Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Page 23

  A hand on Arnaud’s shoulder whipped him around. A fist, tight and bunched, connected with his jaw within a second. Arnaud fell unconscious as Nathaniel waved his bruised knuckles in the air. He looked down. It was too late for Garrecreux. This was no great pity.

  Boon was helping Enderby to his feet, the senior agent pushing him away as if insulted. Nathaniel caught Boon’s eye, called him over. “Pick him up and bring him,” he said, indicating Arnaud. “He’s one of us.” Boon nodded and hefted Arnaud’s passive form between his shoulders.

  “We need to get back to the cutter,” said Bedford. “And fast.”

  5.

  THEY EMERGED FROM a rocky tunnel into an abandoned shell of a building somewhere in a deserted corner of the slum. Sovereign hovered some way to the East, and they dashed towards it. It did not take them long to reach the plain on which the remaining cutter sat.

  Arnaud, still unconscious, had been laid between the benches. Bedford chivvied the pilot into getting the cutter airborne as quickly as possible. With all of them inside it was a bit of a squeeze, Boon and Bedford allowing Annabelle and the injured Enderby to sit. Tally nursed his broken wrist but brushed off any attention from the others—he’d had worse. Bedford pulled Nathaniel to one side.

  “Is it really wise to pursue them?” he asked quietly.

  “What other choice do we have? It may be the only way to discover what Grant’s been working towards all this time, what he’s been using these crystals for.”

  “And if it’s some sort of aether weapon? What’s stopping him from simply turning about and blasting us out of the sky?”

  “Nothing. Hardly a comforting thought.”

  As if in acknowledgement, the cutter was suddenly buffered by turbulence.

  “And then,” muttered Bedford, looking down, “there’s Folkard.”

  Nathaniel nodded sombrely. “Indeed. Though I am far more inclined to believe Grant is a liar than Folkard a traitor.”

  “Folkard’s a traitor alright,” growled Enderby. The duo turned, surprised, not even aware he’d been listening. “He’ll hang.”

  A tinge of spite crept into Nathaniel’s voice. “Mister Enderby, I assure you I have known Captain Folkard for quite some time now…”

  “Well clearly you didn’t know him well,” said Enderby simply, his voice still low. “I saw him on Imperator, laughing and joking with his damn Cossack friends. He’s turned, Stone. I’m sure of it. Why else wouldn’t he have attempted to rescue me?”

  Nathaniel, unsure, stayed silent.

  Bedford noticed Annabelle staring ahead of her, the faint ghost of a smile slightly curling her lips. He pushed past Nathaniel and knelt in front of her, careful not to tread on Arnaud.

  “Annabelle, are you all right?” Her reverie broken, she looked up at him suddenly.

  “Of course I am, George.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if in a conversation in a drawing room. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “After everything we’ve been through, the last few days… Your uncle…”

  Annabelle smiled cruelly. “He’s not my uncle, George. Not anymore. He betrayed us. Tried to have us killed. His madness was one thing, but this…?”

  The hatred in her eyes was palpable.

  Nathaniel watched this exchange, and tilted his head slightly, considering all that Annabelle had been through. What future would she have? What kind of woman was she becoming? It was clear that it was also something Bedford was wondering, too. Nathaniel looked forward to finding out.

  6.

  FOLKARD DESPAIRED. HE was unsure how much longer his pretence could keep up, and was feeling a great unease regarding Oleg Olkhovsky and Valentin Utterklo, his two new best friends.

  They had accosted him as he was making his way towards the comm deck. If Imperator was anything like Sovereign it would be staffed by at least six men around the clock. If he was lucky he might be able to get inside on some pretext and discover any changes between Imperator’s version and Sovereign’s—and how he might exploit them. Either that or somehow lure out, incapacitate and replace one of the heliograph operators there. Folkard didn’t like it. It was a plan in which far too many things could go awry, but in his present desperate state it was the best he had.

