INTERLUDE

In Which the Sands of Kitty Hawk Shift in Dangerous Directions

Dunes shift. Coastlines, under the elements, change. The sky is full of fleeting moods. So too the usually pretty face of Sophia del Morte, which was currently marred by a frown. She now stood on the sandbank, looking out to sea, her dark eyes underneath an equally dark hat scanning the horizon with eagle-like determination. This looked like the right place.

From the inside of her corset she withdrew the detailed map of the Outer Banks that the Maestro had given her. These details included coordinates, something Sophia trusted. If she were off her mark by the smallest distance, things could go disastrously wrong. That he should place his own fate so securely in her hands made even this seasoned assassin quiver with delight.

She had travelled by an exceedingly fast charter vessel, the Mercury. It was hardly comfortable compared to the Maestro’s massive airship, the Titan, but she had required speed above all. He had been most emphatic about where to be and at what time. Even with the swiftness of her charter, she’d arrived in Newport News, Virginia, only to immediately run from aeroport to train depot, catching the one train that could take her to some poor excuse of a town in North Carolina, then grabbing a coach—again, chartered by the Maestro—that whisked her to the edge of the eastern seaboard overnight. She was exhausted but still focused.

An airship as huge as Titan would draw notice everywhere it went, no matter if the port was a major terminal or one barely used. Here, on this lonely strand of beach, there was no need to worry about being observed. Sophia could not wait for the reunion.

She flipped open the rear cover of her timepiece, revealing its compass face. According to the Maestro’s coordinates, Sophia needed to move a little farther west. She hitched the haversack up a bit tighter against her back, hefted the Lee-Metford-Tesla Mark IV higher on her shoulder, and followed the agreed-upon bearing. She was thankful for the choice of garments, her trousers and stout boots making easy work of the treacherous footing. She half ran, half slipped down through the sand and low grasses, her nostrils full of the smell of salt, which she always equated with the smell of fish—dead fish, in particular. Then there was the sudden grinding of grit in her mouth. Even though she had her black jacket buckled against it, kept her head lowered and her mouth shut, she just knew that in the evening she would need a thorough bath to get the sand out of every nook and cranny.

Many people loved the beach, and Sophia del Morte was most assuredly not among them. Her profession had taken her to many unpleasant places before, and this barren wasteland of waves, wind, and dunes was merely another. She understood the Maestro’s reasons for choosing this site, but why couldn’t his ideal location have been within reasonable distance of a pleasant hotel or perhaps a vineyard? Sophia sighed, turned, and spat out more sand that had worked its way into her mouth, and resolved to forebear it, and most certainly not whisper any complaint. She had only made that mistake once.

The compass in her hand chimed. She pushed her dark lenses up the bridge of her nose and looked around her, a slow smile spreading across her face. Yes, this barren stretch would be ideal. Her smile faded however when her eyes followed the coastline to where she would make ready the Maestro’s arrival.

She was not alone.

Two men in their rolled up shirtsleeves were working feverishly on some sort of contraption. It was a round cigar-shaped object about as tall as Sophia herself, and held in a cradle made of iron. She was curious by nature; and perhaps if she’d been on any other case she would have endeavoured to find out what they were up to, but the fact was they were stymying her plans.

This would not be born.

So engrossed in their work were these two gents that they never noticed Sophia’s approach, even though she was making no particular effort to be quiet. Standing only a few feet behind them, she tilted her head as she considered their invention in more detail. Strapped to the outside of the cylinder were a number of wires and tubes that, Sophia hazarded, contained various fluids, gases, or both. Not a large amount, but they were held in some sort of array that would mix them together. From the base, a small amount of steam was slowly seeping free, only to vanish into the Carolina breeze.

Or perhaps it wasn’t steam at all, because it looked thicker and heavier than the surrounding air. In fact, the dense mist seemed to fall from the apparatus. Now, Sophia was completely mesmerised by the device.

One of the men, the one with less hair, had some small hatch open. “Do you think the thrust calculations are closer this time?” he asked while fiddling around with the invention’s inner workings.

The other, the possessor of a fairly decent handlebar moustache, after passing him various tools, returned his own attention to various pressure gauges along the contraption’s hull. “They better be. We don’t have enough fuel to try again until next month,” he replied, and then gave a guffaw. “Unless we get a few more repair jobs from the Detweilers.”

The balding one returned the chuckle. “The Dangerous Detweilers of Dayton. Their mishaps alone could fund three launches.”

True to form of socially inept schlockworkers, neither of them were going to notice her anytime soon—a situation Sophia was not accustomed to. There was simply nothing for it, but to state the obvious. “A very interesting-looking contraption,” she said with what she had been told was her most disarming smile.

The men spun around as if she had already stuck a knife in their backs. She must have made quite an appearance because their mouths literally dropped open. Now, she held their undivided attention. Perhaps they were not used to a woman carrying a rifle, or perhaps they just had very ugly women in this part of the world. She would not have been surprised. The number of American men on the Continent seemed to indicate to her that their women were not worth staying home for.

