“In Which Shawbridge Is Made an Incredible Offer”
1.
Shawbridge entered the cave with some trepidation—only to discover that his ghost had disappeared. He now felt quite alone and vulnerable, and the fears that he’d been a stupid old man grew further.
He noticed the pile of rocks that he imagined must have been the Frenchwoman’s burial mound, and the negative connotations of it compounded his edginess. He was on the point of turning around and making haste back to the surface when something a little like smoke began to form in the air in the centre of the cavern. Within seconds it had grown denser and stronger, and Shawbridge could see that it was a sort of swarm made up of many millions of sparkling fragments, like tiny pieces of glass.
And then, making him start somewhat, the cloud drew in on itself to take the form of a man. A giant man, but a man nonetheless, although possessed of no facial features. Once his initial alarm had died down, he realised that this must be the Hermes chap that Nathanial had mentioned.
“Colonel Ernest Shawbridge,” boomed a voice right in the centre of his head. It was a deep tenor, a man’s voice, but as it continued speaking, the pitch and timbre of the voice shifted around most discomfortingly. “You are not a happy man, are you?”
“He told you that, did he?” Shawbridge said, referring to the ghost that had led him down there. “The other fella.”
There was a pause before Hermes replied. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You appeared to be contemplating leaving a moment ago. Why?” There was genuine curiosity in the voice—that had steadied at a rather effeminate man’s voice, which rather disconcerted him.
“I don’t have to account to you!” Shawbridge snapped.
“Is that how you see my question? It was simply curiosity. I apologise if I’ve offended you, Colonel.”
“Yes,” huffed Shawbridge. “Well, all right then. But remember I’m in charge of this planet, not you.”
“Your remit extends beyond yourself and Princess Christiana Station and its personnel, does it?”
“This,” said Shawbridge, pointing at the ground, “is part of the British Empire I’ll have you know. So yes, it does.”
“Ah,” Hermes said and there was a sudden fascination in his voice. “The British Empire. And the Russian one as well. What is it that is so special about the British Empire?”
“What kind of a question is that? It’s the empire. With Her Majesty Queen Victoria sitting right at the centre of it. Our territories cover half of the map.”
“That is not true.” There was an even longer pause. “That was a lie was it not?” A strange sort of hunger had crept into Hermes’ voice now.
“Well, perhaps not in land area. But it’s a Hell of a lot bigger than those bloody Russians, let me tell you.”
“Why is the British Empire so diametrically opposed to that of the Russians?”
“You’re asking rather a lot of stupid questions, aren’t you? Any sane person knows why. Everything they stand for must be fought. And crushed.”
“But why? You are made of the same flesh, eat the same food, experience the same emotions, breathe the same air. How can such a division be possible in people of the same species?”
Hermes seemed genuinely puzzled. If he couldn’t understand simple concepts like that, then how did he expect to be able to help Shawbridge?
“It seems very wasteful.”
“Wasteful?”
“Of lives, of resources. Of time. Why can you not talk and reach a resolution, a compromise that suits both sides?”
“Because that’s not the way it is,” Shawbridge pointed out, his voice forceful. “Some people refuse to listen. That’s what this war is all about—proving to them once and for all that there is only one way civilised people should live. The British way.”
“I mentioned this to Professor Nathanial Stone but they had to leave so the conversation was abandoned, but I believe I have a theory about why humans have such binary thinking.”
“What’s that, then?” he asked Hermes suspiciously, assuming it was some sort of insult.
“You see things as a choice of two distinct states. Black and white, love and hate, male and female.” Hermes paused. “Left and right.”
“Sorry old chap, but you’re losing me. I’m not sure what it is you’re saying.”
“That humans rarely think in shades of grey. Your language and your perceived reality is structured in a binary way. The British Empire versus the Russian one. It does not seem to have occurred to you that there are many shades of economic system in between, and that one of them would surely suit both parties and bring an end to the war.”
“And throw away the British Way of Life? No thank you, sir!”
“You are making my point for me, Colonel Shawbridge. And do you want to know my theory about why that is?”
Shawbridge couldn’t have given two figs for any theory, but found himself nodding anyway.
“You are creatures with bilateral symmetry.” Hermes anticipated Shawbridge’s puzzlement. “Each half of you is symmetrical—approximately. Two eyes, two legs, feet—and hands.”
