Brotherhood of the Strange (Kingship, Tales from the Aether Book 1) (5 page)

Now drifting backwards, as the pirates’ airship slowly sank beneath the clouds before them, the Kingship emerged from under the upland. Looking skyward, Vance realized this was indeed, a trap all along.

“Should've known it wouldn’t be so easy,” Vance muttered, already making his way back to the steep access ladder he had just climbed.

“Orders, sir?” Burd asked, pistol still in hand.

“Just hold tight,” came the reply as Vance’s head disappeared below deck.

Winston was craning his neck to see the ships above. Two small Spanish built patrol aetherships though, like their American-made counterpart they were now in the service of pirates. The vessels were about three hundred feet above the Kingship and were barely moving.

“Those boats look to be a bit more of a problem, Vance,” Winston stated. “We might be able to outrun ‘em, but not before they did some serious damage by the look of them sixteen inchers.”

Burd’s voice echoed from above, “What’s the plan, Captain? They don’t seem to be in a rush to attack. I’d guess they’re arguing whether they should attack us, or help their fellows.”

Vance nodded. Burd was probably right. “We wait.”

“Yes sir.”

“Wait for what?” Winston inquired.

“You know how when we play chess, I always play black?”

“Aye, you always like to go second. But ya still always bloody win!”

“Exactly. I want to see how they intend to play before we make our move.”

Several tense seconds passed before that move was made. Deciding apparently that the extremely ornate and opulently designed Kingship took priority over helping the rest of their men in the crippled zeppelin, both vessels fired grappling hooks which found purchase on the port and starboard sides of the steel railing that ran around the upper deck of the Kingship’s main body. Winches began to slowly reel their prey in. Vance laughed a little. He had suspected these people were not experienced. Sure they had set a trap, however it was one that had revealed only the most rudimentary of tactics which had severely damaged one of their own vessels. It took only a second for Vance to size up his opponents, now that he had sufficient information.

“This game isn’t even worth playing,” he told his pilot. Turning, he grabbed the speaking tube that ran to the engine room and got Wingnut to respond. “Get ready for a full decent with the compression drive.”

“Are ya bloody daft?” came the predictable, though not unjustified reply. “Ya know how hard that’ll jam up the screws? Not ta mention the master gear?”

Vance’s reply was calm, but firm, “Molly, we have about thirty seconds before this ship is boarded by a hell of a lot of pirates. I need you to disengage those clutches on my mark. Afa can help you unjam them.”

“Alright, we’ll be ready. But if we crash and die Heaven’ll have ya ta blame and Hell’ll be yer home!”

Burd had stuck his head down the hatch from above, hearing the whole conversation. Nodding, he went back up on deck. Vance nodded in reply. Burd already knew his plan. Of course he would, Vance thought to himself. The small, wiry man had been on more sabotage missions than anyone who had ever been under his command, and had the medals to show for it.

“Ya sure about this, lad?” asked Winston.

“We’ll soon know,” Vance replied. “Okay Wingnut, release the clutches! Winston, drop us.”

It only took about two seconds for the Kingship to begin to drop. The large iron screws holding the levitite crystals throughout the engineering deck of the ship rapidly forced themselves towards their counterpart crystals with a deafening whir which negated most of their buoyancy, a strange phenomena which the best of the Natural Philosophers of the world were still at a loss to explain. It took a lot of steam from the boilers to force the opposing levitite together. This had a tendency to “gum up the works” as Wingnut put it. As the now tremendously heavy Kingship began to plummet, the tow cables snapped taught dragging the two pirate vessels rapidly towards each other. They collided with a thunderous crunch and showered the kingship with small bits of debris. In the collision, some of their outboard steel levitite vapor tanks, another form of heavier than air suspension, ruptured, sending iridescent purple gas heavenward. Like the zeppelin, the vessels were merely crippled. Most likely there would be no casualties. Cables that did not tear free of their own accord, were cut by Burd’s fancy pistol work. However, the danger was not yet past. While, the levitite retained a small measure of its gravity negating properties no matter how closely they were forced together, the aethership and her crew were still descending rapidly enough to ensure the Kingship would be utterly destroyed upon impact.

Winston gripped the controls, “This could be close.”

The vessel was shaking violently. Though the ground could not be seen yet, the layer of clouds beneath them was looming nearer by the second. Gripping a handrail, Vance double-checked the altimeter on the control panel with his oversized pocket watch, also equipped with an altimeter. He figured they had about a minute before the earth found them.

“Any time now, Wingnut!” Vance called through the speaking tube. The response, though not directed exactly into the other end, was loud enough and full of expletives to satisfy Vance that all was being done that could be done.