  He had first spotted Olkhovsky and Utterklo striding down one of the corridors towards him, just as he was making headway towards his objective. He quickly noted their insignias—both the Russian equivalent of a petty officer. In many ways, it had been fortuitous the uniform he had acquired belonged to a mere rating, as the majority of the crew ignored him and it made it easier to avoid the sight of officers who may have been better informed of Folkard’s appearance. The two men were burly, seasoned sailors who took up most of the corridor. They muttered unintelligibly to each other, and did not seem to have noticed him yet. Adopting a stance of respect rather than caution, and careful not to move too quickly, he moved to one side in the corridor to let them pass.

  As they approached, one of the men slapped the back of his hand to his companion’s broad chest, and pointed directly at Folkard.

  “Oi, you,” he barked in Russian. “What’re you doing?”

  Folkard stepped out from the shadows with his chin high, recalling the days it was necessary for him to show deference to a superior officer. “Message for the comm room, sir.”

  “Message my arse,” chuckled the other petty officer. “What are you really doing?”

  “Skiving, that’s what he’s doing. Probably got some poor muzhlan on the floor he’s supposed to be mopping. What’s your name? C’mon, out with it!”

  Folkard’s mind raced. He found himself instantly replying “Kuznetsov, sir.”

  “Well, Kuznetsov, let me tell you this: I’ve never liked lazy men, and nobody gets to your age without being promoted unless they’re a very, very lazy man. Christ above, even the galley boys get to cook a borscht sometimes.”

  “What’cha reckon, Oleg?” said the other sailor, rubbing his chin. “Reckon we should teach him what hard work feels like?”

  “Oh, yes indeed, Valentin. Yes indeed.”

  They had frogmarched him away from the comm room. It didn’t exactly feel like he was being press ganged, and Folkard could well imagine this being a tactic these downtrodden, frustrated bully-boys often employed against those they felt they could abuse. He had to hope that was the case now, and not that his deception had been uncovered.

  When they put him to work, scrubbing the mess floor on his hands and knees, it almost made him feel relieved. If his true identity had been known he’d be straight to the brig and probably beaten to boot—if a little expenditure of elbow grease was the alternative Folkard considered himself fortunate.

  Olkhovsky and Utterklo had not left his side. They now both leaned with their backs to a table, crossing their arms and watching him in silence as he scrubbed.

  Utterklo called out. “Where you from then, Kuznetsov? Anywhere nice?”

  The time spent labouring had given Folkard ample opportunity to fabricate a story. From their accents these two were Moscow born and bred, so he picked somewhere provincial and replied without looking back.

  “Kimra. My father was a cobbler.”

  “Oh, Kimra. Your sister lives in Kimra, doesn’t she, Oleg?”

  “Used to.”

  “What made you leave then, Kuznetsov? The shoemaking life a bit too much like hard work, was it? Thought you could get your meal ticket from the Imperial Navy?”

  “Something like that,” said Folkard. “I guess I just wanted to see the world.” Olkhovsky snorted derisively.

  As he worked they carried on quizzing him. How did he get into the Navy? Why the hell hadn’t a man his age ever been given a promotion? And finally, the one that stung sharpest of all; “You got a sweetheart back home, Kuznetsov?”

  He answered each of their questions diligently, avoiding unnecessary detail that might trip him up later. After he’d scoured the whole floor—his hands red raw and wrinkled from the tepid, grea
sy water—it was almost like the three of them were old friends. Utterklo wandered across to one of the tables and hooked three tin mugs with his fingers. As he wandered back he used his free hand to produce a small brown bottle from his back pocket.

  “Here, Kuznetsov, c’mere,” he said as he poured. It was more an order than an invitation, and he eyed Folkard suspiciously as he handed him the drink. “Keep it to yourself but I’ve a friend in the sick bay. Amazing what he can do with a potato, imagination and a few glass bottles.” Folkard took the mug. Its contents smelled like kerosene. “To the Tsar!” Utterklo said with a smile, and held Folkard’s eye.

  “To the Tsar!” parroted Folkard.

  As they brought the mugs to their lips a commotion came from outside. Olkhovsky jumped down from the table he was perched on and glanced out the door before looking back to grab Utterklo and Folkard’s attention.

  “Hey, you two,” he said, beckoning. “Come and look at this.”

  Utterklo pocketed his moonshine and the trio wandered out into the corridor. What Folkard saw made him glad he had a drink in his hand.