“Our apologies, ma’am,” the moustached one began, “we didn’t notice you.”

“And that’s saying something,” the balding one added, his smile unexpectedly alluring.

Charming as the bald one was, she opened her pocket watch and was reminded of what little time she had remaining. It had to be now. Sophia waved her hand at the device. “Intriguing as your experiment here is, gentlemen, you must give this area of shore to me. Now.”

The two men wiped their hands on their pants and straightened, seeming to work together as one machine. Their once separate demeanours—the balding one being a touch flirtatious, the moustached man actually blushing ever so slightly—slipped away before her eyes, replaced with hard, stern looks.

How precious.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the balding one said, “but I believe we were here first. If you were looking for some peace and quiet, Kitty Hawk offers plenty of spots to choose from other than this one.”

“But this is the spot I desire,” Sophia replied, her fingers splaying slowly around the shoulder strap of her Lee-Metford-Tesla.

Sophia could almost hear their outrage warring with their good manners. Then, after standing in this awkward silence, the balding one spoke again. “Look, you’re just going to have to wait. We have a launch to tend to, barring any catastrophic failures.”

Flicking into sight like a serpent’s tongue, a concealed blade sliced through the tight space between the men. A loud clang ran through the air, immediately followed by the angry hiss of half a dozen slashed lines coiled around the device. The men leapt back, yelping in horror as various fluids, many of them either catching fire on contact with one another or creating more of the heavier-than-air mist, spewed in every direction.

“You mean, like that?” Sophia asked. When she brought up her throwing arm a second time, another blade appeared, catching the sun as she slowly turned it in her hand.

They looked upon her anew in that moment, as if she had only just appeared. Their eyes bore into her with the same intensity they had devoted to their now-bleeding experiment, and the silence, once feeling awkward, had now turned ominous, marred only by the occasional fizz or crackle from the damaged machine. Sophia used this moment to look for vulnerabilities she could exploit. She’d rather not waste precious time, but you could never tell with men. Sometimes intellect would surrender to masculine pride, driving the male of the species to foolish acts.

These men however seemed to be exceptional.

The bald one used his hands, now encased by heavy gloves, to tip one end of the device’s cradle up. The moustached gentleman immediately ran to its falling tip and caught the device before it hit the ground. “Come on, Orville,” he snapped, the leaking cylinder now suspended between them like a bleeding soldier suspended on a stretcher. “Wind’s too strong for an accurate altitude test, anyway. Let’s get back to camp, and leave this lady to her thoughts. And herself!”

Sophia allowed the man his slight. It was evident their flight of fancy had been toiled over for some time, only to be ruined in seconds by her. If these “Dangerous Detweilers of Dayton” were as profitable as the men had insinuated, perhaps they could return with a repaired model. She waited until both men had disappeared over a sand dune before unslinging the rifle and haversack. The long, heavy string of contacts she withdrew resembled a necklace of diamonds, cut emerald style, their flat silver surface smooth and slick under Sophia’s fingers as she adjusted them into a wide circle perhaps ten feet in diameter. She paused in her arrangement of this array only to check the time. It would be close, but she would be ready.

The last item from her pack introduced to this apparatus was the flickering power source snatched from the Culpepper airship just before its fatal descent over Essex. The device would have passed for a deck prism as the power source was secured on a flat circular base and surrounded by triangular planes. On closer inspection, though, it was not reflecting light, so much as creating it.

The Culpepper twins had been quite clever in the power source’s development, but they were nowhere near the true application of their electroporter.

Sophia went to the centre of the circle created by the leads and secured the power source on its stand. Once connected to the array, the prism began to hum, growing louder and brighter as it did. Even after she cleared the circle, she continued to step back. The noise—more of a vibration from the array that she felt in her very skull—turned Sophia’s steps into a graceful backwards jig. Her hands pressed against her ears but could not cease the thrumming in her head. Instead of collapsing into a ball, she screamed against the assault, determined to watch the sky and see this incredible creation of science do its work.

The thunderclap drowned her scream out as the circle of silver threw brilliant whips of immense energy upwards into the sky, scattering crying seagulls in all directions. A few of the more curious beach birds found themselves trapped by these tendrils, falling dead from the sky once released. She knew this power intimately, having seen and experienced it while the machine had been under the control of the Culpeppers.

Now this control of light, space, and time belonged to the Maestro—just as had always been his plan.

Sophia threw her hand over her eyes as the light grew too bright for her to bear. She was no longer screaming as the thrumming vibrations had now transformed into a rumble, a rumble that split the air suddenly with an almighty crash.

When Sophia finally tasted the salt air and returned to reasonable thought, she found herself on her back, pushed into the dunes from the amplified electroporter’s concussive force. She now looked into the sky at the wonder hovering above her.