The Kingship began to pass through the low altitude cloud bank. The white fluffy ocean gave way to a depressing gray texture of rainclouds racing upwards as Wingnut and Afa’s efforts finally began to arrest what could have been their own premature demise. Creaks and groans sounded all around until at last the vessel regained its seeming weightlessness in the aether. They were beneath the clouds now and a steady rain was falling, a stark difference to the sun-filled sky they had just left behind.

Smiling and clapping his pilot on the shoulder Vance was chuckling, “They don’t get much closer than that, do they?”

Also smiling but carrying an air of experienced wisdom, Winston replied, “Actually lad, on this ship, they often did.”

Burd re-entered the bridge from the side exit he originally took. His leather flight suit was dripping with water and his hair was matted. The grin on his boyish face showed the grand time he had on this little adventure. “I didn’t think there was much pirate activity in this section of Belgium,” he mused. “Glad I was wrong,” he added, taxed for air, but still smiling.

Vance agreed. This was a fairly civilized area of the uplands, though he admitted that was a relative term in and of itself. “We should probably report this,” he suggested. Who’s the Belgium Fleet Admiral? Desmaris?”

“No I think it’s LeRoux,” came Burd’s reply.

“That’s right. That old coot still owes me a bottle of wine. Okay, get on the radiograph and tell him where he can find our new friends. Use my command code. It’s old but he’ll recognize it. Winston, point us back towards Germany, with the best steam Wingnut can muster.”

The phone began to ring, the light on the panel indicating it was the engine room. Vance sighed, “I guess I’d better get up there and let her berate me for breaking her engine.”

“Better you than me, lad,” said Winston.

Turning to leave the bridge, Vance paused and added to his old friend, “Oh, Burd? Remind LeRoux about the wine.”

Degory sat patiently in Cordelia’s drawing room while his niece worked intently on his clockwork arm, a miracle in engineering that had allowed him to regain his mobility, and in Degory’s opinion, a measure of his lost dignity. He gazed down at it, much of it was exposed at the moment, parts splayed out amongst Cordelia’s tools. His niece was wearing a pair of jeweler’s glasses, intently attending to the myriad intricate brass gears and fittings that allowed this machine to mimic human motion. Though fortunate for her nearly unparalleled gifts in the knowledge of clockwork bionics, all the fine tuning in the world would never make his arm human again. The dexterity, sensation, and warmth of the severed limb he had unwittingly sacrificed to the reality altering energies of his Temporal Accelerator were forever lost to him. His real arm was, at this moment, still about eight months away from reappearing, though Degory still knew not where. At this juncture he was no closer to calculating where the device, along with Maxfield LeRoy and more importantly, Pandora’s Box, would re-enter time after its improvised and un-calculated activation some four months ago. When it did, his arm would still be in salvageable shape, mere seconds having passed for it, though his niece had gently told him it would do him little good, as his injury had healed too much to have a hope of reattachment. Degory was therefore doomed to a life of near constant maintenance. Though durable, the technology that drove the arm required calibration every few weeks and depending upon how much he used it, near daily winding as well. Despite the misfortune of losing his right arm, some good had indeed emerged from it. When those loyal to LeRoy had seen his injury, it had removed any suspicion they may have had regarding Degory’s motives. His cover story, that unidentified men had broken into his study, and used the Temporal Accelerator to kidnap Maxfield and himself, had been accepted without question. He had become a member of the inner circle of the Brotherhood of the Strange, which was now the corrupt Hand of Paris, though he wasn’t trusted enough as of yet with their innermost workings. Still, he had learned more in the last few months than he had in the previous two years. Though details of their plans were hidden from him, what he could glean was dark, disturbing information to say the least, and it confirmed Degory was correct in his covert attempts to expose and destroy them. Of late however, he had grown desperate in figuring out a way to track the Temporal Accelerator, and he feared he had aroused far too much suspicion. He had a plan in place, he always did, he just hoped he had enough time to see it through and protect the one person in the world whom he truly loved and called family, the young genius attending to his arm.

“Almost done, Uncle,” Cordelia said without looking up. “This wouldn’t take as long if you had stopped by last week as I told you.”

“I do apologize,” Degory replied. “I had far too many errands to attend to.”

“You always do. When are you going to take some time for yourself and relax? I barely could keep you still for the weeks it took you to heal around this,” the young woman replied gesturing to the area around his bicep where flesh and brass met.

Degory sighed, “I wish I could, I really do. There is far too much at stake for me to stop, though I must confess I’ve grown fearful that my plans will be discovered and brought to ruin.”