  He had had to force himself to keep absolute control when he saw Enderby paraded by him. The agent’s face was steely, unperturbed by the insults and catcalls yelled at him. He looked pale but was otherwise unharmed. Folkard quickly assessed the situation—two soldiers led Enderby and two brought up the rear, but with all the hullabaloo it seemed the entire crew was on deck, watching the captive at the height of his humiliation. Realistically, there was nothing Folkard could do at present. That Enderby had been captured was a blow, but he was still at large and while Imperator still sailed his mission was clear.

  Olkhovsky hovered back after a brief chat with one of his shipmates. “English spy, apparently,” he noted casually as he knocked back his drink. “Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, eh, Kuznetsov?”

  “Not for all the tea in England,” Folkard quipped, and Olkhovsky and Utterklo roared with laughter.

  “You’re all right, Kuznetsov,” said Utterklo, slapping him on the back. “Look, we’ve all been a bit uptight recently, what with everything going on. Big changes happening, too much bloody work, and if clapping some slimy British opezdol in irons isn’t reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is. Come, drink with us.”

  Once more, it was not an invitation, but an order.

  7.

  THE BRIDGE WAS ablaze with activity. Captain Theobald had, with no small relief, shunted himself to the background to allow Bedford to take control. The only vestige of command that remained was his pompous and upright posture. Bedford yelled commands, directing his men, wringing every nanowatt of power from the engines and ensuring each carefully calculated movement of the ship directed it as swiftly as possible through the aether.

  Nathaniel suddenly burst in, skidding to a halt. He reached out an arm and steadied himself on the command chair, speaking in breathless bursts.

  “I’ve tweaked, George…done as much as I can…without totally overloading the propeller governor. Three, four knots perhaps. Anymore and we risk tearing Sovereign apart.” He breathed in deeply and stood up, his head spinning.

  “Boswell agree?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “I defer to your judgement, then. Sub-lieutenant Barry, what news of the Russian vessel?”

  “Every time we accelerate it simply pulls ahead, sir. Outstripping us without even breaking a sweat. Whatever’s powering that beast is beyond me.”

  “Are you sure,” said Bedford, turning to Nathaniel, “that this is as fast as we can go?”

  “Are you?” replied Nathaniel, not without humour. “Any more and we’ll shake the bolts from their housings.”

  Bedford nodded solidly. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll chase these bastards into the very mouth of hell if we have to.”

  “Commander Bedford.”

  Bedford turned. Boon was standing before him, bolt upright.

  “If I can help, I will.”

  The commander slapped him on the arm, grinning. “Good man!” he said. “Not beyond your remit, though?”

  Boon smirked. “I’m sure we can figure something out.” Bedford slapped his arm again.

  “As can I,” said another voice behind Nathaniel.

  The three men turned. Annabelle stood in the doorway to the bridge defiantly, legs apart and her hands on her hips. She brushed off their stunned looks. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Macramé?” she said brusquely, striding into the room. “If I can help, I will. We’re short-handed as it is. You, darling husband, are needed on the bridge. If anyone can make heads or tails of what the Russian ship is all about, it’s Nathaniel…even from a distance. Enderby is as battered as a snake in a mongoose den, Tally’s wrist is badly broken and Arnaud…” Suddenly, her vigour abandoned her, and she looked at Nathaniel sadly. “Poor Arnaud…”

  “How is he?”

  “Unconscious. Still. But restless. You should go to him. You may be able to do something.”

  Nathaniel frowned.

  Bedford strode up to the banks of instruments before the wide window through which blind night winked with stars. Ahead of them, the moon was the size of a ship’s biscuit, but bright and clear, the Russian ship an ink-blot against its pristine surface. He breathed in. Hands behind his back, he turned to his men. Took in the sight of his wife and his friends.

  “Onward,” he said, “into the unknown.”

  8.

  HAVING FOUND HIMSELF at rather a loose end on the bridge, Nathaniel decided to take Annabelle’s advice and visit Arnaud in the sick bay. When Nathaniel had left him there, what fleeting moments of fevered lucidity the Frenchman had were filled with rambling shouts and spasms. He sweated almost constantly but was cold to the touch. The pernicious drugs he had been forced to take were slowly leaving his system, and as they did so they dragged suffering and anguish with them, displaying an almost organic will to torture the man who dared to abandoned their embrace.

