddenly yelled. It was a roar of frustration, of hatred, of pure, blind rage. She whipped to her right with remarkable speed and her hand went into Boon’s jacket. Quick as a dart she had pulled out Elizabeth, his custom machine-pistol, took aim and fired across the room at Grant, the shot only just missing Potsdam’s head as the brute lumbered towards them. A feral grin bisected her face as she watched the bullet fly.

Grant’s crowing gesture was his downfall. Had he not raised his arm to mock Nathaniel, he would never have lost it.

The round hit Cyrus Grant near the crook of his elbow; there was a flowering of flesh with the almighty burst of force. His arm twisted away and dropped in a pathetic arc, its weight snapping tendons as it fell. For a second there was no blood, and then it flowed in a sickening spatter to the floor. Grant stumbled, grimaced—but he did not fall and he did not scream. He leaned back on his back foot and regained his posture.

He looked Annabelle in the eye as the smoke from the pistol barrel rose and wisped away. His teeth were gritted, his right hand clutching the torrenting stump by instinct. “Give her pain!” he half-hissed, half-screamed to Potsdam and Klopstock. “Give her pain beyond the limits of imagining!” He turned to Moonsinge and let her cradle him as she led him away into the laboratory and beyond, dropping Garrecreux’s leash as she went.

As Potsdam passed Enderby in the centre of the room he struck out and batted the bound agent sideways with his tree-trunk arm. Enderby grunted as he fell, but still Potsdam advanced, each step as slow and lethal as the turning of the tide.

Tally watched carefully as the brute stomped towards them. He turned to Annabelle and grabbed the gun from her unresisting fingers. Potsdam was no more than four feet from him. Tally aimed and screamed as he pulled the trigger time and again, each bullet shredding the thick black greatcoat and bouncing off the frame that held the monster’s rotten bones. His flesh inside was revealed; a sour milk stench filled the cavern. The rancid zombie torso was punctured and bleeding, but still the behemoth advanced. Tally tossed the empty gun away. He breathed deep and hard through his nose; he concentrated.

He reached back into his pocket, pulled out the penknife and with a swiftness honed on dangerous streets flicked the blade out. Potsdam reached towards him with a huge metallic hand but Tally, more lithe, dived out of reach between his arms. There was just enough room, and he had just enough skill, to thrust the blade forward though the gaps in Potsdam’s brass ribcage and plunge the point into the beast’s modified, ungodly heart. Pale green ooze seeped weakly from the wound; the monstrosity spasmed and twitched, uncomprehending. As the abomination fell back, his face still an unfeeling slate, he pulled Tally with him, the Irishman’s arm still caught between the bars of the cage that held Potsdam’s rancid and desiccated corpse. Tally screamed as his wrist snapped.

Boon dashed across to free Enderby. Klopstock, his eyes wide, fled suddenly to follow Grant and Moonsinge. Meanwhile, on the platform, another death was unfolding. Garrecreux, seeing his beloved mistress abandon him, had begun to crawl towards the entrance to the lab, but Arnaud, still lost in the vile chemical’s thrall, grabbed his ankle and pulled him backwards. The degenerate scientist twisted onto his back as Arnaud pinned him down with his legs, his arms reaching up to the old doctor’s throat.

“Le vert?” Arnaud hissed through gritted teeth. “Où est le vert majestueux?”

“Lâche-moi, laissez-moi!” Pleaded Garrecreux. “Je peux vous donner c’est… Je peux vous donner tout cela!”

“Pas assez,” said Arnaud, wrapping his hands around Garrecreux’s neck. He gripped tighter, furious, the old man’s eyes bulging as he choked. He had soon lost the strength to even fight back.

A hand on Arnaud’s shoulder whipped him around. A fist, tight and bunched, connected with his jaw within a second. Arnaud fell unconscious as Nathaniel waved his bruised knuckles in the air. He looked down. It was too late for Garrecreux. This was no great pity.

Boon was helping Enderby to his feet, the senior agent pushing him away as if insulted. Nathaniel caught Boon’s eye, called him over. “Pick him up and bring him,” he said, indicating Arnaud. “He’s one of us.” Boon nodded and hefted Arnaud’s passive form between his shoulders.

