Chapter Eleven

Returns and Expeditions

1.

ANNABELLE AWOKE FEELING more rested than she had in as long as she could remember. She almost felt absolved, the memories of her terrible ordeals she had endured now behind her. A freshness and a newness seemed to invigorate her mind and senses. George dozed peacefully beside her, naked from the waist up and wrapped in a bearskin rug. She smiled to herself—he really did look rather adorable like that, bear on the outside, teddy bear on the inside. Careful so as not to wake him, she slipped from under the covers and took a deep gulp of the warm, clean morning air of Arizona that blew gently through the flap of the tepee.

She pulled on her blouse and skirts and walked barefoot to greet the day, not even caring that the carved wood and brass-work of her false foot was on full display. It was bright, but not overly hot; the wind across the plains mussing her hair and softly brushing her cheeks. The rest of the camp was already awake, activity in every corner accompanied by laughter and bright, cheerful banter. She spotted Wapi talking with one of the braves that had accompanied them from the train, and waved to get his attention. When he saw her, he smiled, and it seemed for a second that her childhood friend had finally returned. He patted his fellow brave on the shoulder and crossed to greet her.

“Yohana,” he said, nodding to her reverently.

“You seem a lot happier this morning.”

“That is because I may not see the night again, and am enjoying the sun above and the ground below before I become one with them again. Our mission today is a perilous one, Yohana. We may not all be returning.”

“Oh, come now!” joshed Annabelle. “Remember that time in the mountains? With the rattlesnake nest and that blind donkey? We’ll be fine.” Wapi simply stood and stared, his face once more stony, his eyes impassive.

“Where is the man?” he asked.

“Man? You mean George?”

“Yes. The man.”

Annabelle had had enough dealings with men over the years to have a highly-tuned and perspicacious female intuition. She knew jealousy when she heard it, and even with Wapi’s striking cheekbones and a physique toned by a life of wilderness living, pouting was never attractive. The little boy, it seemed, was back.

“Wapi…” she began.

“No,” he said suddenly, looking down at the floor. “I want you to know, Yohana, that had you not left, there was a day, I hoped…even with everything that occurred…that we…”

Annabelle’s face twisted into sudden, violent anger. With a totally automatic reaction she pulled her hand back and slapped the Indian viciously across his cheek. His head whipped sideways with the impact.

“Even from an old friend, I will not be seen as some sort of…object. I am my own person, Wapi, and my experiences—however traumatic—have made me the woman that I am today. I am not the little girl you once knew. I do not need your protection and, what’s more, I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“Yohana, I… I…”

“I what, Wapi? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Wapi could barely speak with the embarrassment and humiliation. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the ground, not even daring to raise them up high enough to glimpse the tips of her toes.

“We ride in two hours,” he mumbled.

2.

BACK ON BRITISH soil, Tally had no time to appreciate his first visit to England as he and Nathaniel rushed to the Admiralty post-haste. A report had to be made, and lines of enquiry followed before the trail of Potsdam and Klopstock ran cold. There was also the crystal shard that still weighed down the pocket of Nathaniel’s borrowed coat to deal with. The professor was keen to see if there had been any news of his friends. If they were facing the same level of danger he and Tally had encountered in Dublin; their safety was not in the least guaranteed. Memories of them all were stark in his mind, clear to see…easy to remember.

They took the train to Whitehall. Tally gazed around him incessantly with a wide-eyed, almost childish glee. Metropolitan as it was, Dublin was on a far more modest scale than the Empire’s beating heart.

“Jayze,” he muttered, his face pressed against the window as the train clattered through Mayfair. “Look at it… The buildings! The landscape! And the people! The buggers are everywhere!” Nathaniel turned to him and smiled warmly. “Not so sure on the air, though. Compared to the homeland it’s a bit, well…ripe.”

As indeed it was. One could hardly blame Tally for his sense of awe and his curiosity towards London. Airships, not an uncommon sight in Ireland, were far more common here. The way buildings had been raised, improved upon—grown almost organically to accommodate the burgeoning population—was a world away of the make-do attitude of his native home. Modern technological wonders were abundant, steam driven contraptions on whose purpose he could only guess, the fashions bedecked with the latest clockwork gadgetry and the rich jewels brought back from the inner planets. And then there was the belt of factories that surrounded the city like an encroaching shadow, their tireless engines steering the course of industry and civilisation, churning out gears, pistons and steel, blackening the sky with the ashen refuse of progress. They threatened from afar, those factories; in a way it was they who controlled, their imposing façades a reminder to London’s people that, in truth the power lay elsewhere, in bodies constructed of stronger stuff than flesh and bone.

“If only me ma could see me now…” said Tally as they strode up to the Admiralty. “And that gobshite Mister Kelly from St Michael’s, he always said I’d never amount to anything.”

“A little decorum, Tally, please.”

