The Ghost Rebellion (7 page)

“
Crikey,” Bruce whispered, “a month?”

“
Yes, quite troubling.” Doctor Sound pursed his lips as he stared off into the horizon. “This is why I am turning to you gentlemen.”

“
We are at Her Majesty’s service,” Brandon stated, setting his bowl of almonds alongside the brandy decanter.

Sound smiled at the agent’s enthusiasm. “The physicians have identified key elements in the queen’s bloodstream that Jekyll must have administered, and we know where we can collect what is needed for a counteragent. Something to keep the queen alive, possibly cure her.”

Bruce tapped a finger against his snifter. “With all this good fortune, I’m waiting for the bad news that is sure to follow.”

“
What we need,” Sound began, his eyes going first to Brandon and then to Bruce, “is located in the forests outside of Grójec.”

Bruce sank back into his seat. “Tell me you’re having a go at us, Director.”

“
Grójec?” whispered Brandon.

“
I’m afraid not, Agent Campbell,” the director said, taking another sip of his brandy.

Bruce reached across Brandon, flipped the stopper off the decanter, and lifted it by its neck. “Switch to gin. I’m taking the bloody bottle.”

“
Manners, Campbell!” snapped Brandon. “This is for the empire, after all!”

Bruce stopped pouring. “Grójec, Brandon. We’re being sent to Grójec in January.”

“
To save Her Majesty and preserve the empire,” Brandon replied with pride.

His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t a sodding clue where Grójec is, do you?”

Brandon went to answer, paused, and went to answer again. He then looked over to Doctor Sound. “Director, I hate to seem ignorant, seeing as I’m the one who usually reads the field reports and retains mission details, but I am afraid I don’t—”

“
The Russian Empire,” Doctor Sound stated. “Near Warsaw and the Vistula.”

Brandon’s smile faded as did the colour from his face. “Russia?”

Even though his heart was sinking, Bruce leaned over to his partner. “Let me top you off there, mate.”

“
Gentlemen,” Doctor Sound set his snifter on the small end table and rose from his chair. “I know this may seem a lot to ask of you...”

“
You are sending us in middle of winter into the Russian Empire. With all due respect, director”— Bruce downed a huge gulp of brandy— “get stuffed.”

“
Now see here, Campbell—” snapped Sound.

“
No, I think Bruce is absolutely right in this moment,” barked Brandon, clinking his glass with Bruce’s. “Get bent, ya’ toff.”

Bruce expected this sort of reaction. At least, from him. Brandon? Maybe, but perhaps not until he was into his second snifter.

The director considered the both of them carefully, but he pressed on. Bruce steadied himself as Doctor Sound approached the map and took the rake up in his hand.

“
The plan is thus—you will rendezvous with agents of Section P in Danzig.” Going to the map he slapped down a marker labelled “Campbell/Hill” on the German city. “They will see you into the town of Toruń where a contact will get you safely across the Russian border. Don’t ask how, they have their own methods, and I trust them.”

“
But of course,” Bruce said, toasting Sound with his glass. “Who needs logistics, I say.”

“
Your objective is to obtain a Firebird feather. We have confirmation that there is a factory somewhere in the vicinity of Grójec. Once obtained, you will need to signal us for extraction.” He moved their marker to a small city closer to where the German and Russian empires met. “Based on the terrain and location, Łódź would be the logical choice. You will have two days to reach the extraction team once a signal is sent.”

Bruce’s glass froze in mid-journey to his lips. “Two days,” he asked, “across three days’ worth of Russian territory?”

“
Again, your ingenuity will out,” Sound offered with a smile Bruce interpreted as a smirk.

“
Oh, this mission is getting more and more promising as we go,” Bruce seethed.

Leaning forward Brandon took the crystal bottle out of Bruce’s grasp, refilling his glass. “Worst Case Scenario—not too much of a stretch as we are heading into the Russian Empire in winter—what if we can’t find these Firebird feathers, or they are not readily available? What then?”

“
Then the fate of the empire,” Sound stated, his voice distant and dark, “remains uncertain.”