  He had witnessed first-hand the way this insidious chemical could ravage the human body—a cursory glance at the bodies of Potsdam and Garrecreux would communicate that to even the dimmest of intellects. Their usage had been an addiction, taken to the extreme, and Nathaniel only hoped that Arnaud’s relatively brief spell under its destructive thrall was reversible. He chastised himself for losing the sample of crystal in the Admiralty. What a fool he had been to take his eyes from it, even for a second! If nothing else he could analyse its structure and composition, perhaps synthesise some sort of antidote or dilution to lessen Arnaud’s terrible symptoms…

  These fretful thoughts were suddenly curtailed by an unmistakable noise—gunfire! Two or three shots, a pistol by the sound of it, that came from the direction of the sick bay. With an icy dismay that hit him cold and hard in his gut, Nathaniel broke into a run.

  9.

  OLKHOVSKY AND UTTERKLO, their arms around each other, were onto the sixth verse of some interminable Russian drinking song. They had manhandled Folkard to their quarters, all the while promising him the best home-made vodka he’d have tasted since leaving, well, home. He protested as much as he could, made up a whole sorry story about an unforgiving, sour-faced skipper who’d been gunning for him from the second he stepped aboard, but to no avail. The two petty officers simply brushed his concerns aside, assuring him they’d have a word and smooth things over as soon as the drinking was done.

  Without taking a breath they launched into the seventh verse. Between them they had managed to consume a bottle and a half of the rancid concoction, which burned the throat like wildfire and had a metallic, greasy taste. This, Folkard thought, was the kind of thing normally reserved for dissolving piston grease, not drinking. In as much as he could he had avoided the stuff, either only pretending to pour himself a shot or slyly disposing of it when the two burly Russians were distracted. More than once, however, when they proposed a toast and their eyes were on him, he found himself having to drink. He could feel the stuff stinging his stomach and ma
king his head light, but he’d be damned if some Siberian rot-gut would jeopardise this mission. Still he played his part, cackling along with some off-colour anecdote about a one-legged prostitute and joining in with what few words he’d picked up of the song’s chorus.

  Utterklo emptied the rest of the latest bottle into his mug and upended it theatrically. He slurred a curse and rose to his feet, but the movement was too much for his sodden brain to take. He wobbled for a moment, tottered and pitched forward, crashing headlong into the ground. Olkhovsky burst out laughing, a deep and rough sound. Folkard joined in.

  “Looks like we have a winner,” smirked Olkhovsky, getting down on his hands and knees to crawl across to Utterklo, who had started snoring. Olkhovsky nudged him playfully. “Hey, hey myshka… Now’s not the time for dozing, we’ve gotta look after Kuznut… Kaznit… Ach, you know who I mean.”

  His senses dulled by booze, Olkhovsky didn’t have even have time to react as Folkard brought one of the empty bottles down sharply onto the back of his head.

  “Sweet of you, Olkhovsky,” muttered Folkard as he pilfered the unconscious Russian’s pistol and checked the chamber. “But I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

  10.

  NATHANIEL RUSHED HEADLONG toward the sick bay, any thoughts other than those for Arnaud’s immediate safety stricken from his mind. He skidded around the door frame to the sick bay, his lungs fit to burst. He took it all in in a microsecond—the crumpled body of a sailor, hunched into a foetal position and deathly still. His blood was mingling with the soup he had been carrying in for Arnaud. Stooping over him was an orderly, who had just finished resting the poor man’s head to the ground.

  “You man!” Nathaniel snapped. “What the devil’s happened?”

  “It’s Doctor Fontaine, sir! He must’ve got hold of his pistol, shot him there and then!”

  “Which way did he go? Quickly, man!”

  “Ah, he must’ve gone towards the stern, sir. Reckon I’d have seen him otherwise.”

  Nathaniel reckoned the same. The orderly’s protestations faded quickly as he, eternally grateful for the mobility the gravitar on the ship brought him, pelted towards the engines. Had they been on any other aether ship, such speed would have been impossible.