Chapter Twenty-Two

“Ode to a Juggernaut”

1.

EXCERPT 39.

“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press).

Sunday September 8th 1889.

Nine days have passed since I first arrived on Peregrine Station. Three days now since the explosion in Greenhouse Two has deprived us of one-third of our breathable oxygen.

Three days since I was nearly killed by an assassin. Three days since the mad attempt to find answers dissolved into an even madder attempt to apprehend Annabelle’s bomber, only for him to fall to this “apparition” who haunts Peregrine.

Three days since that self-same bomber stabbed Jasperse, the man charged with protecting me.

Jasperse, consequently, died this morning of his wounds. There is little to say to that. We’d thought the knife had missed the heart altogether, but apparently it had nicked the left ventricle. Another day spent at a friend’s bedside, all for naught. Another day lost.

The gunshots Provost and I heard just before the bomber was killed were the start of a massacre. Workers attempting to flee the station via the cutters were fired upon by direct order from Hague. Fourteen men were killed. Nine more were injured.

Hague has been relieved of his command following the incident, and though I don’t know how, word of van den Bosch’s involvement in damaging the stabilisers has circulated among the workers, causing a near-revolt. Fullbright has assumed command, and that has quieted the unrest somewhat, but there are many who are calling for the two men’s heads.

No longer needing to fear his wrath, I have confronted van den Bosch. He denies culpability in Professor Wren’s death despite evidence of a struggle prior to the fire. When I mention the name Le Boeuf, he flies into an uncontrollable rage. Were he not under constant guard, and in a weakened state from his brush with death, I fear he might have attacked me, such is his anger. He believes Le Boeuf has come to Peregrine Station with the sole purpose of destroying him, the reasons of which the doctor refuses to reveal. So far, he also refuses to tell how the stabilisers might be repaired, taking a maniacal glee in this, nor will he discuss the aether machine, Torquilstone. Furthermore, he continues to deny there is a power drain occurring on the station.

Thus, I am no closer to saving Peregrine Station from the vortex than I was when I first arrived. If I cannot find an answer within three days, we will be forced to abandon the station. In the meantime, Fullbright has announced a partial evacuation will occur, regardless. The destruction of Greenhouse Two has rendered our current situation untenable. We must shed all non-essential workers soon, or the very air we breathe will become toxic.

And worse, I cannot find Annabelle anywhere. She was not killed in the riots which followed the greenhouse’s destruction, nor was she among the dead who tried to commandeer the flyers. I have asked Dolan to assemble a team to scour the station for her, which he has done, but he has found no sign of her yet. I fear for her so much I cannot sleep. If I were to lose her, after all that has gone on, I don’t think—No, I will find her. And then we shall leave this Godforsaken place once and for all. But until then, I can’t sleep, and my mind, I know, suffers for it.

2.

DOCTOR Holmes emerged, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. His heavily-jowled face was lined with weariness. His gray hair was mussed, like a man who had just woken from a tumultuous sleep. The white apron he wore was stained with blood.

Nathanial offered Holmes a glass of wine when the squat, little man plopped down into his chair. Holmes shook his head at the offer, his jowls quivering. “Three more this morning,” he said. “Theories on the curative properties of the aether abound, but they don’t allow for a recovery once the wound suppurates.” He sighed, then stuck out his hand. “Better give me that wine, son, now there’s a good fellow.” Nathanial noticed as Holmes took the glass his hands shook, from exertion or an emergent nervousness, it could not be said.

Provost and Fullbright sat nearby. Provost had not recovered from their adventures in Hell. The sights of the bomber dying, Professor Wren’s ghost, and poor Jasperse succumbing to his wounds were bad enough. What was worse, when they had returned from their adventure, carrying their wounded friend between them, Provost had learned about Greenhouse Two.

He spoke of it later, when the chaos had subsided, and his voice had quivered. “I was supposed to be there this cycle. One of the men thought he had seen evidence of a blight, and I was going to see so for myself. I should have been there.” Five men had died tending the place. Provost had not spent a sober moment since.

Fullbright, on the other hand, was like a changed man. Authority agreed with him. Since the bloodless coup that had occurred hours after the massacre in the docking bay, Fullbright had been named de facto administrator. Gone now were the dark criticisms he had once voiced, replaced by a man who was quite serious about doing his job.

He had also made it his job to keep his friend Provost inebriated, and he did so now, coaxing a wineglass into the botanist’s hands.

“Here you go, old boy,” he said. “For your nerves.” A roguish smile played across his lips. “And for your liver. And for your head in the morning when it wakes and needs a good stabbing pain to occupy it.”

No one had the energy to play along with Fullbright’s quips, and he soon ceased speaking.

Nathanial finished his glass and prepared to leave. Fullbright stopped him.

“A moment, Stone,” he said. “You know, of course, that a memorial service is being organised. Regardless of the, ah, outcome, it’s only fitting we have some sort of moment of prayer for those who’ve lost their lives recently.”

“Of course,” Nathanial said. “What would you like me to do?”

Fullbright raised his hands. “Oh! No, no. Your energies are required elsewhere. Holmes and Salt are organising. What I mean to say is, would you like us to include mention of Miss Somerset in the proceedings?”

“Give off, Fullbright,” Holmes said with a roll of his eyes. “The lad has more than enough on his mind without this.”

