Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

  But the malignant shard was not what caught the attention of Bedford and Annabelle. Their gaze was trapped and held by the skeletal figure that oversaw this ancient place, strapped to a rough wooden seat in a sitting pose, monarch of this desolate kingdom. The seat was surrounded by more elaborate offerings of old feathers and intricate carvings, and had the look of some ancient heathen throne.

  It had the rough shape of the people of Earth but its proportions were warped, almost apelike. The skull was bulbous and enlarged, the eye sockets large and pushed towards the sides of the head. The face seemed almost squished between the large forehead and long, protruding chin.

  Memories of their previous excursion to Luna came rushing to the fore, and Annabelle remembered one of the images rendered on the monolith protruding from the surface of Phobos. It seemed these creatures had travelled further than the moons of the Solar System.

  “A Drobate.” whispered Annabelle.

  “You know of it,” said Geronimo. It was a statement, not a question. The five of them gathered around the alien, misshapen thing, captivated by its other-worldliness. The very look of it seemed to reach out on a primal level, intrinsically linked to the subconscious pull of this place. It was no wonder that, despite the destruction meted on the rest of the shrine, this reminder of ancient lives had remained untouched.

  “They’re a race of creatures that inhabit the deeper reaches of Luna,” said Annabelle, reaching forward to touch the Drobate skull but just stopping short.

  “From what we can tell,” continued Bedford, “the Drobates used to be a flourishing civilisation with an astounding degree of technological and scientific advancement. But something happened. Their society declined and collapsed to the point where they live little better than animals, savage and unruly, territorially aggressive—vicious, telepathic fighters. The presence of this feller here would seem to indicate that, at least at one point in their race’s history, they visited Earth.”

  “It is said,” intoned Geronimo, “that in the stories passed down about the great crystal tree, that the Shaltak came. The meaning of Shaltak has been lost as languages grew and intertwined, but my own grandfather used to think it could be translated as ‘the spirits of the minds in the sky’.”

  “Certainly ties in with your theory,” Bert said to Bedford.

  “I cannot claim ownership of the theory; merely sharing what has been discovered by Professors Stone and Quintana, as told to me by Annabelle.”

  Geronimo nodded at Bedford, and continued. “Nobody knows if the Shaltak planted the Crystal God Tree, or if they came in search of it.” He indicated the stump in the middle of the cavern. “But the legends state that the Shaltak crawled into the minds of our ancestors and pleaded with them that the tree should be protected and revered. It is my greatest shame, and one I shall carry to my grave, that it was in my lifetime this sacred and ancient duty was betrayed. I relied too heavily on the tree’s power to ward men off. I underestimated the evil in the minds of those who came and desecrated this place.”

  “Having faith in the essential goodness of people isn’t something you should beat yourself up about,” said Bedford. He stopped, suddenly realising how trite and unimportant that sounded with the gravity of the situation.

  “Whatever the circumstances,” stepped in Annabelle quickly, “the fact remains that we’re too late.”

  Geronimo, suddenly leaden with the weight of his years, shuffled over to the stump and bent down to touch it gently.

  “Look at it,” he said quietly. “Look at what remains. Beyond the effects it has on the minds of mortals, the Crystal God Tree was a wonder, a thing of great beauty, its branches spanning the whole of this cavern. A thing of nature and awe, Yohana, cut down by the ignorance of evil. It is my failure. No good will come of this.”

  Annabelle crossed to him and gently lifted him up. “I understand the pain and disappointment you must feel, Goyahkla. But we have friends who can help, who will work with us to ensure the danger you speak of is fought, curtailed, and brought to justice. Any failure here may only be the start of a greater victory for the entire world. Have faith.”

  Geronimo, who had suddenly seemed so aged and broken, stared at her, the light in his eyes reigniting.

  “You are wise beyond your years, Yohana,” he said. “You give faith back to this old man. There is nothing more we can do here.”

  Taking one last look at the strange and disturbing place, the group grabbed their torches and began the long climb back up the tunnel to the surface. They had got maybe half-way before Gopan came pelting down the passageway towards them, a flaming torch in one hand, the other holding his rifle aloft.