“And?” This was the sort of gobbledegook he could get from Stone; he didn’t need to hear it from a floating man made of light or insects or glass or whatever.
“With only two hands to pick up objects or to gesticulate with to amplify verbal communication, you are forced to pick the two extremes on any continuum. This—you indicate with one hand; or that—with the other. I suspect that had you been trilaterally symmetrical that your innate sense of balance and symmetry would be to pick two extremes and a midpoint. With four hands, you would pick the extremes and two points equidistantly from each other. With five—”
“I’m not stupid,” cut in Shawbridge. “I get it. But what has this to do with the British Empire, for God’s sake?”
“Had humans evolved three arms, I imagine that a third economic system would have arisen to counterbalance the other two. You think in such a limited way, and that is not meant to be an insult, Colonel Shawbridge. Those limits have been programmed into you by your biology and physiognomy. If I understand the concept correctly, there is a certain irony in my evolving on a planet like Mercury, eternally fixed in position so that one side is in perpetual dark, the other in perpetual light, is there not? A non-binary organism on a binary world.”
Shawbridge snorted. “And that makes you perfect?”
Hermes paused as if actually considering that possibility. “In one sense, yes. I have no symmetry whatsoever. I have no fixed physical form. It changes as parts of me are damaged and others are constructed, threading through the planet. Therefore, if my theory is true, then I can imagine and consider all possibilities equally. I do not seek out the extremes as you do. So my decisions must, logically, be more balanced and considered than your own.”
Shawbridge gritted his teeth. The only thing that stopped him from telling Hermes exactly what he thought of him and his ruddy ideas was that the more he listened to all this nonsense, the more he felt that Hermes—as his ghost had promised him—owed him. “Well,” he said, smiling fakely. “My…” He gestured vaguely. “My ghost said you had a plan or something for me. What’s all that about, then?”
“I do have a plan, Colonel Shawbridge.” The figure raised a fuzzy arm, trailing behind it the tiny sparkles of light until they caught up with it, and pointed to the wall of the cave to the right of where Shawbridge had entered.
“What are they?” Shawbridge asked, moving round to get a better view of what appeared to be two figures—normal, human-sized figures—carved out of some sort of pinkish ice. They stood side by side on a plinth of rock, like statues. “Ice sculptures?” He took a couple of wavering steps onto a pile of rock to get closer—and reached out and touched the closest statues. It was glassy and slick, but not at all cold.
“They are made of crystal, Colonel Shawbridge. I have made them for you.”
“For me?” It was only when he moved a few paces around that he could actually recognise the closest figure. “I’ll be damned!” he said slowly. “That’s Her Majesty, isn’t it? Queen Victoria!” He moved still further to see if he could identify the second. His eyes didn’t seem to be liking the light down here, for it looked a little indistinct—until it seemed to snap into focus.
Shawbridge turned back to Hermes. “Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Well,” he exhaled and shook his head, “I’ll be damned. And you made those did you?”
“Yes. As gifts for Her Majesty Queen Victoria. From me. And you,” Hermes gestured at Shawbridge with his hand, “will deliver them personally to her. You will give her the two most exclusive gifts that I imagine she has ever received. You, Colonel Shawbridge. You.”
2.
“DAMN IT!” grumped Nathanial as he felt Arnaud poke him in the back with his wooden sword. “I do wish you’d stop that, you know. We’re grown men, not schoolboys. If you’re like this now, I dread to think of what you must have been like as a child.”
“I was the very perfection of school boys,” Arnaud replied.
Nathanial couldn’t be bothered correcting Arnaud, because suddenly they were in sight of Hermes’ cavern, and he imagined he could hear voices. “Sssh!” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Listen!”
In silence they struggled to hear what was being said, and although they couldn’t quite make out the words, the two voices were distinctive—one of which had the acoustics they’d have expected, the other of which was speaking right into their heads: the former was Colonel Shawbridge, the latter Hermes.
“But where are Annabelle and Heath?” Arnaud said, mystified and looking back up the corridor.
“Perhaps they were delayed or something—or maybe they are there but have not spoken,” Nathanial suggested. There was no possible hiding place between where they stood and the entrance to the cavern.