“We need to get back to the cutter,” said Bedford. “And fast.”

5.

THEY EMERGED FROM a rocky tunnel into an abandoned shell of a building somewhere in a deserted corner of the slum. Sovereign hovered some way to the East, and they dashed towards it. It did not take them long to reach the plain on which the remaining cutter sat.

Arnaud, still unconscious, had been laid between the benches. Bedford chivvied the pilot into getting the cutter airborne as quickly as possible. With all of them inside it was a bit of a squeeze, Boon and Bedford allowing Annabelle and the injured Enderby to sit. Tally nursed his broken wrist but brushed off any attention from the others—he’d had worse. Bedford pulled Nathaniel to one side.

“Is it really wise to pursue them?” he asked quietly.

“What other choice do we have? It may be the only way to discover what Grant’s been working towards all this time, what he’s been using these crystals for.”

“And if it’s some sort of aether weapon? What’s stopping him from simply turning about and blasting us out of the sky?”

“Nothing. Hardly a comforting thought.”

As if in acknowledgement, the cutter was suddenly buffered by turbulence.

“And then,” muttered Bedford, looking down, “there’s Folkard.”

Nathaniel nodded sombrely. “Indeed. Though I am far more inclined to believe Grant is a liar than Folkard a traitor.”

“Folkard’s a traitor alright,” growled Enderby. The duo turned, surprised, not even aware he’d been listening. “He’ll hang.”

A tinge of spite crept into Nathaniel’s voice. “Mister Enderby, I assure you I have known Captain Folkard for quite some time now…”

“Well clearly you didn’t know him well,” said Enderby simply, his voice still low. “I saw him on Imperator, laughing and joking with his damn Cossack friends. He’s turned, Stone. I’m sure of it. Why else wouldn’t he have attempted to rescue me?”

Nathaniel, unsure, stayed silent.

Bedford noticed Annabelle staring ahead of her, the faint ghost of a smile slightly curling her lips. He pushed past Nathaniel and knelt in front of her, careful not to tread on Arnaud.

“Annabelle, are you all right?” Her reverie broken, she looked up at him suddenly.

“Of course I am, George.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if in a conversation in a drawing room. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“After everything we’ve been through, the last few days… Your uncle…”

Annabelle smiled cruelly. “He’s not my uncle, George. Not anymore. He betrayed us. Tried to have us killed. His madness was one thing, but this…?”

The hatred in her eyes was palpable.

Nathaniel watched this exchange, and tilted his head slightly, considering all that Annabelle had been through. What future would she have? What kind of woman was she becoming? It was clear that it was also something Bedford was wondering, too. Nathaniel looked forward to finding out.

6.

FOLKARD DESPAIRED. HE was unsure how much longer his pretence could keep up, and was feeling a great unease regarding Oleg Olkhovsky and Valentin Utterklo, his two new best friends.

They had accosted him as he was making his way towards the comm deck. If Imperator was anything like Sovereign it would be staffed by at least six men around the clock. If he was lucky he might be able to get inside on some pretext and discover any changes between Imperator’s version and Sovereign’s—and how he might exploit them. Either that or somehow lure out, incapacitate and replace one of the heliograph operators there. Folkard didn’t like it. It was a plan in which far too many things could go awry, but in his present desperate state it was the best he had.

He had first spotted Olkhovsky and Utterklo striding down one of the corridors towards him, just as he was making headway towards his objective. He quickly noted their insignias—both the Russian equivalent of a petty officer. In many ways, it had been fortuitous the uniform he had acquired belonged to a mere rating, as the majority of the crew ignored him and it made it easier to avoid the sight of officers who may have been better informed of Folkard’s appearance. The two men were burly, seasoned sailors who took up most of the corridor. They muttered unintelligibly to each other, and did not seem to have noticed him yet. Adopting a stance of respect rather than caution, and careful not to move too quickly, he moved to one side in the corridor to let them pass.

As they approached, one of the men slapped the back of his hand to his companion’s broad chest, and pointed directly at Folkard.

“Oi, you,” he barked in Russian. “What’re you doing?”