  “Riders!” he cried.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Betrayals

  1.

  ARNAUD STARED INTO the barrel of the pistol, giggling occasionally and pressing his forehead against the cool tunnel of iron. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Garrecreux’s lab, having been given an hour’s rest thanks to the arrival of Madame Moonsinge’s latest visitors—Potsdam and Klopstock.

  It was Klopstock who held the gun. He sat on a chair before the stupefied Frenchman, waving the weapon around and watching contemptuously as Arnaud’s eyes followed the barrel around like a mystified toddler.

  “Well this is boring,” he said aloud. “Where’s the fun, Moonsinge? Where’s the challenge? I could shoot him in the face now. Pow! Dead. And while the visual impact of doing so would, I think, be rather a thrill, it seems somehow…inelegant.”

  “Be quiet, idiot,” snapped Moonsinge. She eyed Potsdam warily, a hulking threat that took up much of one corner of the room. “Anyway, you can’t kill him yet. We still need him. He’s torpid and suggestible, yes, but his skills in helping us prepare the Aleksandrite are no less diminished by its effects. Do you want to answer to our Lord and Master for delays?”

  “No more than you do, my sweet. Funny you won’t say his name.”

  “Would you?” she snapped back. Klopstock pouted childishly, and waved her away. Moonsinge scowled at him. “Well then,” she said.

  Garrecreux, who had been hunched over a lab bench, let out a sudden howl of irritation. “Will you stop all this pointless bickering!” he yelled. He took in the look of utter contempt on Madame Moonsinge’s face, and in an instant he was on his knees before her, his arms wrapped around her waist.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry, my mistress, forgive me.”

  “Get up, you worm,” sneered Moonsinge. “Prepare the minerals.”

  “As you wish, as you wish.” He beckoned for Arnaud to assist him in further refining and producing the various arcane compounds that came from Aleksandrite, which the Russians had named in honour of their Tsar.

  Madame Moonsinge nodded at Potsdam, monstrously motionless in the corner, his arms by his side like a mannequin.

  “And him,” she said. “The brute. Does he need a refill?”

  “Couldn’t hurt, couldn’t hurt,” said Klopstock blithely. “Top him up.”

  “I wasn’t offering to help,” said Moonsinge. “You know I can’t stand the sight of it.” Despite the curious effect her demeanour had on the men of this world, Klopstock seemed strangely immune. This was hardly an issue for her, however, as she couldn’t stand the man and was happy to admit it. A cabinet stood against one of the walls. She removed a key from a chain looped around her neck and unlocked the cupboard door.

  Inside were rows and rows of phials, each full of a powdery, pale green substance whose minute facets caught the light. Each phial was labelled differently: The true extent of the versatility of Aleksandrite. She pointed down one of the rows, grabbed one of the phials and tossed it casually across to where Klopstock sat. As soon as he saw it flying towards him, he panicked, reached out, desperate to grab the phial before it shattered on the floor. Moonsinge laughed at him.

  “It’s no laughing matter,” said Klopstock darkly. “This is dangerous stuff.”

  “And you’re nowhere near as dan
gerous as you make out,” mocked Moonsinge. “Feed the demon.”

  Klopstock, gripping the phial of compound tightly, approached Potsdam. The huge man did not even register his approach, and Moonsinge looked over idly from one corner.

  “How are his eyes?” she asked.

  “Worse,” said Klopstock. He reached up and unbuckled the goggles from the back of Potsdam’s face. They fell away and revealed the true effects of the chemical on this part of his anatomy—his eyes were glowing a bright, burning green, the whole of their surface encrusted with a spiky, crystalline residue. The flesh around them was raw and cracked, crimson capillaries spreading like spider’s web.

  “He’ll be blind soon,” said Moonsinge. “Then we can finally put him down like the rabid dog he is. Garrecreux’s the same. How fortunate their usefulness is so soon coming to an end. Maybe we can have them fight to the death?”