“Right y’are.”

They entered the Adam screen, strode across the courtyard and entered the Admiralty through the main gate beyond. Time being of the essence, Nathaniel had not had the luxury of wiring ahead to inform them of his return. As such, when the powers-that-be were informed of his arrival there was a flurry of activity and, before long, some sneering high-level minion appeared to take him through to debriefing.

“Just you, Professor,” said the minion in a nasal drone. “Your…friend is no longer required.”

“Now look here,” started Nathaniel hotly. “This man, who is, as you put it, my friend, has survived an encounter with the very men central to this whole insidious plot. Not only that, he has demonstrated a fortitude and bravery without which I would not be standing here. Even if that were not enough to imbue him with a certain debt of gratitude, the Secret Service Bureau made certain promises to him which I intend to see honoured.”

“Aye,” said Tally, equally impassioned, “and if sticking with the professor is the best chance I’ve got for getting my hands on the bastard that killed Young Simon, then by the Holy Mother you’d better believe I’m sticking to him like glue on a stamp.”

The minion sighed dismissively, clearly thinking himself far above an argument. “Very well, Professor, but don’t blame me if your…friend is out on his ear before you can say Jack Robinson. Fair warning.”

Nathaniel frowned, and he and Tally followed the uppity, overdressed steward to Folkard’s office, nestled in the grandeur of the upper floor of the Ripley Building. He showed them to the door, opening it for them while revelling in his disdain, and strode off without even a farewell. Tally was tempted to punch him in the back of the head. He closed the door behind them as they entered, and watched as Nathaniel slumped heavily into an armchair.

“So what’s the plan now?” he asked, eyeing up the drinks cabinet.

“I haven’t the first idea, Tally. Doubtless we’ll be recounting every last detail of our adventure numerous times before numerous committees, who will then hamstring any action by arguing amongst themselves over the next course of action. Folkard should be here. At least he has the weight and mental fortitude to make difficult decisions.”

“Still, you’ve got your wee bit of crystal there, no? Get the old grey matter onto figuring what that’s all about. Sure, you’ll have the answers in no time, smart feller like yerself.”

“It’s more than just an explosive, Tally. Something far more dangerous. Far older, far more…powerful. Its potential for destruction alone is clearly limitless. That the Russians have obtained it is a catastrophe. For the British Empire to exploit it too… I fear that would be apocalyptic.”

“Still,” said Tally, looking around. “Could be worse, eh? Nice warm digs, fancy surroundings, bet there’s a good kitchen, and oh!” he added nonchalantly. “Is that a bit of a drinks cabinet I spy in the corner? D’ya mind?”

Nathaniel, too troubled to care, waved his assent. Tally could barely contain his glee.

“Necking the finest of the Britisher reserves,” he chuckled to himself as he poured. “Now that’s living.”

3.

FOLKARD AND ENDERBY had successfully stripped the Russian soldier of his uniform and dumped the body over the side before Imperator had gained too much altitude. Locking the bulkhead door behind them, Folkard quickly began to undress.

“I take it you’re taking the initiative then, Captain?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. This monstrosity is Sovereign in all but a name. I know it like the back of my hand. As well as that, I speak perfect Russian.”

“You assume I don’t? You also assume I’m not acquainted with the layout of the ship. Knowledge I had, I might mention, before we even started out on our little jaunt to Severnaya. Besides which, any half-informed Russian will know what you look like. No Russian has yet seen my face and lived to tell the tale.”

“Which is why they’ll pay less heed to the man in uniform, and more to the man dressed as a British spy. Now be a good chap and hand me those pantaloons.”

Enderby didn’t argue. They found a porthole and stuffed Folkard’s discarded attire outside, where the high winds whipped them away in an instant.

“Where first?” asked Enderby.

Folkard looked around. The effect of being on the ship was profoundly disturbing for him—like visiting your childhood home only to find it wracked by decay, twisted beyond the happy memories of youth. Here there was none of the pride and fine craftsmanship that had gone into Sovereign’s construction—though each measurement was the same, each strut identical and each seam aligned, the Russians seemed to have cobbled this together from bits of junk yard waste, without care and at great speed. Where wood and burnished coppers adorned his old ship, here were studded steel plates and the ugly scar-lines of welding. Where Sovereign shone, Imperator brooded, angry and insular and brutally functional.

“We should hole you up,” Folkard said to Enderby. “Somewhere quiet, out of the way. That way I can have a proper look around, assess the true capabilities of this vessel. I may even attempt to get some sort of coded message to the Admiralty…”

4.