Folkard stepped out from the shadows with his chin high, recalling the days it was necessary for him to show deference to a superior officer. “Message for the comm room, sir.”

“Message my arse,” chuckled the other petty officer. “What are you really doing?”

“Skiving, that’s what he’s doing. Probably got some poor muzhlan on the floor he’s supposed to be mopping. What’s your name? C’mon, out with it!”

Folkard’s mind raced. He found himself instantly replying “Kuznetsov, sir.”

“Well, Kuznetsov, let me tell you this: I’ve never liked lazy men, and nobody gets to your age without being promoted unless they’re a very, very lazy man. Christ above, even the galley boys get to cook a borscht sometimes.”

“What’cha reckon, Oleg?” said the other sailor, rubbing his chin. “Reckon we should teach him what hard work feels like?”

“Oh, yes indeed, Valentin. Yes indeed.”

They had frogmarched him away from the comm room. It didn’t exactly feel like he was being press ganged, and Folkard could well imagine this being a tactic these downtrodden, frustrated bully-boys often employed against those they felt they could abuse. He had to hope that was the case now, and not that his deception had been uncovered.

When they put him to work, scrubbing the mess floor on his hands and knees, it almost made him feel relieved. If his true identity had been known he’d be straight to the brig and probably beaten to boot—if a little expenditure of elbow grease was the alternative Folkard considered himself fortunate.

Olkhovsky and Utterklo had not left his side. They now both leaned with their backs to a table, crossing their arms and watching him in silence as he scrubbed.

Utterklo called out. “Where you from then, Kuznetsov? Anywhere nice?”

The time spent labouring had given Folkard ample opportunity to fabricate a story. From their accents these two were Moscow born and bred, so he picked somewhere provincial and replied without looking back.

“Kimra. My father was a cobbler.”

“Oh, Kimra. Your sister lives in Kimra, doesn’t she, Oleg?”

“Used to.”

“What made you leave then, Kuznetsov? The shoemaking life a bit too much like hard work, was it? Thought you could get your meal ticket from the Imperial Navy?”

“Something like that,” said Folkard. “I guess I just wanted to see the world.” Olkhovsky snorted derisively.

As he worked they carried on quizzing him. How did he get into the Navy? Why the hell hadn’t a man his age ever been given a promotion? And finally, the one that stung sharpest of all; “You got a sweetheart back home, Kuznetsov?”

He answered each of their questions diligently, avoiding unnecessary detail that might trip him up later. After he’d scoured the whole floor—his hands red raw and wrinkled from the tepid, greasy water—it was almost like the three of them were old friends. Utterklo wandered across to one of the tables and hooked three tin mugs with his fingers. As he wandered back he used his free hand to produce a small brown bottle from his back pocket.

“Here, Kuznetsov, c’mere,” he said as he poured. It was more an order than an invitation, and he eyed Folkard suspiciously as he handed him the drink. “Keep it to yourself but I’ve a friend in the sick bay. Amazing what he can do with a potato, imagination and a few glass bottles.” Folkard took the mug. Its contents smelled like kerosene. “To the Tsar!” Utterklo said with a smile, and held Folkard’s eye.

“To the Tsar!” parroted Folkard.

As they brought the mugs to their lips a commotion came from outside. Olkhovsky jumped down from the table he was perched on and glanced out the door before looking back to grab Utterklo and Folkard’s attention.

“Hey, you two,” he said, beckoning. “Come and look at this.”

Utterklo pocketed his moonshine and the trio wandered out into the corridor. What Folkard saw made him glad he had a drink in his hand.

He had had to force himself to keep absolute control when he saw Enderby paraded by him. The agent’s face was steely, unperturbed by the insults and catcalls yelled at him. He looked pale but was otherwise unharmed. Folkard quickly assessed the situation—two soldiers led Enderby and two brought up the rear, but with all the hullabaloo it seemed the entire crew was on deck, watching the captive at the height of his humiliation. Realistically, there was nothing Folkard could do at present. That Enderby had been captured was a blow, but he was still at large and while Imperator still sailed his mission was clear.

Olkhovsky hovered back after a brief chat with one of his shipmates. “English spy, apparently,” he noted casually as he knocked back his drink. “Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, eh, Kuznetsov?”

