Khronos (Hanover and Singh Book 3) (2 page)

Nikolas shifted his weight upon Stepan’s shoulders as the gangplank wobbled under the metal mass of light blue emissaries marching out of the ship’s hold. In single file the machines with bloated metal chests clanked up the gangplank, stepping onto the stone surface of the docks, bowing to the Mayor before clanking alongside the ship.

“Three,” Nikolas counted the machines, tapping his father’s head with his fingers for each machine that clanked past the Mayor. “Six.”

“How big are they?”

“Eight,” Nikolas tapped. “Twice as big as the Mayor, papa. Eleven.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen. Fifteen,” Nikolas wriggled upon Stepan’s shoulders. “Twenty-one, papa, and two more coming out of the ship.”

Stepan turned at the approach of a Poruchik wearing the regular uniform of his unit, the man’s heavy boots scuffing the grit lying in a thin layer on the quay.

“Kapitan Skuratov,” the Poruchik dipped his head. Pulling a crumpled paper bag of black sweets from his pocket, he held them up to Nikolas.

“Uncle Vladimir,” Nikolas beamed down at the Poruchik. Thrusting his small hand into the paper bag, he pulled out a handful of sweets. Popping them in his mouth he nodded a quick thanks and turned back to the action on the dock. “That’s twenty-five.”

“Poruchik Pavlutskiy,” Stepan gripped Vladimir’s hand. “It has been a week.”

“More like two,” Vladimir shook Stepan’s hand before offering him a sweet.

“Thanks, Vlad. Nikolas can have mine.”

Vladimir shrugged and looked inside the bag. “I think he already has.” Crumpling the bag into a ball he tossed it over his shoulder. “How’s the show?”

“Can’t see a thing,” Stepan flicked his eyes upward. “Had to pull the little man out of the crowd before they opened the hold.” He looked up at Vladimir. “Of course, you can probably see everything from up there.”

“Not much to see. A bunch of metal men parading on the docks.” Vladimir licked an errant bit of sweet from around his teeth. “How is Anna?”

Stepan nodded. He took a deep breath. “It is good of you to ask, Vlad.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“Then let me tell you later,” Stepan gave Nikolas’ knees a quick squeeze. “Over a beer?”

“A bottle of
Khlebnikov
?” Vladimir curled his fingers around the stubble on his chin. “Now that sounds good, Kapitan.”

“I want to come too.”

“You’re too small, Nikolas,” Vladimir reached up to pat Nikolas on the back. “Wait,” he turned to peer over the shoulders of the crowd. “There’s one more on its way out of the hold.”

“Twenty-six,” Nikolas flicked his heels.

“Steady on, Nikolas,” Stepan gripped his son’s feet.

“Are they wearing swords?” Vladimir took a step forward. He turned to smile at Stepan. “Would you believe it?” Vladimir whistled. “They’ve got ceremonial swords hanging in scabbards over their shoulders.”

“The last one, the one with the grey star on his chest,” Nikolas pointed. “He is carrying his sword in one hand.”

“It’s drawn?” Stepan frowned.

“Looks like it,” Vladimir squeezed between the men and women in front of him and stared. He turned his head and nodded. “Nikolas is right.”

“What’s happening now?”

“He’s walking up to the Mayor, papa.”

“Stepan,” Vladimir pushed back to the Kapitan’s side. “This doesn’t look good,” he shook his head.

“I am going to put you down now, Nikolas,” Stepan reached up and gripped his son under his armpits.

“No, papa. I won’t be able to see.”

“Exactly,” Stepan lifted Nikolas up and over his head.

“Papa,” Nikolas screamed.

The crowd recoiled as the strike of metal upon stone rang through the docks. His son suspended above his head, Stepan stumbled as the crowd pushed back, fleeing the ugly roar of metal being drawn from twenty-five metal scabbards. Nikolas fell to the ground. Landing heavily upon his small feet, he disappeared under a wave of people pushing and shoving their way clear of the railings. Vladimir planted his feet on the ground. Standing firm, he parted the crowd like a rock.

“Nikolas?” In the eddy in front of Vladimir, Stepan pushed himself to his feet, flicking his head left and right. “Nikolas? My son?”