“No, I understand,” Nathanial replied. “Yes, George, that would be fine. Please include her. If she hasn’t returned or been found before then, we must conclude the worst.”

Fullbright grunted. Provost stirred from his daze to say, “I’m heartbroken for you, Stone. Truly I am.”

“Thank you. Thank you all.”

3.

British was alive with workers scrambling to finish the final touches to Peregrine’s interior. Additionally, Fullbright had ordered electricians and the Operations staff to engage the heliograph, which van den Bosch had previously demanded remain inoperative until the station was ready to begin transmitting.

“Bloody shame if this place should be destroyed without ever sending a single message,” Fullbright had said. “Besides, we’ll need to flash Mars to inform them we’re sending evacuees. What terrible house guests we’d make, after all, showing up with our luggage and not so much as a word of our impending arrival. Especially after the trouble our people had at Alclyon recently.”

Nathanial knew little of recent Martian politics, and so he went to look in on van den Bosch. The administrator had been moved to his private quarters to recover following the massacre in the docking bay. He was under guard at all times, more as a protection for him than a fear van den Bosch would escape. When Nathanial arrived, the doctor was awake and alert.

The bandages had been removed from his face and hands, revealing a madman’s caricature of a human. His hands were gnarled and twisted, though still very capable of use, but now they looked like the roots of some old, stunted tree. His skin was pasty, and no hair at all grew on his body. Yet, it was his face that was most affected. Nathanial had seen curiosities and exhibitions in his time in London. One such place had a house filled with mirrors that would distort a person’s image, much to everyone’s dismay and delight. Van den Bosch looked like a man who had stood in front of one such mirror and had it alter his appearance permanently as a result. It resembled wax that had been allowed to grow soft, only to have it pulled, squashed, and smeared in the most chaotic way. Despite himself, Nathanial could not help but feel pity. Van den Bosch no doubt lived in terrible pain.

“Come to look upon horror one more time, have you?” van den Bosch asked. His voice was no longer booming, nor threatening, just tired and raspy.

“I thought we might speak again.”

“You’ve got everything from me, Stone. What else is there?”

“The truth, perhaps?”

Eyes rolled to glare at Nathanial. There was such terrible hate in them. “You’re a babe, crying in the dark,” he said. “I could tell you the stars were lighthouses manned by far-off ancient fishermen, and you would believe me. What do you know of truth?”

“Tell me about Torquilstone. Or Le Boeuf.”

This time there were no splutterings, no howls of fury, or paranoid proclamations. Van den Bosch gave a cold, hard smile instead. “He’s the Devil, but you’ll learn that soon enough. Not today, and perhaps not even tomorrow, but one day he’ll come for you. When he does, he will destroy you. Oh, you’re just his sort, let me tell you. He likes to toy with fools like you. Like Thaddeus.”

“What did he do to Professor Wren?”

“Everything. You’ll never believe me, I’m sure, but Thaddeus Wren was my friend. Certainly, we were rivals, and we argued constantly. A better man, though, you would never find. There were rumours about him, of course, indecent things said behind his back. And when it was said he had killed his wife, most believed those rumours confirmed. Only I knew better. I knew it was Guillaume Le Boeuf. Knew it in my very soul. If you can dream of an atrocity, his heart is black enough to carry it out.”

The news rocked Nathanial back on his heels. “What happened?” he asked.

Van den Bosch did not seem to hear him. Instead, he continued with his disjointed narrative. “The worst betrayal of all was that I never knew. Never knew the truth. How could I, after all? Every paper at university, every printed word in his career, all of it. All a sham. I had thought the man a genius, but he had been a shadow. Oh, perhaps he had possessed some talent, but the real talent…”

“Was Le Boeuf.”

A horrible light lit van den Bosch’s eyes. Nathanial thought the man would become apoplectic, the way he had earlier, when Nathanial had first interviewed him, but he wrestled control of his emotions, and uttered his answer in pained whispers. “Damn him. Everything. Everything here is tainted with his filth!”

Van den Bosch’s voice trailed off, and he looked away, toward the opposite wall.

“That’s why you did it,” Nathanial said. “The accident in the lab. You fought there, didn’t you? You discovered the truth, and you became so enraged you attacked Professor Wren.”

“Yes.”

“And then the accident happened, only it wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes!”

“Your hatred of Le Boeuf made you kill your only friend, and then, when you had regained your senses, you decided you would have your revenge. You would force Le Boeuf to come forward to save his creations, and you would destroy him, wipe out all trace of him, and your friend’s legacy would be intact.”

Tears rolled down the awful, ruined face. “Yes.”

Nathanial grabbed van den Bosch’s hand and held. He squeezed the ruined fingers until his own hand ached. “Then let me help you. I can still find him, perhaps capture him, and then he can stand trial for what he’s done.”

“No jury would ever convict him. He’s ‘done’ nothing. That is his finest and most insidious game.” A grunt and a heave, and Doctor van den Bosch turned over on his side. “I wish to sleep, now.”

Nathanial would not relent. He grabbed at van den Bosch again, only this time he was rebuffed. “Tell me how to fix the stabilisers,” he pleaded. “Let me at least save this place.”

There was a long silence, then a simple word. “Why?”