“Not for all the tea in England,” Folkard quipped, and Olkhovsky and Utterklo roared with laughter.

“You’re all right, Kuznetsov,” said Utterklo, slapping him on the back. “Look, we’ve all been a bit uptight recently, what with everything going on. Big changes happening, too much bloody work, and if clapping some slimy British opezdol in irons isn’t reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is. Come, drink with us.”

Once more, it was not an invitation, but an order.

7.

THE BRIDGE WAS ablaze with activity. Captain Theobald had, with no small relief, shunted himself to the background to allow Bedford to take control. The only vestige of command that remained was his pompous and upright posture. Bedford yelled commands, directing his men, wringing every nanowatt of power from the engines and ensuring each carefully calculated movement of the ship directed it as swiftly as possible through the aether.

Nathaniel suddenly burst in, skidding to a halt. He reached out an arm and steadied himself on the command chair, speaking in breathless bursts.

“I’ve tweaked, George…done as much as I can…without totally overloading the propeller governor. Three, four knots perhaps. Anymore and we risk tearing Sovereign apart.” He breathed in deeply and stood up, his head spinning.

“Boswell agree?”

Nathaniel nodded.

“I defer to your judgement, then. Sub-lieutenant Barry, what news of the Russian vessel?”

“Every time we accelerate it simply pulls ahead, sir. Outstripping us without even breaking a sweat. Whatever’s powering that beast is beyond me.”

“Are you sure,” said Bedford, turning to Nathaniel, “that this is as fast as we can go?”

“Are you?” replied Nathaniel, not without humour. “Any more and we’ll shake the bolts from their housings.”

Bedford nodded solidly. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll chase these bastards into the very mouth of hell if we have to.”

“Commander Bedford.”

Bedford turned. Boon was standing before him, bolt upright.

“If I can help, I will.”

The commander slapped him on the arm, grinning. “Good man!” he said. “Not beyond your remit, though?”

Boon smirked. “I’m sure we can figure something out.” Bedford slapped his arm again.

“As can I,” said another voice behind Nathaniel.

The three men turned. Annabelle stood in the doorway to the bridge defiantly, legs apart and her hands on her hips. She brushed off their stunned looks. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Macramé?” she said brusquely, striding into the room. “If I can help, I will. We’re short-handed as it is. You, darling husband, are needed on the bridge. If anyone can make heads or tails of what the Russian ship is all about, it’s Nathaniel…even from a distance. Enderby is as battered as a snake in a mongoose den, Tally’s wrist is badly broken and Arnaud…” Suddenly, her vigour abandoned her, and she looked at Nathaniel sadly. “Poor Arnaud…”

“How is he?”

“Unconscious. Still. But restless. You should go to him. You may be able to do something.”

Nathaniel frowned.

Bedford strode up to the banks of instruments before the wide window through which blind night winked with stars. Ahead of them, the moon was the size of a ship’s biscuit, but bright and clear, the Russian ship an ink-blot against its pristine surface. He breathed in. Hands behind his back, he turned to his men. Took in the sight of his wife and his friends.

“Onward,” he said, “into the unknown.”

8.

HAVING FOUND HIMSELF at rather a loose end on the bridge, Nathaniel decided to take Annabelle’s advice and visit Arnaud in the sick bay. When Nathaniel had left him there, what fleeting moments of fevered lucidity the Frenchman had were filled with rambling shouts and spasms. He sweated almost constantly but was cold to the touch. The pernicious drugs he had been forced to take were slowly leaving his system, and as they did so they dragged suffering and anguish with them, displaying an almost organic will to torture the man who dared to abandoned their embrace.

He had witnessed first-hand the way this insidious chemical could ravage the human body—a cursory glance at the bodies of Potsdam and Garrecreux would communicate that to even the dimmest of intellects. Their usage had been an addiction, taken to the extreme, and Nathaniel only hoped that Arnaud’s relatively brief spell under its destructive thrall was reversible. He chastised himself for losing the sample of crystal in the Admiralty. What a fool he had been to take his eyes from it, even for a second! If nothing else he could analyse its structure and composition, perhaps synthesise some sort of antidote or dilution to lessen Arnaud’s terrible symptoms…

These fretful thoughts were suddenly curtailed by an unmistakable noise—gunfire! Two or three shots, a pistol by the sound of it, that came from the direction of the sick bay. With an icy dismay that hit him cold and hard in his gut, Nathaniel broke into a run.

