Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb (8 page)

Johnny peered more closely at the girl ghost, and almost recoiled. He could tell how she had died. Her face was covered with smallpox pustules. What a horrible way to go.

After half a moment, the dismembered soldier looked up at Mel and composed herself—still holding onto her right shoulder. “I have failed,” she said with resignation. “Take my head.”

Panting, Mel said, “Answer. Me. This.” She paused to suck in a couple more breaths. “What is your name?”

“Checheg.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It is the will of the khan.”

“Who is the khan?”

“Our emperor, our king, our general.”

“What does he want?”

“He has united Steppe Warriors from many generations. We have waited centuries for him. He has given us purpose again. He is leading us into battle, so that we may properly die.”

The ghost paused, glaring darkly at Mel. “No more questions. Just do it,” she said. She pulled off her helmet, shut her eyes, and stretched out her neck.

Mel sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve already cut off your arm. Isn’t that enough?”

“I would have cut off your head,” the wraith said, “if I’d won.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mel snapped. “But you didn’t win, did you?
I did
. You’re a barbarian, and I’m not. And I don’t cut people’s heads off, even if they’re dead. Even if they deserve it! What I want you to do is go back to your khan, whoever he is, and tell him that Melanie Graphic’s coming after him. And then she’s going to put him out of business! Now,
scat!”

The ghost slowly stood up, and regarded Mel and Johnny with a look of utter hatred. Then she stooped to pick up her severed arm and flew straight up through the ceiling.

For a few seconds, no one said a word. Finally, Uncle Louie, standing in his bedroom door, whispered, “Is it gone?”

Both a little shell-shocked, Johnny and Mel nodded in unison.

At the far end of the hallway a door creaked open and out tottered Nina, in her purple bathrobe. She rubbed her eyes and frowned crankily at her guardian and two friends.

“Do you people have any conceivable idea of how late it is?” she scolded. “You woke me up!”

* * *

The whole household gave up on the notion of getting any more sleep that night. Johnny, Mel, Uncle Louie, and Nina were sitting around the kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, coffee, and tea. A plate of powdermilk biscuits was at the center of the table, next to a pot of strawberry jam. Several of the house’s ghost occupants listened in, as well, intently following Mel’s account of her near brush with doom.

“I was just lying there in the dark,” Mel said. “Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about the trip and the murders and everything else.”

And pondering a couple of months with Danny Kailolu, I bet, thought Johnny. He couldn’t help noticing on the Night Goose that she seemed to like the guy.

“Finally, I rolled over and was just drifting off, when my piano plinked in the darkness. I could tell there was someone else in the room. I knew it couldn’t be the colonel or Mrs. Lundgren or any of the boys.”

“No ghosts allowed in the commander’s room without leave,” said the colonel, standing next to the icebox. “And properly so.”

“I lay there scared to death,” Mel continued. “Thought my heart was going to burst. But thank heaven I remembered my army saber, hanging right over the bed. I jumped up and unsheathed it, then flipped on the light. That’s when I saw Checheg. She had an arrow aimed at my chest.”

“She was by herself?” asked Nina.

Mel nodded, then laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Uncle Louie. “Doesn’t sound humorous to me.”

“She asked me a question that gave me a little more time to think, to plan what to do.”

“What question?” said Johnny, eager to know.

“She said, ‘Where is your mustache?’”

“So the old mustache trick paid off again,” Uncle Louie said, grinning. “Just like the old flashbulb trick.”

“It did indeed.” Mel playfully slugged her brother on the shoulder. “Thanks again, Mr. Graphic.”

Johnny laughed along with everyone else, but he sure wished he could think of something that would put this horror show to an end. The next time Mel found herself in peril, she might not make it. And he had lost quite enough of his family.

“So what happened then?” Nina asked.

“I insulted her,” answered Mel. “I impugned her courage, said that it was just cowardly to shoot me with an arrow from such a close distance. I challenged her to a sword fight.”

“And she agreed,” said the colonel, smiling and beaming with pride. “She couldn’t have realized that you’re a fair sword fighter.”

Mel smiled up at the ghost officer. “You ought to know, Colonel. You trained me. All those summer afternoons out on the lawn. I never in a million years thought they’d turn out so useful.”