“Perhaps,” said Arnaud wiggling his eyebrows again and lowering his voice to a whisper, “they have entered the cavern ahead of us and are hiding, waiting for the moment.” He said “Boom!” silently and mimed an explosion with his hands.
A sudden, ghastly thought struck Nathanial. “What if Heath is planning on taking himself out when he blows Hermes up? And Annabelle!”
“But he would not do such an un-gentlemanly thing, would he? He’s British!”
“He’s also probably stark staring mad, Arnaud.” This made up Nathanial’s mind and he set off quietly—but determinedly—for Hermes’ cavern, Arnaud close behind.
3.
Annabelle and her partners-in-crime’s progress was relatively swift, but she was pleased she had her jacket and had put on a tough old pair of walking boots: the floor was wet and slippery, and some of the passages they had to navigate were perilously narrow, their walls as gritty and rough as sandpaper. She suspected, sadly, that after this little experience, she might have to throw the jacket away, so worn would be the elbows.
She pulled out her pocket watch. One thing she would never throw away, because much like Nathanial’s satchel that contained his precious books and journal, the watch was one thing from which she would not be parted. It did not matter how much gear they had left behind on Venus, the watch would go everywhere with her. It was, after all, a gift from her father. Being in caves always reminded her of her parents, and she often found herself playing with the contours of the watch when her thoughts returned to them.
She shook her head and checked the time. It was later in the day than she had thought, and she returned the watch to her pocket, wondering how Nathanial was faring up in Princess Christiana Station.
Heath was a few yards in front of her, turning sideways to get through a particularly tight crack. For a moment, she wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get the stout, rope-handled box that contained the detonator through with him. But with much wriggling and cursing he pulled it through after himself. He caught Annabelle’s eyes and gave a simple half nod—as if he now saw her as a fully-fledged conspirator. She didn’t quite know how she felt about that.
Realising that Joe (who must have had even more of a struggle to get through the narrowest bit) and Saul were right up behind her, she returned her watch to her pocket and got a move on, following Corporal Heath. By the time she’d caught up with him, he was standing in a much more comfortable widening of the passage waiting for the three of them to catch up.
“Not far now,” he said to Annabelle. “Another twenty yards or so and there’s another bit like this, which is where we set up this baby,” he nudged at the detonator in its case, on the floor. “And the actual explosives go another twenty yards beyond: just in the entrance to that Devil’s lair.”
“And then what?”
“Wire those beauties up to this, set it going, and go and tell that creature what I really think of it.”
“You don’t mean you’re going to stay there while the dynamite goes off?” Annabelle was aghast.
“Not planning to, miss. But if that’s what it takes, then that’s God’s will—and who am I to argue with Him?”
“But that’s madness! How can you possibly know that’s what God wants, Paul?”
He gave her wink. “I know, miss,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “I know. He has a plan for my life. I’ve known it for years. And this might be where it all ends. But it’s for a reason, isn’t it? The best reason ever.”
Annabelle’s heart was racing: if planning to blow yourself up wasn’t insane enough, he actually thought he was fulfilling some sort of plan. God’s plan. It struck her that that’s what they were all doing, really—he just had an insight into how the plan ended. Or a vision. Or maybe just the screams of a madman, rocketing around in his head. She thought about getting away from there. If Heath was as unbalanced as that little speech made him sound, then how could she trust his judgment about whether Hermes should be killed or not? Had she just been too stupid and too blind not to see it all along?
“You can’t know that,” she insisted. “For certain.”
“I do miss, trust me. Right, let’s get moving.”
Trapped between Joe and Saul behind her and Paul in front, Annabelle had little choice but to keep moving, her heart sinking with every step.
4.
Shawbridge could barely take in what Hermes had said. It seemed so…well, bizarre. And yet made a sort of sense.
If he were the one to deliver the two crystal statues to Her Majesty, it would secure his position in history, surely. Her Majesty would be delighted—particularly with the one of the Prince Regent.
“So what’s so special about this crystal, then?” Shawbridge asked, not wanting to appear too keen, and yet wanting to hear things about them that would make them even more special in Her Majesty’s eyes.
“It is a particularly pure and dense form of…” Hermes tailed off. “It doesn’t matter. You would find it as dull as you find science. But in effect, it can capture light and other electromagnetic radiation, hold it and then release it later.”