THE PARTY SADDLED up, preparing to ride. Bedford felt weighted down with the sheer amount of weaponry strapped to his person—two pistols on his hips, a shotgun on his shoulder and two bandoleers of shells across his chest. Mister Boon, who had stayed up much of the previous night enthralling the younger members of the tribe around the campfire with tales of London’s mechanical marvels and his own adventures as a spy, was decked out much the same. Thanks to his eloquence (and a surprising knack for silly voices) he had acquired quite a following among the children, who were grouped around him as he strode towards his horse, tugging on his trouser-legs and begging for one last tale.

“Later, little ones! Later! Old Bert needs to go and find more stories to tell; I’ve already told you all of mine!” The babes whined and pouted until a broad-busted and smiling squaw ushered them away from the war party.

The air was filled with the click of rifles being loaded and the gentle whinny and stamp of impatient hooves. There was Bedford, Annabelle, Boon, Wapi and six other braves. Geronimo, against a unanimous volley of protest, had insisted on accompanying them. The sacred place, now so desecrated by those hungry for power and bloodshed, must be evaluated and cleansed—there was no other Apache with the wisdom or the spiritual strength to do so, and he would not brook any argument.

Wapi remained bitterly aloof after his previous altercation with Annabelle. He did not even dare to look her in the eye, and Bedford could sense the tension between them. Annabelle had not told him what had occurred, but the way she had stamped around the tepee and awoke him, he knew for sure that something was up. It was something that niggled him, certainly, but now was not the time for such discussions. His beloved had endured such mental anguish since arriving at the camp; he knew his fussing would neither be welcome nor helpful. To everybody else she would seem the same old Annabelle: frank, spirited and strong. But he noticed in her both a deflation and a new fortitude, as if the revelations of the previous night had drained parts of her resolve, but drastically bolstered others. He put his worries aside, told himself once more that now was not the time, and concentrated instead on helping her up into her saddle.

Ingenious as it was, the prosthetic leg Annabelle had acquired after being shot by the sadistic criminal mastermind La Boeuf was not designed with horses in mind. She cussed in a shockingly unladylike manner and Bedford was forced to grasp her leg under her skirts and shove, receiving a face-full of thigh in the process.

“I’m not a sack of potatoes!” she squealed.

“More’s the pity,” muttered Bedford.

“George Bedford!”

“Sorry, dear.”

He grunted and gave her one last shove, and she managed to hook her other leg around and settle, after a momentary wobble, into the saddle. Bedford stepped over to his horse, the reins being held by a younger brave of the tribe, and hopped up onto the grand beast’s back. Wapi turned around to face the group.

“If we ride fast we will arrive in good time. Do not spare the horses, they are strong and have been well fed. If there…”

“Shiwoye!” yelled a voice. “Shiiiiwoye!”

With the exception of Wapi, the whole group tugged on their reins to bring their horses to bear on the source of the cry. It was Kai, belting barefoot towards them, looking as mad as all hell.

“Shiwoye!” she yelled to Geronimo. “I’m coming, Shiwoye, I’m coming with you and Wapi and Yohana!”

Geronimo looked down stoically from on high, adjusting his reins as the horse trotted forward. “I have told you, Kai,” he said softly. “You cannot. It is too dangerous for one as young as you.”

“But I’ve been before! With you, with the other braves, I’ve been out in the desert lots!”

“And each and every time you have come, we were sure there was no danger. Yet this time there is much danger, and this time you will not come.”

“But…but…” she stammered. She looked up to Annabelle. “Yohana,” she said, and faltered, before seeming to make a decision that clicked suddenly in her own mind. “Mama. You’re my mama. Shiwoye Geronimo told me all about you, your adventures… I want to hear them all, and you’re my mama, so you have to listen to me!”

Annabelle was struck dumb. This girl…this beautiful, precocious, stubborn little girl did not feel like her daughter. To Annabelle, she was just another child of the tribe, with no more familial connection than she would have with any of the other wild, fierce little youngsters here. Yet she could see her features in Kai’s soft face; even the way the little girl stood with her chin jutting out was a pose Annabelle knew she adopted when she was cross. And it was these tiny reminders that drew out hitherto unknown instincts in her, that knew she wanted to know and love this girl like no-one else could, to protect her. But these were weak stirrings of emotion as yet, and Annabelle, despite all evidence to the contrary, had not become a mother overnight.

“You must stay, Kai. Your shiwoye is right; it’s too dangerous for you. And if I am one day to be your mother, your shi ma, then danger is something we must both avoid. It will happen, Kai, someday. I promise.”

Sensing the finality in her voice, Kai made one last plea. She turned to Wapi, but he merely stared down at her without even saying a word.

“Go back, Kai,” said Geronimo gravely. “Go back and pray that the spirits be with us in battle, and that the wind of the wolves drive us back safely.”

Kai scrunched up her face in anger, turned on her heels and belted back towards the comfort of the camp.

“We’ve wasted too much time,” said Wapi. He yanked on his reins, startling the horse, and viciously spurred it into a ferocious gallop. The other riders, mimicking his speed but not his anger, followed suit.