Phoenix Rising (15 page)

INTERLUDE
Wherein Agent Campbell Is Scared
Straight Out of His Socks

B
ruce hated—
hated
—coming down to the Archives. It wasn't anything personal against Books. It was more of a feeling being surrounded by previous cases. When he arrived to the Ministry, he was a no-nonsense sort of fellow, fresh from the colonies and hardly one to believe in anything that resembled flights of fancy.

That was, of course, before his first year here.

When Doctor Sound offered him the position with this branch of Her Majesty's government, he was entreated by his own Prime Minister to accept and represent Australia. This was a grand opportunity to show Her Majesty exactly what stock Australia could produce. Bruce was eager to do his country, his real home, proud. There was also the opportunity to travel. That also appealed to him as this meant meeting ladies of all backgrounds, a little fringe benefit to catching airships bound for destinations far and wide.

The ladies were a cold comfort in light of the things he'd seen and what he dared to bring back to England. As the Archives were underneath him (in many ways) and kept out-of-sight, it was easy to keep them out of mind. Then there would be the cases that gave him no other choice but to descend into the Ministry's darkest corners. There were trinkets in here that altered time, statues and talismans that could affect a man's manners, and things on these shelves that were just not . . . normal. He heard a whisper of a portrait down here that, on glancing at it just once, could trap your soul and kill you in a moment . . . or, with the right handling, grant you immortality.

That just wasn't right. Not at all.

The whine of the Archives' door as he closed it behind him echoed dreadfully. If there was anything that could turn the Crown against the Ministry once and for all, his instincts told him that it would be in here, somewhere amongst these numerous shelves.

Bruce walked over to the partners' desk and set on Eliza's side his morning's newspaper. His Kiwi Cousin was now here, amongst the other unwanted antiquities of the world. All jibing aside, she was the closest link to home and had been handpicked to represent her country. It was sad to see her fall so far. For her career to end here was a travesty.

His eyes jumped to the other side of the desk. There was something about Books that left Bruce unsettled. He felt like the diminutive gentleman was more than he appeared, like many things in this place. Just as dangerous, too. He didn't know why the pom made him feel that way, but he did.

Neither Books nor Braun saw Bruce this morning when they left the Ministry shortly before lunch. He wondered if Braun was cozying up to her new partner. It wouldn't be surprising—whispers amongst the other agents were she'd been quite smitten with Thorne.

Bruce moved to Books' side of the desk and attempted to open the main drawer. Locked. He tried the other two drawers along the side. Also locked.

“Not a problem,” he whispered aloud, reaching into his coat.

He lightly bit the inside of his cheek and groaned. His lock picks were back upstairs in his own desk drawer. Too risky to head back up there now—Books and Braun could return at any moment.

He pulled at the desk blotter, revealing a series of codes. “Blimey!” he swore, looking at all the various combinations and sequences available for the Archives' confounded difference contraption. A code for making tea. Various codes to play music. “Does this bloody contraption actually do something for the Archives?

“No worries, then,” he conceded, sliding the blotter shut. “I'll do this the old-fashioned way.”

Bruce gave his coat a tug and descended into the depths of the Archives.

He stopped and rubbed his massive square jaw for a mo-ment. “1890,” Bruce muttered, “where it all began for me.”

It wasn't just his cases, but the cases of his fellow agents. Bruce wasn't the only one who was dealing with the strange, the confounding, and the downright unnatural. He was sure if he couldn't come up with incriminating evidence against the Ministry from his own history, he could find something from another agent.

Bruce grumbled a bit as he got on his hands and knees, checking each case box as he started at the beginning of the bottom shelf.

“Agent Hill . . . Agent Donaldson . . . Agent Thorne . . . Agent Thorne . . .” He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. This was over six years ago, his first year in the Ministry. And he honestly didn't know how this filing system worked. “Bugger it,” he snapped and grabbed the next case crate. He strained to read by the gaslight the small card fixed on its side:

AGENT DOMINICK LOCHLEAR

ASSIGNMENT: CAPE COLONY

CASE #18901022CCAS

“As good of a starting place as any,” he said, opening the box.

The case book in this box was thin. This usually meant the case was of the open-and-shut variety, Bruce's favourite kind. Two days of case work, the remainder of the week (or two, depending on how the circumstances had depicted the matter) enjoying the local ladies. At least, that was how he handled things in the South Pacific and Asian sectors. He had only visited Cape Colony once; and while parts of it reminded him of home, he had little desire to return there. While Australia and Africa both faced challenges in managing indigenous populations, Cape Colony's savages were a tenacious lot.

In the Archives' dim light, Lochlear's handwriting told Bruce the story of Case #18901022CCAS, and thankfully Lochlear's penmanship was polished and refined. Less eyestrain.

“Unrest in Zululand has always been of a concern to Queen and Empire. This is a known fact. Recent events, however, have called the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences to action. In the past week, several heroes of the Zululand Campaign of 1881 had been found dead, the circumstances behind the deaths unable to be explained by conventional science. Autopsies of Lord Richard Castlebury, Sir Frederick Roberts, and 1st Lieutenant Randall Morrison revealed no signs of chemicals, mortal wounds, or even scorch marks from hyper-oscillating aether-armaments. Their bodies, both inside and out, had been naturally petrified. Doctors concluded from the rate of petrifaction that had the bodies remained unchecked for another two days, Lord Castlebury, Sir Roberts, and Lieutenant Morrison would have fossilized, making any further investigation a challenge.”

Bruce looked around him, suddenly noticing how quiet the Archives were. There was the constant droning of the Ministry's generators; but after a few minutes it seemed to become synonymous with the silence, as if they were working in concert with one another to create this atmosphere that sent goose flesh racing along his arms.