“There,” Vladimir took a step forward. His arm straight, he pointed into the crowd. “Ten yards. That way,” he pushed Stepan forward.

Pushing through the crowd, clawing at shoulders and stepping over trampled bodies, Stepan fought his way toward Nikolas. Focusing on his son’s blond hair, Stepan breathed when he saw him, fought the wave of people when he didn’t. He stopped at the sound of splintering wood. The crowd slowed and Stepan turned as they did to look behind them, toward the docks.

Towering above the heads of the men, women and children in the sea of people, two of the metal emissaries from the docks lifted their great swords in a double-handed grip, swinging fast and hard into the stragglers. Stepan reached for his sword, drawing it slowly as he watched the machines chop and hack their way toward him.

“No, Kapitan,” Vladimir wrapped his fist around Stepan’s hand. “Run.” The hilt of his sword clicked against the lip of the scabbard as Stepan sheathed it. The emissaries clanked forward. “I will meet you at
Romanov’s
.” Vladimir freed Stepan’s hand from his sword, gripped the hilt and drew it.

“Vlad?”

“Run, Kapitan. Find Nikolas.” Vladimir raised Stepan’s sword and charged toward the machines. Stepan watched as the Poruchik, a giant of a man, shrank beneath the height and raw power of the machines. As Vladimir ducked beneath the slow swings and thrusts of the emissaries, Stepan pulled himself away and turned back toward the crowd surging away from the docks.

“Papa,” Nikolas cried out.

“Nikolas?” Stepan stumbled over an elderly woman, her right foot twisted beneath a broken ankle.

“Help me,” the woman raised a wrinkled hand. She grasped the hem of Stepan’s trouser leg as he stepped over her.

“I can’t,” Stepan hesitated. “My son...”

“You are an officer,” the woman stretched the fabric of Stepan’s trousers. “You are obligated...”

Stepan twisted at the sound of splintering metal. At the quayside, Vladimir reeled backward, Stepan’s broken sword tumbling out of his bloody hands. The Poruchik, ducked beneath the massive arm of his mechanical assailant, turned and stumbled toward Stepan.

“Vlad?” Stepan pulled his leg free of the woman’s grip.

“I am okay,” Vladimir stopped, his chest heaving, blood trickling from a cut in his brow. “But I cannot stop them. Can’t even slow them down.” He looked back at the approaching machines. “We must go, Kapitan.”

Stepan gripped Vladimir’s arm and pointed at the woman. “One arm each. We’ll drag her out of here.” The woman wailed as Stepan and Vladimir pulled her between them as they ran.

“Where is Nikolas?”

Stepan shook his head. “I have not seen him.” Pausing at the entrance to a warehouse, Stepan nodded in the direction of the open door. “In here.” Leading the way, Stepan let go of the woman’s arm as Vladimir propped her up against the packing crates inside the warehouse. The clank of the emissaries drew closer.

“Kapitan,” Vladimir left the woman and crossed to stand by Stepan’s side. “We need to go.”

“Wait a minute,” Stepan waved his hand toward the machines as they clanked past the warehouse. He watched as they moved beyond the warehouse and out of sight. “I counted eight ships,” he gripped Vladimir’s shoulder. “Nikolas counted twenty-five...”

“Twenty-six,” Vladimir wiped the blood from his cheek.

“Yes, twenty-six machines from just one ship.”

“They were supposed to be workers, automated machines for the shipyard and mines.” Vladimir examined the blood smeared upon his palm. “What is this about?”

“I don’t know,” Stepan let go of Vladimir’s shoulder and walked to the door. Leaning against the frame, he stared in the direction the emissaries had disappeared, following the spoor of broken bodies with his eyes. “Nikolas,” Stepan took a deep breath.

“We’ll find him,” Vladimir walked past Stepan and into the street. “Are you coming, Kapitan?”

Stepan slammed his fist upon the doorframe and nodded. “Yes.” Removing his sword belt, Stepan let the scabbard fall to the ground. Flinging his ceremonial cap onto a packing crate, Stepan jogged out of the warehouse and down the street. Vladimir fell into step alongside him. “We’ll follow the crowd until we find him.”

“Yes, Kapitan. For as long as it takes.”