Cordelia paused and looked up from her work. Her porcelain features and dark hair carried a look of concern which was unbecoming a woman of such delicate beauty. She removed her glasses and settled beside him on the sitting couch. He had tried to shield her from what was happening, but his uncharacteristically pessimistic attitude of late made his worries transparent to his dear niece. He had finally informed her, and then only at her stubborn demand, as much as he dared regarding the dealings of the Brotherhood. Since then he had tried to retain an optimistic attitude for her sake. Seeing her pause from her work and take a seat beside him, he knew he had failed and it was time to revel everything to her.

“My sweet Cordelia,” he began, taking her hand in his, he of course now used his left hand for such a gesture, “I wish it could be otherwise, but I have come to the conclusion my inquiries and investigations have brought me under unfriendly scrutiny.”

“Is it my father?” she asked with a note of sad concern.

Degory winced in his heart. This was the information he wished Cordelia could be spared from. Though she had done quite well for herself at the a young age of twenty-four, mastering two degrees from Oxford, Clockwork Mechanics as well as the more traditional field of Physician, she was still naive to many of the horrors of the world. This made her speak more boldly on some subjects than she had a right to, but her heart, Degory felt, was always in the right place. She knew her father, Edward, was corrupt, but the depths of which she did not or would not admit to herself. He keenly felt the weight of guilt at the necessity of breaking down that barrier, though he was unsure if mere words alone would suffice, despite the deep trust they had for one another.

“Only partially,” he began, “Edward certainly has been busy with the Brotherhood. He has involved me less and less with knowledge of his work though he has been spending an awful amount of time away. Where, I cannot be sure. I am sorry, more sorry than I can tell, but my brother is deep in the confidence of the Hand of Paris.”

Cordelia withdrew her hand and retired to the nearby third-story window of her posh London apartment. The Friday evening was in full swing as people below hustled to the parties, theaters, and dinner engagements that occupied the well-to-do Londoner on the weekends. Hansom cabs as well as steam-carriages darted in and out of the gas-lit streets, their evening attired occupants oblivious to the internal struggles of the young lady who gazed down upon them.

After a few moments of silence, save for the chiming of the grandfather clock in the room, she replied, “I really don’t want to believe what you’re telling me. I know I should, you’ve never lied to me, Uncle. It’s just… he’s my father.”

Degory stood. He wanted to protect her, and though it pained him, the truth was the best assurance of her safety at this juncture. “He’s also my brother. I wish as much as you things were different. But sadly, they’re not. Though I don’t know the specifics, he’s doing research that the Brotherhood banned years ago due to its unforeseen and quite frankly dark implications.”

“What research is that?”

“A number of years ago, before my time, a scientist with connections to the Brotherhood discovered a way to make synthetic ectoplasm.”

Cordelia turned from the window and looked at him incredulously. “Ectoplasm?” she said with a measure of disbelief. “Ectoplasm is a myth. A substance made up by charlatan mesmerists looking to scratch a few farthings from the gullible masses.”

“No, my dear, it is not,” Degory said seriously. Cordelia’s one sided, expensive education was showing a lack of knowledge of the world Degory had become all too familiar with. “It is, however, extremely unstable, usually evaporating shortly after an apparition makes its presence known. The synthesized version, however, could be stabilized, provided it was kept within an enclosed system. It’s creation led to rueful consequences.”

“Such as?” she inquired, her trust in her uncle overriding her skepticism.

“Well it’s difficult to explain. Ectoplasm is the stuff of the other side. When it was made artificially, denizens of that other side were attracted to it. The Brotherhood tried to harness it, use it for some blend of arcane technology, but never got it quite right. Needless to say, the negative consequences led to the research being banned and buried in the Vault. Your father is a brilliant man, and I’m afraid his diverse scientific disciplines are being put to nefarious use by the Hand of Paris.”

“If what you say is true, then might he be in a situation where he is being coerced into helping them?” He saw there was still hope for her father in her eyes, a hope Degory knew he needed to quell, as gently as he could.

Degory shrugged, “I do suppose anything is possible, though from the few conversations we have had, and mind you they have been few of late, I can come to no other conclusion than he honestly believes in the Hand of Paris. Again, I am sorry.”

“How is it that this Hand of Paris is still even a threat?” she stated, clearly growing exasperated at the situation. “You sent that vile creature Maxfield away on the Temporal Accelerator, along with that accursed Box. I would have thought after four months you and the loyal Strangers would have routed out any further traitors.”