9.

OLKHOVSKY AND UTTERKLO, their arms around each other, were onto the sixth verse of some interminable Russian drinking song. They had manhandled Folkard to their quarters, all the while promising him the best home-made vodka he’d have tasted since leaving, well, home. He protested as much as he could, made up a whole sorry story about an unforgiving, sour-faced skipper who’d been gunning for him from the second he stepped aboard, but to no avail. The two petty officers simply brushed his concerns aside, assuring him they’d have a word and smooth things over as soon as the drinking was done.

Without taking a breath they launched into the seventh verse. Between them they had managed to consume a bottle and a half of the rancid concoction, which burned the throat like wildfire and had a metallic, greasy taste. This, Folkard thought, was the kind of thing normally reserved for dissolving piston grease, not drinking. In as much as he could he had avoided the stuff, either only pretending to pour himself a shot or slyly disposing of it when the two burly Russians were distracted. More than once, however, when they proposed a toast and their eyes were on him, he found himself having to drink. He could feel the stuff stinging his stomach and making his head light, but he’d be damned if some Siberian rot-gut would jeopardise this mission. Still he played his part, cackling along with some off-colour anecdote about a one-legged prostitute and joining in with what few words he’d picked up of the song’s chorus.

Utterklo emptied the rest of the latest bottle into his mug and upended it theatrically. He slurred a curse and rose to his feet, but the movement was too much for his sodden brain to take. He wobbled for a moment, tottered and pitched forward, crashing headlong into the ground. Olkhovsky burst out laughing, a deep and rough sound. Folkard joined in.

“Looks like we have a winner,” smirked Olkhovsky, getting down on his hands and knees to crawl across to Utterklo, who had started snoring. Olkhovsky nudged him playfully. “Hey, hey myshka… Now’s not the time for dozing, we’ve gotta look after Kuznut… Kaznit… Ach, you know who I mean.”

His senses dulled by booze, Olkhovsky didn’t have even have time to react as Folkard brought one of the empty bottles down sharply onto the back of his head.

“Sweet of you, Olkhovsky,” muttered Folkard as he pilfered the unconscious Russian’s pistol and checked the chamber. “But I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

10.

NATHANIEL RUSHED HEADLONG toward the sick bay, any thoughts other than those for Arnaud’s immediate safety stricken from his mind. He skidded around the door frame to the sick bay, his lungs fit to burst. He took it all in in a microsecond—the crumpled body of a sailor, hunched into a foetal position and deathly still. His blood was mingling with the soup he had been carrying in for Arnaud. Stooping over him was an orderly, who had just finished resting the poor man’s head to the ground.

“You man!” Nathaniel snapped. “What the devil’s happened?”

“It’s Doctor Fontaine, sir! He must’ve got hold of his pistol, shot him there and then!”

“Which way did he go? Quickly, man!”

“Ah, he must’ve gone towards the stern, sir. Reckon I’d have seen him otherwise.”

Nathaniel reckoned the same. The orderly’s protestations faded quickly as he, eternally grateful for the mobility the gravitar on the ship brought him, pelted towards the engines. Had they been on any other aether ship, such speed would have been impossible.

11.

FOLKARD MOVED, SILENT as a shadow, through Imperator’s darkened corridors, his thoughts not too distant from Nathaniel’s. Judging by the existence of gravity on Imperator, it appeared the Russians had also been mining gravitar. In every way that mattered, Imperator truly was Sovereign’s sister ship.

What little he had imbibed in the petty officers’ cabin was still having an effect. He was woozy and his step was light; he had to fight to keep his balance and vision steady. He shook his head, trying to ward off the fog that clouded his judgement. Thoughts of the mission, of duty to the Crown and fidelity to his friends and countrymen, spurred him onwards.