  “Mistress!” cried Garrecreux from the corner, appalled.

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to listen to me, Fabrice,” she chided.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, mistress!” he pleaded, before turning to Arnaud and whispering in schoolboy conference. “Did you hear? She called me Fabrice!” Arnaud giggled idiotically.

  “Well,” said Klopstock as he began to unbutton Potsdam’s greatcoat. “I know who my money would be on.”

  He finished unbuttoning and, pulling the scarf away from the great brute’s neck, let the greatcoat slip to the floor. The true monstrosity of Potsdam was revealed.

  The braces that caged his hands extended up his arms and cradled his torso. Tight bronze bands were clamped to his wrists and neck that made his head and hands unnaturally bloated and ruddy with blood—yet the rest of him was not so healthily fattened. What remained of his body, hung within the burnished framework of metal, was a translucent, deathly grey. Veins and bones stood out on parchment-thin skin, his abdomen distended and sagging low over his groin. The metal cage held his trousers up; the body simply dangled into empty space like a chicken strung up in a butcher’s window. The cavity smelt like sweat and sour milk.

  The metal poles and joists drilled into his fingers continued up into the joints of his elbows and shoulders, with pistons and gears fed by tubes running their lengths. These tubes were wrapped around his skeletal limbs, all of them snaking and coiling until six of them were fed into the space on his chest directly before his heart. Klopstock unlocked a clasp on the front of the cage and opened a door. On the back of it was strapped a bulky clockwork mechanism, redolent with the ornate swirls and craftsmanship that typified Klopstock’s deadly art. He unscrewed a lid on the top of the engine and gently began tapping the Aleksandrite compound inside.

  “I think I’ll sort of miss him when he’s gone,” said Klopstock. “Do you know how many prisoners we killed before we managed to perfect it? Dozens. A hundred, maybe. But he was the only one with the fortitude to survive. Or the stubbornness. They say he killed nearly forty people before he was caught, you know. At least half of them were children,” he added conversationally.

  “You keep such fashionable company,” proffered Moonsinge.

  “As do you, dear heart. As do you.”

  “What of Professor Stone?”

  “Dead,” said Klopstock simply, concentrating on his task. “Blown to bits. Kaput. No more. You’ve got me to thank for that. We met Imperator on a godforsaken stretch of the West Irish coast and, after a thankfully brief pit-stop in Severnaya, came right here.”

  “So Stone and Fontaine are accounted for.”

  “Indeed. Bedford and the woman, well… they’re too late to do anything. We exhausted that vein weeks ago, and should they unwisely decide to go sniffing around they’ll be dealt with. I hardly think a few savages will be able to withstand the might of the veritable army of bandits our…heh, Lord and Master, as you so delicately put it, has in his pocket.”

  Moonsinge did not seem convinced. “Is he ready?” she said, indicating Potsdam. “I’ve a job for him.”

  “Oh, goody!” beamed Klopstock. He screwed the lid back on the top of the mechanism and wound a clockwork key set into the side of the device. Potsdam seemed to straighten his back slightly as the new drugs entered his system, the gearwheels and pistons whirring and hissing gently. “There we are. Tip-top shape.”

  “Excellent,” said Moonsinge. “Garrecreux, Fontaine!” the two men instantly turned at the sound of her voice like obedient dogs. “Bring him in.”

  They scuttled out of the room and, moments later, returned with a man dressed in black held between them. He was struggling violently, a burlap sack over his head. Moonsinge crossed and whipped the bag away.

  “Mister Coyne,” she soothed. “Why, you were oh so useful to us, oh so very happy to betray your country and your principles for the promise of so great a reward. And here it is. May I introduce you to Mister Potsdam?”

  Potsdam, unheeded, strode towards Coyne’s struggling form. The appearance of his body in motion, and the emaciated torso dangled in the cage like a dead thing as the pistons drove the power, was a vile and unholy sight. The metal-encased hands shot out and grabbed either sides of Coyne’s head and lifted the traitor out of Garrecreux and Arnaud’s hands. Coyne screamed, a horrendous, panicked, animal sound.