Chapter 15

Sunday, October 13, 1935

Paloa Atoll in the Greater Ocean

Bao never forgot the day she became a ghost.

The raiders had come to her village, and one of them chased her into the jungle. He caught her, grabbed her around her neck, and strangled her. His hands were terribly strong and hard. Everything went black.

When she woke up, Bao clambered to her feet, feeling weirdly light and nimble. There was a girl who lay by the base of a tree. Arms and legs askew. Head tilted to one side at an unnatural angle.

The girl on the ground wore a shabby blue shift. Just like Bao’s.

She had on a black headdress. Just like Bao’s.

She had a crescent-shaped scar across the bottom of her left foot. Just as Bao had.

And she was quite, quite dead, Bao’s mysterious twin.

Finally, Bao understood. She screamed and shouted, but no one came. She tried and tried to cry, but no tears would form in her eyes.

For the little girl ghost the centuries crawled by as slowly as tortoises—every moment a torment. If there was anything like hell on earth, being in the ghost world was it. Nothing that was good was allowed.

Happiness.

Love.

Pleasure.

All impossible.

However, when the dead shaman found Bao up in the mountains, huddling by a rocky stream, he promised her something she wanted above all else.

“If you come with me,” he said, “I can end your suffering. I can send you to your gods.”

That is how Bao found herself flying eastward across the great ocean with hundreds of other wraiths—a great, ghastly gaggle of ghosts. For the first time in centuries she talked with someone in a friendly way. He was an odd sort of specter called Lord Hurley of Evansham, or “Evvie.” Bao had died at about the age of ten, Evvie at the age of sixteen. She liked him because he made her laugh, a rare treat for a ghost.

Toward noontime on the last day of their journey, Bao and the others spied something that made no sense, off toward the edge of the world’s curvature.

“Has an island sprouted a volcano?” shouted a woman ghost.

“The germ of a typhoon,” suggested Evvie.

“Perhaps the jungle is on fire,” someone yelled from the rear.

The phenomenon came from an atoll—a ring of small islands in the middle of the vast ocean. From the surface of one of the islands arose a ribbon of silver, gray, and white. It undulated and pulsated, floated from side to side, grew thin and tall, and then compressed itself down toward the ocean. It broke apart and came back together. Bao had never seen anything like it.

As they flew closer, everything became clear.

Thousands of ghosts had ascended into the clouds. They were trying to hold steady over the sandy outcropping of land beneath them. Wraiths had crowded the surface of the little island. There was barely any more room anywhere, but up.

Somehow, though, Bao and her new friend found a bare spot of sand near a clutch of barrel-roofed buildings made of some kind of metal that Evvie called “tin.” Scurrying between them were living humans in short white robes and broad-brimmed straw hats, carrying parchments and strange devices. In the center of the compound, a wooden tower a hundred feet high was crowned by a small, square hut with a thatched roof. Bao could make out a woman climbing up a long ladder attached to one of the tower’s supports. At the top, the woman crawled into the tiny hut.

Near the entrance to one of the tin shelters a fearsome-looking wraith warrior—with a black braid down his back and a pointed helmet on his head—held the reins of a ragged little ghost pony. Bao gasped when he turned around. The man had no eyes, only seeping, horrible eye sockets. How in the world, the girl ghost thought, could he see anything? But clearly he did—glaring malevolently at anyone who dared to stare at him.

Just then the door to the shelter burst open and out lurched a person who was not a ghost, but was a strange-looking creature nonetheless. Or so Bao thought.

His long, hard face, with its jutting jaw and dark burning eyes, swiveled around, surveying the legion of ghosts. He walked in an ungainly way—his body at odds with itself, as if it couldn’t quite decide how it wanted to move.

“My khan,” the eyeless warrior said, prostrating himself on the sand before this bizarre individual, “I bear tidings. Some for good, some for ill. Mongke Eng is dead, but Melanie Graphic lives.”

Chapter 16

Saturday, October 19, 1935

Zenith

Mel’s account of her saber duel with a wraith called Checheg made many a front page—along with Johnny’s picture of her after the fight, disheveled but triumphant. Exciting as their journalistic success was, it didn’t bring them any closer to getting to the root of the etherist-killing conspiracy.