Chapter 2

The Flying Scotsman

Somewhere over the North Sea

May, 1851

Luise Hanover smoothed her fingers over the rough paper pages of her notebook. Tracing the khronoglyphs with the tip of her little finger, she chewed at her bottom lip. The packing cases and crates enclosing her in a square pocket of hardwood creaked as
The Flying Scotsman
buffeted in the wind. Loose pages of khronoglyphs, the corners tucked into the cracks in the wood flapped within Luise’s workspace, the edges curling and teasing inches from her nose.

At Luise’s feet, the cylindrical impediment machine rocked with the movement of the airship. At the turn of each page in her notebook, Luise glanced at the machine, pressing the toe of her black leather boot against the side of the cylinder to stop it rolling across the deck.

Hari Singh paced around the outside of Luise’s research space. Stopping to peer over the crates, he rocked on the balls of his feet. Hari grasped the metal strut above him as the nose of the airship dipped violently downward. The packing cases leered over Luise’s shoulder, shifting with the rasp of rough wood.

“It’s getting worse,” Luise pinched her notebook closed, marking the page with her index finger trapped between the leather covers. Pressing her nose with her knuckle, she suppressed a sneeze. “And with all this dust...”

“Yes, Miss...” Hari braced himself with one hand on the strut and the other on the packing case in front of him. “Yes,
Luise
?”

“Well, with all this dust,” Luise stopped to sneeze. “Our lungs will be a mess by the time we reach Copenhagen.” She sneezed again. Frowning, Luise pressed her fingers to her temple.

“Is something wrong?” Hari leaned into the workspace.

“No,” Luise looked up. “Just...”

“
Just
what?”

“It’s silly, but since the demons came through into our world, I have had a voice whispering inside my head. Several times, in fact.”

“You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know
what
to say, Hari.”

“What does the voice say?”

“I am not sure.” Luise tugged a folded piece of brown paper from between the back cover and the last page of her notebook. “It is not really whispering as such.” She waved the piece of paper. “More like symbols, really.”

“Is that the note from the mystery man in Arkhangelsk?” Hari folded his hand on top of the crates and rested his chin on his fingers.

“Yes,” Luise unfolded the piece of paper. “I still think it was more than a stroke of luck to receive this when I did. I mean,” she traced the tiny lines of khronoglyphs with the tip of her finger, “who would know I needed a glossary to help me decipher the language of time? It’s a dead language, Hari.”

“Someone at your department must have made some enquiries.” Hari drummed the surface of the crate with his fingers. “But without that,” he pointed, “you would never have been able to build the machine.”

“And now, perhaps,” Luise tapped her head, “I can decipher what is going on inside my head.”

“Truly?” Hari grinned.

“You mustn’t laugh, Hari Singh.”

“Miss Luise, I would never...” Hari looked up at the door as the dogs securing it squealed and spun. Crawling over the crates and ducking down inside Luise’s workspace, Hari kneeled to peer through the gap facing the door.

“What is it, Hari?”

“Someone is coming,” Hari reached behind him, searching for Luise’s fingers.

“Who?” Luise gripped Hari’s hand.

“Shh.”

A soft yellow light shone onto the metal grille floor of the cargo bay as the door swung open. Hari ducked as a crewman stepped onto the grille walkway, holding the lamp in his hand at arm’s length from his body.

“What do you see, Jacques?”

Hari watched as the crewman turned to look at his partner, a portly purser with a ferocious red moustache.

“Nothing, Master Whyte,” Jacques took a further step along the grille. “It’s all quiet.”

“Good then.” Whyte followed Jacques onto the grille. “Now scurry along and find the lady’s trunk so we can return to the officer’s lounge.” The purser steadied himself with a hand upon the door as
The Flying Scotsman
bucked in another buffet of wind. “Oh she’s wild today, Jacques, my lad.”

“Aye, Master Whyte.” The lamp swung in Jacques’ hand as he shone the beam of light on the trunks, crates and packing cases piled on wooden pallets either side of the walkway. The skin beyond the framework of
The Flying Scotsman
paled grey under the gaze of Jacques’ lamp. His footsteps ringing upon the grille, Jacques moved further into the hold.