His first idea was sabotage. If he could somehow make his way to the engine room undetected he may have been able to disrupt the engines, perhaps scuttle the warship in the aether and, at least for the moment, lessen the threat Imperator posed to the world. But what then? He could not guarantee Her Majesty’s Navy were aware of Imperator’s position, let alone its dreadful capabilities. Not only that, he was certain any damage he might do would only be temporary. This ship may not have been elegant, but its construction was sturdy and methodical—and with that came a veritable army of engineers who’d have it back up and running in next to no time.

Could he perhaps set a fire? Or rig up some sort of explosive? Whatever he needed to do, he needed to do it quick. A sudden, panicked coldness gripped his belly as he took in the vastness of Imperator’s many decks and passageways. He estimated it to be perhaps a third bigger than Sovereign, or was that guess just the vodka needling at his vulnerabilities, making him second-guess himself and ask what, realistically, a single man could do against such might?

He shook his head again, clearing these morbid thoughts. It was true that there was not much only one man armed with a single pistol and five bullets could achieve against such odds, even if that man was Captain Jacob Folkard. But the might of Sovereign and a battalion of fully armed British ships was another matter, and not a force to be resisted even by this grotesque behemoth. He had to let Sovereign know where he was and, if need be, tell them to blast this black beast out of the sky with him inside it.

He had to get to the comm room.

12.

HE WAS DEFINITELY on the right track when he found the marine was still breathing but out cold. Arnaud had clearly got the jump on him, and Nathaniel noticed with dismay that the unconscious man’s pistol was also missing—the next crewmember to encounter Arnaud might not be so lucky. If only he could corner him, restrain him, give it time for these destructive chemicals to leach away so the old Arnaud could return. Only time was the last thing he had. Finding the injured sailor had only served to confirm his worst suspicions—that an armed and unbalanced Arnaud was heading straight towards the engine rooms.

It must be some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion, he reasoned. Nathaniel’s body was charging down corridors but his mind was calmly using the time to make connections, to think ahead and plan. Potsdam and Garrecreux had appeared highly susceptible and weak-willed, and creating some sort of ingrained mental link between withdrawal symptoms and a specific set of instructions would not, he presumed, be all that difficult to do. But how strong would the impulse be? He had to assume that the real Arnaud’s will was stronger, and that only by coaxing his friend’s mind back to full consciousness could the conditioning be shaken off…and that was only if he could find Arnaud before he’d been shot dead.

He was nearly at the engine room when another pistol shot cracked and reverberated through Sovereign’s corridors. It was very close ahead.

Nathaniel just caught Arnaud’s heels disappearing around the corner. In seconds he would be in the engine room. To his left Nathaniel saw a sailor ducked into an ante-room off the main gangway, cocking his pistol and readying himself to lean out from cover and fire.

“Don’t shoot!” Nathaniel yelled as he raced past. “He mustn’t be harmed!” Stunned, the sailor watched Nathaniel blaze by before taking to his own heels in pursuit.

Mere moments after Arnaud had rounded the same corner, Nathaniel followed. But the beast was in control of Arnaud, and that beast was wily and cunning—he sprang out from his hiding place as soon as he had seen Nathaniel. For a split second Nathaniel could see his ravaged eyes, bloodshot and wide, and the crusts of spittle that had dried around the corners of his mouth. With a strength Nathaniel was unaware Arnaud possessed the unbalanced doctor whirled him around and barred his forearm across Nathaniel’s throat. Nathaniel attempted to struggle but ceased as soon as he felt the gun barrel pressed against his temple, still warm from Arnaud’s last crazed shot. He was breathing like a crazed, wounded animal and when the sailor from the ante-room skidded to a halt before them Arnaud closed his arm tighter around Nathaniel’s throat.

“Go!” He growled, gesturing with the pistol barrel. “Leave.”

“Can’t do that, sir,” said the sailor calmly. He began to reach for his holster.

Without pause or compunction Arnaud levelled the pistol and shot the man twice in the stomach, the blasts almost deafening Nathaniel. He was still recovering when Arnaud began to drag him towards the engine room’s imposing door, the barrel of the gun pressed to his head once more.