Shawbridge gave a shrug with his face. “Sounds, um, nice. So they’ll glow, is what you’re saying?”
“More than that, I think: the density and structure of them is such that they will absorb light at different speeds and different frequencies in different places and then re-emit it anywhere between thirty seconds and an hour later. I believe they will be seen as truly wonderful. As will you.”
This seemed like rather un-Hermes-like flattery and made Shawbridge a bit suspicious again. “And what will you get out of it, eh?”
“I will be able to talk to Queen Victoria through the statue.”
“Both of the statues, you mean?”
“Of course,” Hermes corrected himself. “Both of them. I will be able to learn from her about the British Empire, from the woman who sits upon its throne.”
Shawbridge wasn’t so sure about this bit. The idea of this thing, Hermes, being able to chat with Her Majesty seemed rather impertinent. “Oh,” he shook his head. “I don’t know if that would be right, you know.”
“In what way?”
“Well, y’know. All that stuff you were saying earlier. About the Russians. Not sure whether she’d want to be hearing all that nonsense.”
Hermes seemed to consider his doubts. “Then I shall not do so,” he said. “If you think that it would be inappropriate.”
Shawbridge eyed the flickering giant dubiously. “You sure about that, hmm?”
“Lying is a concept I do not understand. Throughout the entirety of my existence, there has been only me. From whom could I learn to conceal things? And there was no other to conceal things from me.”
That made a sort of sense, thought Shawbridge.
“I am learning many things from humans. Individuality, autonomy, how the same event can be remembered in so many different, contradicting ways. So many strange, redundant ways of thinking….”
Hermes seemed to drift off for a few seconds, and Shawbridge wondered whether, now the thing had told him its plan (and what a plan it was!), whether he shouldn’t just be off, back to his office, to start filling in the paperwork for getting the statues back to Earth. That’d show them—all of the station’s men that were standing round, letting Stone walk all over them. And Stone himself.
5.
Arnaud and Nathanial looked at each other, both faces reflecting a mixture of disbelief and worry.
“What’s going on?” Nathanial whispered. “Statues of Her Majesty and the Prince Regent?”
“They would be quite a gift,” Arnaud said.
“But if Hermes is capable of talking and listening through them, what else is it capable of?”
Arnaud frowned for a moment before realisation dawned. “Sending a ghost, you think?”
“Why not?”
“But all the ghosts that we know about seem to have no proper mental connection with Hermes.”
“Maybe… Maybe not. What if Hermes has been hiding some mesmeric power from us? And the way he can talk into our heads. And, I suspect, listen to thoughts that we weren’t consciously sending. Besides, a ghost could be enough to unsettle Her Majesty. After all, she is seventy or so. Imagine how that might affect a woman of her age.”
“And you don’t believe Hermes’ promise not to do so?”
“Do you?”
Arnaud shrugged. “He has not shown the capacity to lie before—as we were theorising, and as he has just stated.”
“But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? And didn’t he seem to be making a big point of it to Shawbridge?”
“He did, yes. Anyway, is there any sign of Annabelle and her conspirators?”
Nathanial rounded on him. “Annabelle is no conspirator!” he cried. Arnaud shushed him, and Nathanial repeated the words in a whisper. “She is keeping an eye on them, and you know that bloody well.” The volume of his voice was growing again and he pursed his lips tightly.
“I was not meaning that she was working with them,” Arnaud insisted, although to Nathanial he looked like a worm, wriggling on a hook. “I am meaning that she was with the conspirators.” He hunted around for the words. “A co-conspirator, then? English is not my native language, you remember?”
“Your English is perfectly good when it suits you,” Nathanial retorted and then raised his hands. “Look, we’re not going to have this argument now. We’ve got to make sure Annabelle is safe.”
“Agreed,” said Arnaud quietly. “I’m sorry, Nathanial.” His face showed that he knew how deeply he had offended Nathanial. As Nathanial stared at him, he realised that Arnaud was genuinely sorry and upset.
Motioning Arnaud to stay where he was, Nathanial scuttled down the last few yards of corridor. Keeping himself low and on the right, in the shadows, he poked his head through the cavern entrance. He could see Shawbridge, gazing raptly up at Hermes, but Hermes itself was out of sight. He ran his eyes over what he could see of the cavern, but there was no sign of Annabelle or Heath. He’d have liked a look at the statues that Hermes had promised Shawbridge, but they, too, were not visible from this angle. He looked back at Arnaud, silhouetted by the tunnel lights behind him and shook his head. Arnaud crept forward.