“Well at first I believed so as well. Four months ago I was still clinging to the belief that the Hand of Paris represented a tiny fraction of the Brotherhood. I was sure if they were revealed to be the evil conspirators they clearly are, then the majority of the Strangers would run them out of town on a rail. Unfortunately, the cancer has spread and those few who still held true to our founding principles have been replaced, killed, or driven into hiding. There have been rumors that loyal Strangers survive in pockets over in Eastern and Western America, though I have yet to confirm it.”

Cordelia replied, “But surely without their leader they are less organized and somewhat vulnerable?”

“One would think. However I had barely come out of surgery after losing my arm when LeRoy’s,” Degory paused, “what I thought was his bodyguard stepped forward and took command.”

“Who is he?”

“A man by the name of Grigori.”

“I’ve never heard that name before,” she said, crossing the room and resuming working on Degory’s arm.

“I’d be surprised if you had,” Degory replied wincing slightly as Cordelia tightened and adjusted various springs and cogs. “He has followed Maxfield around for the past several years. Showing up one day offering his service to the Brotherhood, his unique skills were quickly put to use. It sickened me because in days past he would have been turned away on the spot.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s rather infamous in Russia. The man was some sort of mystic and had a following of zealots who believed the end of the world was nigh. Apparently this Grigori sought out Maxfield in response to some revelation he had supposedly received. At one time I would have thought it nonsense, but the implications of Pandora’s Box have made me wary of him. He has powers, Cordelia. Early on he was allowed access to nearly every sealed section of the Vault. There is knowledge, spiritual, arcane, alchemical, and scientific few should be privy to. As odd and mystical as he was when I first met him, he was nothing compared to the man he is now. At any rate, he picked up where Maxfield left off, took control of the Brotherhood, and employed me to calculate where Maxfield will reappear. A task which I have been publicly stalling but privately pursuing to the best of my ability.”

Cordelia finished her work. Degory’s arm was fully wound and calibrated. She packed away her tools and glasses as Degory rolled down his sleeve, donned the black leather glove he always wore now, and somewhat awkwardly buttoned up his waistcoat checking the time on his pocket watch. Putting on his black frock coat he felt the bulge of the thick, bound envelope, the other, and far more important reason for his visit. He had allowed the conversation to become sidetracked, discussing Edward, attempting to spare her feelings. He needed now to get to the point.

“And how is that research going?” she asked.

Degory’s thoughts were pulled back to the conversation. “What research?”

“Tracking the Temporal Accelerator of course,” she replied.

“Oh, that’s one of the reasons I’m here.” At least she had brought it up first. He gently grabbed ahold of her arm, the click of the gears and springs from the quick movement of his right arm could be heard in the sudden silence.

“Cordelia, I mentioned I may have aroused suspicion. I’m afraid it’s far more than that. As I’ve said, I’ve attempted to give them false leads regarding the Accelerator while at the same time attempting to figure out the whereabouts legitimately. I’ve run out of excuses and Grigori clearly suspects me. I’m afraid it will only be a matter of days before I’m taken for questioning. Others have as well and have never been seen again.”

“Uncle.”

“Listen, I’ve seen but a small fraction of their plans and the only word that can come to mind is genocide. Pandora’s Box is key to all of this, I’m sure of it. I had hoped to have bought enough time when I sent it into the future. Maxfield was just a bonus. Now I’m not so sure. In roughly eight months the Temporal Accelerator will reappear and Pandora’s Box will resume its countdown. Whatever plans the Hand of Paris has will coincide with that countdown. As of right now nobody knows where it will reappear but believe me, Grigori has considerable resources working to find out, despite my best attempts at misdirection.”

A combination of fear and resolve was growing in Cordelia’s deep blue eyes. “What are we going to do then?” she asked.

Degory was proud of his niece. He was also ashamed that, despite his best efforts, she was about to be dragged into this world. “I’ve had some equipment built in Germany,” he began. “Equipment which will allow me to track the Temporal Accelerator. I’ve gone to great pains to keep this a secret and I hope it has remained thus. Arrangements have been made to have this equipment transported to the upland of Sherwood Isle. If all goes well, I will rendezvous with it there. If not, I need you to go in my stead.”

Cordelia’s stunned look came before her equally stunned words. “Uncle, I want to help, but I have never been to Sherwood Isle. I’ve never been to an upland, the Aether or even stepped foot on an aethership or an airship!”

“I know, and I wish I did not have to involve you like this.” He handed her the bulky envelope. “In here is all the information you need. If I am captured, I need you to intercept the equipment. It will be aboard the vessel ‘Kingship’. The Captain and crew are honorable people.”

“Do you know them?”

“Not personally. I know of them. More importantly I know of the ship. It will be integral to tracking the Temporal Accelerator and finding me should something occur.”