Chapter Nine

“The Theatre of Assassins”

1.

TO BEDFORD THE WAY these two were acting was getting more and more suspicious by the moment. After bundling an assortment of supplies together—which included the carpet bag full of high explosives, as well as another couple of mysterious-looking cases—the two set off around the back of the foundry, looking the very picture of a couple of holidaymakers with their suitcases swinging by their arms. They were bold as brass, and although Bedford assumed Souptown’s doyens may simply assume they were high-tailing it before they were relieved of the burdens of their life and luggage, they were drawing far too much attention than he was really comfortable with. He followed after them as casually as he could to the wall at the left-hand side of the mansion.

By the time Bedford had caught up with them the plumper of the two (for they still, worryingly, had not divulged their names) was knelt on the ground happily splodging gelignite against the wall like a schoolboy playing with clay, humming a jaunty little ditty as he did so. Both seemed rather comfortable around the substance, which was more than could be said for Bedford, and after a moment the rotund and ruddy fellow pulled a small clockwork timer from the bag, one side of which was covered in thin copper prongs. “Ah, you little rascal,” he crowed, and pressed the prongs into the sticky explosives before turning to his companion.

“What do you reckon?” he asked. “Forty seconds?”

“Top hole!” said his friend, with an amiable smile. “I could do with a jog.” The kneeling gentleman twisted a brass dial on the front of the detonator and it began to click.

“Shall we?” he asked politely.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The two dashed off to hide behind a nearby hovel and Bedford, nonplussed by the whole exchange, took a second to regain the wherewithal to set off in hot pursuit and join the curious pair in kneeling down and covering his ears.

When the explosion came, it rattled Bedford’s teeth. Even though he was expecting it, the shock of the blast was immense, and for a moment the cobbled-together hut they were hiding behind seemed to wobble and threaten to crush them. Temporarily deafened, Bedford found himself hauled upwards by the elbow by the thinner man, who picked up his cases from the ground and headed off towards where the western wall of the mansion once stood. The dust was starting to clear, with the odd bit of debris rattling down from the top of the gaping hole. This madman and his chum were just toddling towards it like it was the door of a train they wished to catch. Clearly they’d done this sort of thing before—so why lie to him about the missing nephew?

He’d have to be on his guard. He pulled out one of his pistols. At least he could trust to his guns, and if anything these two seemed to be pretty damn effective when it came to getting to Annabelle in the most direct way possible.

Souptown’s residents were starting to cautiously peer out from doorways and windows, with the braver sorts starting to ready their weapons as they made their way towards the smoking mansion. Bedford was relieved to see that the Soup Twins weren’t so beloved by their populace that anyone was rushing too quickly to find out what was happening, or even if they were injured. The scattered guards had fled the moment they heard the blast.

When Bedford clambered through the hole in the wall, waving the choking plaster dust away from his eyes and mouth, the two men were standing with their hands in their pockets, idly looking up at the ceiling and taking in what little décor remained untouched by the blast. A couple of scantily-clad girls peered down nervously from the balcony, and the fatter of the two men even had the gall to give one of them a cheerful wave and a wink.

“The perils of neoclassical excess, eh, Mister Baxter?”

“Excess is the right word, Mister Henry. Can’t buy taste, what?”

The one called Mister Henry chortled affably and started rooting around in one of his bags. With a clank and a flourish be brought out a large leather brazer that gleamed and jangled with buckles, attached to a small steel chain whose one end was fed into a small, neat spring-loaded mechanism attached to a running wheel. He handed it to Baxter who began to strap it around his wrist. Henry rummaged again, this time pulling out the bizarre, trumpet-shaped barrel of a large blunderbuss. It was quite easily the biggest example Bedford had ever seen, with a wide gaping mouth at the end. He propped it up and then brought out the stock and handle, clicking them together with military precision and winding the little screws to hold it all in place. The was a small mechanical housing just before the trigger-guard, and into this Henry neatly clapped a circular magazine packed with shells full of buckshot. He smiled contentedly as he stood up and cocked it.