That’s why Johnny agreed to go downtown with Mel and Uncle Louie on a beautiful Saturday morning that deserved something better than sitting in a musty old office. He figured that Managing Agent Crider of the National Police Bureau had some important news for them. Maybe, Johnny hoped, they had found the evil mastermind behind the conspiracy. Because there had to be an evil mastermind somewhere, just as there always was on the
Captain Justice Adventures
radio show.

So, at about ten o’clock, Johnny found himself sitting in, well, a musty old office. Next to him were Uncle Louie and Mel. Crider, standing by his desk with arms crossed, had a wind-burned face that gave nothing away. Assistant Director Santangelo of the Ministry of Etheristics sprawled in Crider’s own chair behind the desk, his piggy eyes narrowed, a sneer on his lips. His left hand was still twitching.

Johnny couldn’t put his finger on why, but Santangelo practically smelled of trouble.

A few minutes late, Carlton Cargill swept in as if he owned the place. “Well, Crider,” he managed to bark, even with the unlit cigar in his mouth, “here I am.” He nodded at Johnny, Mel, and Uncle Louie, and briefly studied the agent and the stranger. “What’s this all about then?”

“I’d like you to meet Ministry of Etheristics Assistant Director Santangelo,” said Crider. “Santangelo, Carlton Cargill, editor-in-chief of the
Zenith Clarion
.”

The two men said their how-do-you-dos, reached across the desk, and shook hands—quickly, as if neither enjoyed it.

“So,” Mr. Cargill said, plopping down in the empty chair next to Uncle Louie, “what’ve you found out about the Night Goose attack? Got any new leads?”

“Actually, Cargill,” said Santangelo, “that’s not why we’ve asked you here.”

Johnny groaned. They wasted my morning!

Uncle Louie frowned and shushed him. Johnny was tempted to frown back, but didn’t.

Mr. Cargill raised his eyebrows, then gently set his unlit cigar on the edge of the desktop.

Santangelo cleared his throat and tented his fingers under his chin. “It’s come to our attention—”

“Meaning who, exactly?” Mr. Cargill snapped.

“The Ministry of Etheristics, Mr. Cargill. It’s come to our attention that your newspaper and Zephyr Lines intend to mount a little aeroboat expedition to investigate the Hausenhofer Gesellschaft murders.”

Johnny and Mel looked at each other in surprise. How had Santangelo found out?

“And what of it?” the editor asked.

“We are fortunate,” Santangelo began, sounding like an orator starting on his favorite topic, “that ghosts who engage in the human sphere almost always perform functions that are constructive, vital, affirmative. From nursemaid to street sweeper to—”

“No speechifying, if you please, Mr. Santangelo,” Mr. Cargill grumbled. “Get to the point.”

Johnny grinned. If there was anyone who could handle this character, it was the chief.

Santangelo untented his fingers—half of them twitching—and glowered back at the editor. “My point is that ghostly crime is exceedingly rare. No one among my colleagues can recall a ghost crime of the magnitude of the Night Goose attack. No one.”

“Practically a military operation,” said Mr. Cargill.

“Yes. Practically.”

“That’s why it’s an awfully big story,” Johnny blurted, unable to contain himself.

Mr. Cargill chuckled and nodded. “The boy’s right. An awfully big story.”

“So I take it you
are
contemplating an expedition of some sort?” Santangelo asked.

Johnny noticed for the first time that Santangelo had perfectly sharp little canine teeth. Like a vampire—not that anything as unbelievable as vampires actually existed.

“I’m officially informing you that the investigation into the Night Goose attack is now in the hands of the Ministry of Etheristics,” Santangelo said. “I would hope that we could count on your cooperation.”

Mel spoke up. “What do you mean by ‘cooperation’?”

“Our investigations, and those of our colleagues in other countries, are currently under way. We ask that you leave this problem to the professionals. Your interference could compromise our work.”

“What do you mean by ‘compromise’?” asked Johnny.

“It means, John my boy,” said Mr. Cargill, “that Santangelo here thinks you and Melanie will gum up the works, mess up the inquiries of crack police agents all around the world.” He turned to the bald man. “Is that about right?”