Epilogue

St. Petersburg, Russia, February 19, 1890

“HOW IS YOUR stomach, sir,” Khachaturian asked from the doorway. “Can I bring you a glass of tea?”

“My stomach is as good and as bad as ever. It would rest easier if your master would come. Yes, I’ll have some tea with a little honey.”

The Armenian servant brought the tea and Willie (as he was known to his now-dead or captured minions in London) sipped it slowly, careful not to take too much too fast lest he irritate his damaged stomach.

The effort to implicate Stone in treason by leaving Salt’s doctored journal in the crashed aether cutter had ultimately come to nothing. His whisper campaign to ruin his reputation had borne some fruit, although keeping the fool alive long enough to appreciate the depth of his fall had proved more difficult than he had imagined—and ultimately unsuccessful. Drowned in the Thames, and then hailed as a hero! Dead and vindicated: the worst outcome imaginable.

His efforts to shatter the Anglo-Austrian alliance had been no more successful, but there remained one more card to play there.

At length the door opened and Count Dorokov entered, snow still heavy on the shoulders of his fur coat and matching cap.

“I came at once. I am amazed to see you alive—amazed and of course delighted as well. Your note was cryptic but enticing. You have information concerning a secret British mission?”

“A joint mission between the British and Austrians, but of course that means British principally. The British seek to harness a remarkable new source of energy and use it to open the outer Solar System to exploitation. Russia is faced with a difficult choice: let them monopolize this source of energy or attempt to beat them to the prize.”

Dorokov’s face remained impassive as he took off his hat and coat and handed them to his servant, who took them in one arm and replaced them in Dorokov’s hand with a steaming glass of tea. When the door closed behind him, Dorokov sat at the table and looked at Willie’s face carefully.

“Your scientific expertise is much respected, as are your efforts on our behalf, but this strains credibility. Surely you see that. Given the failure of your recent efforts in London you must understand that there is a certain reluctance…well, to support further endeavours. I, of course, completely support your projects, but others oppose them and say they are dangerous. If you had some evidence…?”

Willie reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded yellow form, its face covered with rows of typed text, and laid it on the table between them.

“My evidence is as incredible as my claim: a telegraph message from beyond the grave. But there is factual information in the cable which can be independently verified to prove the identity of the author. This cable spells out the entire British plan of action.”

“And the identity of the mysterious informer?” Dorokov asked.

Willie looked up from the document, and said, with a twisted smile, “Vladimir Tereshkov.”

The End.

Next:

Ceres by Steam by Paul Ebbs