  “Ah, ah, ah!” said Moonsinge gently, as the giant relented slightly. He looked down at her with dumb and glistening green eyes.

  “Take your time with this one,” she said. “Enjoy yourself. Make it slow.”

  2.

  ENDERBY WAS AT a total loss. Never before in all his years of service had he felt so rudderless, so constrained and frustrated. They had been working for months on the mission to discover the nature of the Russian’s secret weapon, and now they were here, he was powerless.

  They had managed to ensconce themselves in a supply bay deep in the heart of the ship. At the back, he and Folkard had boxed themselves off with a few crates where they could easily evade detection and snatch enough supplies to survive. There were no portholes, and the only indication of their movement was the malignant, heartbeat thrum of the engines that assailed them through the walls.

  “There’s something about this ship,” said Folkard, pressing his ear against the bulkhead to listen. “It sounds so different to Sovereign.”

  There had been something of a breakdown in communications since the men had boarded Imperator. Perhaps, Enderby thought idly, the loss of the men they had commanded had left the two at loggerheads—the two of them were fine having others to lead, but now the balance of power had shifted. It was true what Folkard had said. He did know the layout of the ship far better than the agent, but that did not mean Enderby couldn’t be of some use. It was clear that the captain was deeply troubled by the Russian battleship’s similarity with the vessel he knew so well, but at the same time he sensed a renewed confidence in Folkard that came, he assumed, from sailing once again.

  Enderby was a patriot and a reasonable man. He had accepted the Bureau’s offer in order to serve his country, and it frustrated him that that duty of service was being denied to him when it was potentially needed most. It seemed now that Folkard spent much of his time reconnoitring, and it was in those moments that Enderby felt at his most vulnerable. If, by chance, a luckless Russian sailor had entered to grab vittles for the mess Enderby would have snapped his neck and snatched his uniform without a second thought. And yet no such sailors came. He was left in the dark, alone, his head whipping towards each unbidden, unexpected sound, one hand constantly on the hilt of his knife.

  He had even thought, once or twice, of heading off on his own to explore. The calculations in his mind ripped at him. If they stayed concealed, which he was sure they could do, they may well be taken somewhere important to the Russian plot, have a chance to expose and counteract whatever machinations they were planning. He could not risk discovery, not here, not now. The Russians would throw the corpses of himself and Folkard in the British government’s face, and war would be inevitable. He sat,
biding his time, frustrated and unsure.

  The last time the captain had returned he at least had some solid news, having discovered Imperator’s destination—Calcutta, India, where Coyne and Arnaud had been sent to investigate. He bitterly hoped the two were having better luck. Perhaps it was restlessness that made him disingenuous, but surely Folkard should have discovered more than that by now? Then again, perhaps he had, and if he had, why was he keeping the information from Enderby? What purpose did that serve? Did Folkard not trust him? Or did Folkard’s allegiances lie elsewhere? There was still the mystery of how Sovereign’s plans had found their way into Russian hands… Blueprints that Folkard certainly had access to.

  He’d been gone for hours now, and troubling thoughts were assailing Enderby in the darkness. For now he wondered at Folkard’s behaviour, and put such qualms down to an over-active, incarcerated mind given too much time to mull over too many uncertainties. Still the worry stayed with him.

  The heavy door to the bay smacked open and Enderby, ever alert, already had his knife poised before it squeaked to a halt against the frame. He pressed himself back against the wall, and only the keenest observer would have noticed him grip his knife tighter. From his position, squirreled behind a packing crate, he could not see the entrance. There came the sounds of boots on grating, and Enderby strained to count the steps. Definitely more than two, but whether it was three or four he couldn’t be sure.

  The Russian squad were keeping together as a group—a solid tactic when searching for a dangerous quarry. They were moving clockwise around the room, and with a little luck and careful movement he could flank them. There was no chance he could take one out and steal a uniform, not now.

  An icy thought struck him, sudden and sharp. Had Folkard been captured…or had he given away Enderby’s hiding place?