“Eliza,” he muttered, flipping a few pages ahead, “How the bleeding hell can you manage working down here?”

“The Amulet of Shaka, on careful research by myself and Agent Atkins (on temporary assignment from the London office), while hardly the most powerful of amulets I have encountered, does possess startling abilities that anyone within reach of said amulet should take caution.”

“Here we are,” Bruce chuckled softly, continuing deeper into the notes of Agent Lochlear.

“The amulet is nothing remarkable in itself—a carved chunk of petrified tree-bark that has been hollowed out, making it able to hold small amounts of fluid. The design of the amulet is a common image for the people of Zululand, a shield with two spears cros—”

“Get to the point, mate,” Bruce swore, running his finger quickly through the notes. “Just tell me what makes the bloody thing so dangerous!” If he could confirm the Ministry was holding on to truly dangerous artefacts, that might satisfy Sussex.

“. . . unable to explain, perhaps it is a quality of the wood or its own petrifaction process, but the fluid—in this particular case, the blood of Shaka Zulu himself—has remained preserved, down to its temperature as if it has been drawn from the savage chief just today.”

Bruce swallowed, and he winced lightly. His throat hurt. He desperately needed a drink. Preferably a whiskey.

“The legends, from what we are able to surmise as locals seem to be reinterpreting the core story and embellishing it to suit their own needs and status amongst their respective communities, tell that Shaka was revealed in a vision the fact that his half-brother Dingane and his brother Mhlangana were plotting his assassination. Shaka traveled in secret to a tree, believed sacred and possessing the power of the gods in that the tree had been struck several times by lightning but continued to grow and flourish as if it lived in the tropics. There, Shaka and a trusted witch doctor engaged in a bloodletting ritual that, by our calculations based on folklore, should have killed King Shaka outright, or severely weakened him.”

Bruce shook his head. Life before the Ministry might not have been as exciting, but it was certainly more simple. Marking his place with his thumb, Bruce looked into the box and felt a chill crawl through him.

The gaslight barely reached inside the box, but shadows danced across the carvings and tiny crevices of the Amulet of Shaka. It was one thing to read about it, but a far different matter to actually see it. He had been on an assignment in Batavia where he found himself facing a cobra. Calling on that same control he'd used against the serpent, his hand reached into the box, his movements slow and even. The only difference between then and now was that Bruce truly felt fear.

Smooth. With all its detail and cracks, the wood amulet was smooth, like a silk cloth. And warm. In his head, he could hear his heart pounding. Or was that his heart he heard? The rhythm resonating in his head was faint, but still reminiscent of the drumming he heard while on assignment in Cape Colony.

Bruce flipped the case report open and resumed reading.

“It is believed the wearer of the amulet, on placing the blood of Shaka across the brow and in the centre of your chest, gains the power of the tree gods. The amulet required one more blood ritual before it could become active, but Shaka was assassinated before the ceremony could be carried out. The amulet disappeared shortly after the capture of King Cetshwayo in 1882, and our local sources lead us to believe that the Amulet of Shaka was bestowed on leaders of various underground factions. With the recent deaths of these war heroes, we can only surmise that the final blood ritual had taken place, and that those who carried it to fruition must have some sort of blood-tie to either Dingane, Mhlangana, or—considering the immense power of the amulet—King Shaka himself.”

The amulet now shook in his hand. Was that really all it took to be a god? A drop of a dead savage's blood on his head, and his heart, and then he would be able to call upon the powers of nature—and he would be unstoppable.

In his ears, the drumming grew louder.

It was his imagination running rampant. Had to be.

“As we observed, the wearer, preferably with the amulet itself under unfettered light from a waxing or full moon, would be able to bring forth revenge against their foes. The ritual must begin with the intended target's name spoken aloud—”

“Agent Campbell?”

The scream that came out of him was hardly fitting with his reputation in the field for being a bare knuckles brawler. Bruce stumbled and fell hard on his ass, the report tumbling back into the box and the amulet held tight against his heart.

“Agent Campbell,” Doctor Sound said again, his head cocked to one side, “Would you be so kind as to explain to me why you are down here in the Archives, unattended, rummaging through a case file?” He adjusted his spectacles and looked harder at the amulet Bruce was absently clutching. “A case that wasn't even yours.”

Bruce looked at the trinket and quickly tossed it back into the case box. “Ah, yes, Doctor Sound, “I was just—” And his words caught in his throat. His eyes immediately darted to the front of his shirt.

“Seeing as the unfettered light here is gaslight and not moonlight,” Doctor Sound jested, “you—and anyone else you might have a disagreement with, at present—are perfectly safe.”

“Ah, right then,” Bruce muttered in reply, replacing the lid of the case file.

“Better make certain that case file goes back to its proper place.” Sound chortled as he added, “Lest you invoke the wrath of our fine Archivist and his assistant.”

Bruce cast the Fat Man a glance and replaced the case back onto its shelf.

He towered over Doctor Sound, but somehow Sound still managed to intimidate the hell out of him.

“You were about to keep my rapt attention with the reasons why you are down here in the Archives, unattended?”

He had to get into that frame of mind when an adversary would stumble upon him during a surveillance. Granted, his usual instinct was to start throwing punches; but as this was the Director of the Ministry, that option was unavailable.

“Well, Doctor Sound, I was considering a change of pace from my South Pacific duties.”

“Really?” scoffed Sound. “And you were considering Cape Colony?”

If Bruce didn't tread gently, this lie could easily get him transferred, and then he would be truly sunk. “More like I wanted to come down here and ask that bloke Books to pull a few random cases from my first year here. You know, just get a look back on where I walked about then. I wanted to see where I was the most wide-eyed.”