“You,” he hissed into Nathaniel’s ear, “you try and escape and I swear by God I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

“Arnaud, this isn’t you! It’s that perfidious drug, it’s got a hold of you, man! You’ve got to fight it!”

“No!” Shouted Arnaud. “No Nathaniel, no! You’re not going to talk me out of this, they told me all about you, all of you, how you’d use your guile against me!”

Arnaud kicked open the engine room doors and slammed it shut with his back. Such was the noise of the engine room the bang was barely noticed. Nathaniel’s previous tweaks were really putting Sovereign through her paces, and he noted with alarm the high and fevered whine of straining heat and energy emanating from every pipe and furiously pumping piston. Had he tried to be too clever again, putting his own pompous scientific largesse before the safety of himself and others? At this juncture, the slightest disruption to the systems could be catastrophic…

As Arnaud shoved Nathaniel roughly into the room a couple of the engineers had taken note and began backing away. Arnaud whipped the pistol out to point at the nearest one.

“You,” he spat, “lock the door!” His arms in the air, the engineer complied. Arnaud locked his arm tighter around Nathaniel’s throat again, and put his mouth towards Nathaniel’s ear. “You will tell me,” he whispered, as the professor began to suffocate, “how to destroy this ship!”

“Arnaud,” Nathaniel gasped, “think of what you’re doing. All the lives you’ll destroy…” A sudden bang on the door. Reinforcements had arrived. Arnaud released his grip slightly, alarmed, and pointed the pistol in a frenzy around the room. “It’s over, Arnaud. Come back, come back to me. We’ll make you well again…”

Gentle as they were, the words seemed to strike Arnaud like blows. As the battering at the door was reaching its climax Arnaud roared, a desperate and angry sound that came from some primal and untempered source. He flung Nathaniel aside, raised his pistol, and emptied the chamber into the first bank of instruments he saw.

13.

ON THE BRIDGE, the lights dimmed and flickered for a moment. There was an ungodly screech of metal from the stern and Sovereign began to list, losing precious speed as she did so.

“Lieutenant Sykes!” yelled Bedford. “Get onto the engine room, find out what the hell’s going on. Tally, Mister Boon,” he whipped around to face the two men, “get down there, see if you can help.”

Sub-lieutenant Barry looked up worriedly from a pressure gauge. “We’re losing all power in the engines, Commander. Sovereign... She’s dead in the water, sir!”

As the stricken ship continued to list, outside the menacing hulk of Imperator sailed effortlessly away over Luna’s horizon, the unearthly green of its engines blazing.

14.

SUDDENLY IMPERATOR’S CORRIDORS were alive with activity and excited chatter. Folkard ignored the ruckus, moving with a singular purpose towards the comm deck, grateful the enemy’s attention was directed elsewhere. On the way he picked up half-heard chunks of gabbled conversation, something about a great blow to the British and that Imperator was shortly to bring a great glory to the Russian Empire, but it was difficult to separate hard facts from all the scuttlebutt. If anything, it only steeled his resolve to reach the comm room as quickly as possible.

Ironically, his pace had quickened tenfold now the corridors were full and lively with activity. Folkard could hop from group to group or stride purposefully along, waving and smiling at his purported crewmates. He reached the door to the comm room in no time, and just as he was approaching a midshipman with a somewhat noble bearing breezed out of it. Folkard stopped dead right in front of him, and the midshipman looked him up and down.

“It’s a great day to be a Russian, eh, sailor?” he said.

Folkard nodded eagerly. “Indeed, sir. I never thought I’d see the day…”

“Quite, quite. Do you, ah… Do you have any business in the comm room?”

Folkard stuttered for a second. Through the open door he could see the room was deserted, the power in the lights above the heliograph turned down low.

“Well sir,” he began, stalling for time by scratching the back of his head. “I was just thinking, I’ve a brother back in Kimra, he’s been sick with influenza and this news…”

The midshipman smirked wryly. “Ah, of course. Want to send a message, eh? Cheer up the folks back home. Well, I can’t see the harm. Go in, but don’t touch anything. I’ll send someone by presently to see to your needs.” He stepped to one side to allow Folkard into the comm room.

“Thank you sir, that’s very kind of you, sir.”

“And don’t touch anything.”