“
Right then, no pressure, just the fate of the monarchy and the British Empire hanging in the balance, another day on the farm, eh wot? Cheers.” The Canadian gulped back a generous swallow of the brandy.

“
Lads, I know what I am asking of you appears difficult, but I know you can handle it.” Sound returned to his own chair before the two agents. Bruce knew the Fat Man was well within reach of a right hook, but he was concentrating on holding his glass. Apparently, the drink was beginning to take hold.

The beautiful thing about brandy when drunk like beer—it worked quickly. He glanced over at another decanter. “I take it that is scotch?”

Sound glanced at the crystal bottle, nodded, and removed its stopper. He took in a deep whiff of the dram. “Fifty years old. Usually reserved for my counterparts abroad and visiting dignitaries.”

“
I have no doubt,” Bruce said, taking the bottle out of Sound’s hands, “but today it is the select drink of Agents Bruce Campbell and Brandon D. Hill, Saviours of the Empire.”

“
Dear Lord,” Brandon muttered as he tipped the brandy decanter upside-down, draining it of its final drops, “we’re all done for.”

Interlude

Wherein a Charming City Hides a Spider

There was no place more beautiful or irritating in the whole world than Bruges,
Agent Beth Case thought as she was paddled through the historic canals of the ancient city by a glum gondolier. Everywhere around her were tourists, carrying parasols, rifling through maps, and making cooing noises over their quaint surroundings. The sky, even overcast as it was, served as the perfect backdrop to the breath-taking gothic architecture all around them. If there was a lack of sunshine, it was more than made up by the people of Bruges, smiling and welcoming to a fault.

Meanwhile Beth sat in the back of the boat, keeping her arms wrapped around herself, as they passed under little arched stone bridges, the scowl on her face deepening.

The Ministry had sent her orders once Phantom Protocol was lifted, to ferret out any agents still in deep cover, and such had been her life for the last four months tromping around Europe. The fate of eight agents still remained uncertain. Her objective: Bring these brave agents in from the cold.

As she stared miserably around herself, she considered how she might have been back in London, enjoying a proper high tea, if only she could tell the director his brave agents—all eight of them—were dead. Unfortunately, Beth would then have to tell him how she knew that. This was where her plan became complicated. How did she know these agents were dead?

She had done it, and it had been easy. They had trusted her, and that had been their mistake.

It was hard to calculate how much longer she would have to linger in this godforsaken sewer before she could return to London and give a reasonable story as to why she’d been unsuccessful in finding the underground agents. Beth thought longingly of the airship port only a few miles outside Bruges, which had to be drier and better appointed than this particular conveyance.

The canal boat finally reached the dock, and Beth joined the tourists clambering off. She bought some fresh chips from little friterie by the canal, adorning the delicacy with a touch of aoli. Then, holding the paper cone close to warm her hands, she popped a few into her mouth and relished the treat’s saltiness. The chips would have been a reminder of home had she been able to top them with malt vinegar.
When in Rome, or in Bruges,
she lamented as she joined the flow of tourists towards the Grote Markt.

The town square was a vast cobbled space, surrounded by pointed-roofed brick buildings gleaming with water. It bustled with far too much life even in the chill of winter. Many a meeting of vapid and dull tourists was conducted here, and the spot was positively rabid with little horse carts.

And these locals were so bloody
cheerful
.

Then there was the plethora of little tables and chairs set out for French, English, and even Americans to sit about drinking coffee and show how urbane they were. On the other side of the Markt, local vendors had set out fresh produce and handmade trinkets to bilk the tourists with. The Belfry of Bruges loomed over them all, with the grey-towered Provincial Court and Post Office finishing off the officious, dull nature of the place. In front of the court were two statutes of some Flemish heroes. One was a butcher, the other was a weaver.

“
Typical,” Beth muttered to herself. “Even their heroes are dull.”