Though she knew this would have been, provided the device was a success, the sight of the Titan overhead made her breath catch. Its droning propeller rose above the sound of the waves pounding on the sandbanks; and while the envelope itself was storm cloud grey, sunlight managed to catch the hanging gun positions. All in all, the Maestro’s yacht was a thickset, pugnacious-looking airship, prepared to deal the world a bruising.

Sophia smiled as the Titan turned to port and then lowered to disembarkation level. Her heart began to race as she saw the hatch in the belly of the airship slide open.

A ladder unfurled and, on the lower rungs striking the ground, a tall form climbed down it double-time. It was Pearson, the valet. As he dropped to the sand, Sophia felt a little niggle of disappointment. No smile greeted her from the valet’s stern, drawn face; no sign at all that she had even done a passable job.

Still, it was not Pearson’s goodwill she desired. She waited impatiently as he guided the massive airship lower until, with a single swipe of Pearson’s hand, the Titan’s multiple anchors dropped, burying themselves deep into the Carolina sand. From where the rope ladder had dropped, a gangplank extended as the leviathan of the air continued its slow, controlled descent.

She strode past Pearson with a word, and they entered the airship’s belly. As they went deeper into the gondola it got warmer and warmer, returning to a more comfortable temperature once beyond the engine room. A handful of guards, dressed in steel grey uniforms bearing, just above their right breast, the insignia of the Titan, acknowledged Sophia with a little bow. Beneath her notice or concern, she did not return the salute but fixated on the path ahead.

Pearson opened a final bulkhead door and ushered her in. It was dark. The Maestro always preferred shadow, but then so did she.

“Signora del Morte,” his voice wheezed, accompanied by occasional bursts of steam escaping from his breathing apparatus. “You have done excellent work this day.”

Compliments from him were few and far between, and Sophia took what he offered with both hands. It was like rain on a parched garden. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I am honoured to serve as herald to your arrival in the Americas.”

“An office you fulfilled admirably,” he wheezed. “This final test of the electroporter, I would safely say”—and he motioned with his metallic encased hand—“was a rousing success. We are now able to proceed to the next stage: recruiting our latest candidate to come work for me, once he leaves his current position, that is.” She heard the machine move, a subtle creak and rattle of gears. “And, of course, your next task.”

Sophia felt a bitterness form in her mouth. “I will not be here to work alongside you?”

“You, my dear Angel of Death, shall use the electroporter to journey to San Francisco.”

Her mouth immediately dried up as the horrific image of Chandi Culpepper emerging from the prototype came to mind. There was the flash of unnaturally bright light, then the scream accompanied by the malformed and distorted madwoman . . .

“Is there a problem?” the Maestro asked.

“No, Maestro,” she lied.

His good hand reached from the shadows with a leather folio. “Your orders.”

“And what will you do here?” she asked as she took the attaché from him.

A few seconds had passed before Sophia realised what had made the Maestro mute. She knew the question had been a mistake even before he spoke. “This is your business because—?”

She searched for an answer, but all Sophia could be certain of was the sweat breaking out on her skin. She opened her mouth. No words came. At first. “I . . . I simply wish to understand my service to you, Maestro. To make certain my objectives are clear.”

“Understand my service”—and he motioned to the billfold she tightly grasped in her hands—“by understanding your orders.”

“Yes, Maestro,” she said without blinking or hesitation, her face completely devoid of any emotion.

“Come closer, Signora,” the Maestro wheezed suddenly, a pair of malevolent crimson eyes glowing softly from the shadows.

She felt the folio’s leather dig underneath her nails, her memory of when she was last within the Maestro’s reach—and consequentially, in his grasp—still very vivid.

The brass-and-leather fingers reached for her, slowly and languidly. “If there are any problems here in the Carolinas . . .” The Maestro’s voice was accompanied by assorted hisses and creaks, as if bellows within his suit were working hard. But why? Was he trying to keep his own emotions under control as well? “. . . I will call for you.” Those final words were punctuated with his fingertips brushing her cheek ever so gently.

Sophia was having a hard time breathing, particularly when feeling his cold, metallic caress. Fear and desire mixed together in the pit of her stomach. “Of course, Maestro.”

His fingers stopped their forward progress just underneath her chin where they lingered for an instant longer, the red points of light seeming to flare brighter now that she was close.

“Arm yourself, my Angel of Death,” the Maestro whispered to her. “This foreign soil is not without its protectors.”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, the House of Usher have dealt with OSM before. I can take care of anyone they have in their employment.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Sophia motioned to the folio in her hands. “I am certain it is in here, Maestro, but will I be able to recognise my target in San Francisco?”

The laugh that came echoed within the metal suit, making it seem as if more than one man was amused by the question she was posing. It was terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.

When the answer came it made her smile as well. “His name is Albert. As he is heir to the throne of England, he will be difficult to miss.”