“I won’t, sir.”

Folkard squeezed by and the midshipman softly closed the door behind him. The comm room was unnaturally dark, and here and there he could see shadowed backs murmuring into pipes from the dark hoods of cubicles. Ahead of him, the heliograph was unmanned. He strode across and, without bothering to sit, began to take in the controls. The setup was markedly different from the one on Sovereign, but if could just employ a little Russian logic to it… He reached out and flicked a switch experimentally.

The first thing he thought of, in those meagre final moments, was that it all must have been happening to somebody else. That the shot had come from outside, that some drunken officer from Kazakhstan had got overexcited and let off some steam with a bang and a whoop. But no; the shot had come closer than that, much closer, and after a lifetime of realisation the warm, wet patch that had been spreading around his left kidney gave way to a sharper, excruciating pain. He pitched forward onto the controls.

“Ah ah ah,” came a voice from behind him. “Weren’t you listening? He told you not to touch anything.” It was a voice he knew, the inflections, the timbre, all the same but the accent was different. Gasping against the pain he managed to turn himself over to face the man who had shot him in the back.

“I hope you enjoyed your little tour, Folkard. I arranged it specially. Olkhovsky and Utterklo were happy to help. I wanted to show you the very best of Russian hospitality. Hard work and vodka, Jacob. That’s what’ll make you a man.”

It couldn’t be… Before him stood a relic of a man he once knew, the same face, the same voice, but all out of proportion like he was being controlled by a bad puppeteer. His face had hardened and his eyes were wide and maniacally focussed. Folkard noticed that his right arm was bandaged in a stump at the elbow.

“Grant,” hissed Folkard, clutching at his side. “It was you. All along, it was you…”

“Well, yes and no. An exercise in control, if you will,” continued Grant, padding across to Folkard with an insouciant air. “You see, Cyrus Grant isn’t here anymore…” Folkard, overcoming the weakness that had begun to course through him, reached down for the pistol at his side. If he could just get one shot off… Grant casually took aim and shot Folkard in the thigh, and the captain crumpled to the floor.

“We have met several times, Captain. You thought your man had killed me, but my will is beyond the reach of the mortal now.” He strode over and slowly grabbed both sides of Folkard’s head in his hands, and angled it up so Folkard could look him in the eyes. “The perfect disguise to destroy you and your weak little band of crusaders, righting your perceived wrongs and daring to presume you could meddle with my destiny. I am Vladimir Tereshkov, killer of Jacob Folkard, the greatest mind Russia has ever produced, reborn and redefining the horizons of humanity!”

Folkard looked into his eyes, his strength failing. “Grant,” he whispered. “Are you there, Grant?”

In the last moments before his vision blurred, Tereshkov’s face seemed to shift and sag. The eyes were still wide, but this time were filled with horror and sadness. It was Cyrus Grant’s soft Midwestern accent that whimpered “Captain!” with unrelenting confusion, and then Folkard felt Tereshkov take control again and throw his head to the floor. He was suddenly and painfully aware that he was not breathing.

He felt the pressure in his temples ebb, replaced with a soothing coolness and an inky blot that swam on the edges of his vision. He tried to close his eyes but could not, and suddenly there came a blinding whiteness in his mind. Images, information, sounds and senses overcame him, crowding out every other thought and memory, every notion of who Jacob Folkard was, is, or ever would be…

The Heart called out to him once more. It is time. Your journey’s end.

The blank void blazed for a moment and started to resolve itself, images he remembered, picked out in pastel shades and bathed in light. That sunny meadow, the apple tree with his little girl skipping around it, in the distance and slightly out of focus, but he knew his daughter would be everything he dreamed of. A picnic of fine cheeses, wine and baked bread, ham and slices of summer pudding. It was spring, you could smell it in the air, and she sat on the blanket and patted where she wanted him to sit, right beside her.

“Charlotte,” breathed Folkard. He began to smile.

15.

Message begins.

Large Russian vessel designated Imperator has breached asteroid field stop attempted blockade resulted in critical damage to HMAS Tartarus stop source of damage believed new Russian weapon stop request immediate assistance stop

Message ends.

TO BE CONTINUED…