Shawbridge had, meanwhile, asked Hermes about the ghosts. And from what he was gathering, his and Arnaud’s theories about them were pretty much spot-on. Unless Hermes were lying, of course, which would mean he and Arnaud were wrong. Which he didn’t, for one moment, think was the case. The crystal boils were, indeed, the Kilner Jars for the copies of the people above ground: Hermes initiated the copying process and then “disconnected” itself somehow (although whether that was physically or mentally or both, Shawbridge didn’t ask and Hermes didn’t expand).
“If they aren’t here,” Arnaud said, “where are they?”
Nathanial could only shrug. “If she’d waited around a little longer and told us more details…”
“Perhaps she did not know them. They may not have confided them in her.”
“I suppose it’s possible. But what do we do? They might be coming down the corridor right now.”
“And if they are, the safest place is surely in there with Shawbridge. Hermes does not bear us any malice, and Shawbridge only hates you.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Nathanial replied drily.
“Oh,” Arnaud smiled. “You and your self-pity. Give it up, Nathanial. You are a better man than that, even if you don’t know it.” He mimed letting something go from his right hand. “Yes?”
Nathanial gave a grudging smile, not sure that he wanted to be lectured like this. If it had been anyone else but Arnaud, he knew he would have been far more annoyed.
The Frenchman had moved past him and was already heading for the cavern. Wondering whether Arnaud was as frustrating to his own wife or girlfriend—if he even had one—he set off after him.
6.
On the other side of the cavern, the men were taking their backpacks off for a few moments, stretching their tired, tortured muscles. Heath was unpacking the detonator and uncoiling the wires that led into it. There was what looked like a clock—the actual timer, presumably—and a considerable amount of electrical gubbins. The reality of what they were doing, and Heath’s insanity, were finally feeling real. Neither of them could be sure of Hermes’ nature or intentions. This was execution without even a trial. Annabelle watched as Heath finished setting the timer and stood up with a satisfied smile on his face that chilled Annabelle to the core.
“Wait!” she said suddenly, and turned her head slightly. “Voices!”
The others frowned and tipped their heads this way and that.
Annabelle turned. “Yes, definitely voices. Coming from up ahead. Well, one voice, anyway…” She strained to listen but the words were just whispers and echoes. She recognised the voice, though… “That’s Uncle Ernest!” she cried. “He’s in there.” She turned sharply to face Heath, Joe and Saul. “My Uncle Ernest is in there!”
Annabelle turned and began to make her way towards the sound of the voice—before she was grabbed around the waist by a massive pair of arms. Kicking and struggling, she found herself being dragged back towards the timer.
“How dare you?” she hissed, glaring at Heath as he came round to face her, wriggling in Joe’s arms. “How dare you?”
Heath’s face was a horrid mixture of utter calm, and utter madness. His eyes regarded her as if she were somehow less than human. “You go in there and you give the game away. Simple, miss. Sorry, but I can’t let you.”
“But he’s an innocent man. He’s done nothing wrong. He doesn’t deserve to die. This isn’t part of your blessed plan, is it?”
Heath gave a cold little shrug. “Looks like it is. Sorry, miss, but this is bigger than any of us. He’ll get his place in Heaven, just like me. Don’t worry.”
“You madman!” spat Annabelle, realising that she now had nothing to lose and managed to kick Heath in the thigh. It was a small victory.
“Take her back, Joe,” Heath said to the giant restraining her. “And make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone. Not ’til it’s done at any rate. Don’t worry, miss—no one’s going to hurt you.”
He raised his right hand, and Annabelle had the dreadful realisation that he was going to touch her face. She jerked her head away in revulsion—and saw the look in Heath’s eyes. Surely he couldn’t have thought…
But now his face was expressionless: if any human, sane emotion remained in there, it was locked away so tightly that it might as well not be there at all.
“Off you go,” he said and bent down to pick up the other two backpacks and dynamite.
Before Annabelle could start screaming to try to let Uncle Ernest know she was here, Joe’s meaty hand reached up and clamped over her mouth and she was dragged away.