Deciding it was safe enough for her to circle about and return to her hotel—just in case any Ministry operatives were to happen upon her by chance—Beth set her weary feet on the path back to her room. That was when a gleam of brass in front of the court snagged her gaze. Quite the contraption had been set up in front of the grey building, and a small crowd was gathering. On one side of the stage was a gleaming brass and bronze contraption resembling a five-foot wide metallic spider. Unlike an arachnid, though, this device held spun wool in all of its multi-jointed arms. It was hard not to admire the mechanical cleverness of it.

On the opposite end of the stage was a loom. The contraption, looking ancient in comparison to the other, was made of polished wood. Beams were bolted together to frames and limbs, all of these connected to a variety of cross beams that eventually led to a series of foot pedals set before a long bench. Threaded through hooks and stretched between two of these beams were many colours of wool strands.

Beth curled her lip and wondered why two such incongruous designs were placed so close together. The loom belonged in the museum, the brass device in a humming factory. The answer was quickly revealed when a tall, handsome gentleman stepped up on the stage next to the brass machine.

“
Ladies and gentlemen, gather round…gather round,” he said cheerily, his voice holding a light French accent, “I see many visitors in amongst the ranks of the more curious citizens of this lovely canal city, yes? You all are strangers, but strangers united through one commonality.” He held up his index finger and slowly drew it across the crowd, his eyes holding contact with random people, his smile never faltering. “Curiosity.”

A showman obviously cut from P.T. Barnum’s cloth,
Beth thought with a wry grin.

“
You see upon this stage the trusted tools of a trade,” he said, giving his hands a slight flourish as he motioned to the loom, “and the wonders of modern technology,” and his hands flickered towards the brass spider. “I am here today to give a demonstration of my latest invention, an innovation for artisans here in Bruges and for those of you travelling abroad. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I present the Weaver’s Web!”

As if on cue, the clouds parted, allowing for slivers of sunlight to illuminate its brass body.

Beth craned her neck, and noticed a line of round little businessmen standing at the front of the crowd, observing the showman with hawk-like intensity.

“
To show how soundly my device trumps any human in skill and speed, I have one of your city’s finest weavers to compete against.” He turned towards the stairs, and a woman shambled up onto the stage. The tattered dark blue shawl and bent back of this decrepit creature didn’t speak much to her skill. If she was making any money as a weaver, she was not spending it on herself.

Beth let out a little snort of derision, however the crowd was watching the weaver keenly. She sat before her loom, adjusting its bench so that her feet were at a comfortable distance from the pedal array. The salesman missed this reaction from the locals, but Beth could easily label it as respect. Whoever this weaver was, she had a reputation.

Their Master of Ceremonies, wrapped in the confidence of his ilk, yanked back a cloth, revealing an over-sized hour-glass. His grin looked fit to break his jaw.

“
Both your local artisan and my Weaver’s Web will have half an hour to show how much they can create in that time. Your very own mayor will be the judge to the quality of the work.” His glance at the old woman dripped with dismissiveness. “Are you ready, madam?”

The old woman gave the slightest of nods, but did not even look in his direction.

He blew the silver whistle, flipped the glass over, and then stomped on a pedal by his foot. The metallic spider leapt to life as it began clicking and clacking, the legs spinning, retracting, and reaching while on the other end of the stage the old woman began smooth, practiced movements of her own. The audience cheered on the old maid and the machine, the locals cheering a fraction louder for the old woman that seemed undeterred by the strange machinery weaving without any signs of slowing. At first Beth was riveted by the hypnotic dance of the device’s eight legs. The way the thread moved and spun through the abdomen was entrancing, each retraction and extension appearing as if this collection of metal, pistons, and bolts had served as an apprentice to the greatest of weavers. The rug that was being crafted was a beautiful scene of the market itself.

Then Beth glanced over at the old weaver, and swiftly realized she had been missing the true wonder on the stage.

She sat quietly at her loom, her eyes neither glancing at the audience nor at her competition, as the shuttle flew backwards and forwards between the threads. The old crone embodied determination and focus, her own patterns in the rug appearing conservative in comparison, her chosen colours whites, greys and blue.