Baxter, meanwhile, unbuttoned the front of his velvet frock-coat and pulled the lapel to one side—inside his jacket were stored dozens of different types of scalpels with their blades sheathed in an elegant little metal rack. Baxter clipped the small chain to the handle of the scalpel and tossed the silver knife up into the air. With a deft flick of his wrist he activated the spring-loaded wheel and the knife shot back to his hand, where it was expertly caught. Baxter chortled as he turned around to Bedford, but then his eyes suddenly narrowed. Almost as quick as Bedford on the draw, the well-dressed, impeccably polite gent flicked his wrist up, and Bedford even felt the wind of it swish past his ear. He just turned around in time to see the Souptown bandit drop the gun he had been aiming at them before the knife whipped back from the man’s throat and straight back to Baxter’s hand.

“That should give them pause for thought.”

“And if it doesn’t,” boomed Henry, brandishing the blunderbuss, “I’ll give ‘em a taste of this!”

“Quite so, quite so.” Baxter took a pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked it. “I say, these Soup chappies should’ve been here by now. Blast of that magnitude would’ve got their attention, I’d have thought.”

Henry rattled his blunderbuss again. “We’ll hunt them down,” he roared “like rabid, scampering dogs!”

Speak of the devils and the two dogs appeared, barging through the wooden doors opposite the curious duo and Bedford, still bickering but now holding their twin Winchesters before their oversized stomachs. They stopped dead when they saw who was standing there. As wholly different as their personalities seemed to be, they sure got the same look on their face when they knew their lives were in danger. They turned and fled just as Henry raised his fearsome firearm and let rip with a volley of five or six shells, blasting the door on the right off its hinges.

“You’re insane!” stammered Bedford.

“No no,” corrected Baxter. “He’s theatrical.”

2.

ANNABELLE HEARD THE FAT slap of the Twins’ running footsteps long before they had reached the door to the foundry. She had plenty of time to prepare. There had been many knives for her and Enderby to choose from. The spy scoffed when she picked the bowie knife with the dulled blade, but he didn’t know that she was taking it precisely because it was dulled. He chose a sort of small bone-saw with a serrated edge, but only after he’d gathered up a couple of small bags of glistening aleksandrite.

“That belongs to the apache,” Annabelle had said.

“That’s for the Crown to decide. And Tooler, most likely. Look, let’s get out of this alive and bicker later, hmm? By Christ, I preferred you as a girl.”

“Be quiet, Enderby.”

After that, they got in position, readying themselves at the side of the doors the Twins were momentarily about to burst through. As soon as they did, both red in the face and huffing like grampuses, Annabelle and Enderby sprang into action and soon had the blades at their throats. The twin Annabelle had grabbed dropped his rifle with surprise, but the one threatened by Enderby was still holding onto his, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

“You don’t understand,” he babbled. “They’re here to kill us!”

“I’m here to kill you!” Annabelle hissed.

“Now now, Mrs Bedford,” chided Enderby in that insufferably smug way of his. “Let’s not be ungracious to our hosts. They might have a lot of useful information we can use.”

Annabelle’s face felt terribly flush, and the heat from the profusely-sweating Soup Twin felt like it was starting to seep through her clothes. She was sick of this; being talked down to by this idiot man, the sacred places of her adopted culture desecrated, the spoils used for slaughter or bartered for favour. The loss had broken Goyahkla, fractured the spirit of the apaches. She could feel their loss even now and hankered to avenge it. The image of the scalp George had hidden from her flashed in her mind, and she pressed the blade of the bowie slightly closer to the twin’s fat neck. She felt down with her other hand, to his pockets. There were a few bills and a pocket watch, but besides that he was free of any weapons. She brought her knee up to the small of his back and pushed him roughly to his knees, winding him. Before he had even had time to recover she had snatched up the rifle with the gold filigree and was pointing the barrel straight at him.

“I have to admit this is a beautifully made weapon. But will it kill you or your brother? Tell me, Soup Twins, which one of you is Casey?”

The brothers hands whipped up and they pointed at each other. “He is!” they said in unison.

3.

“THEN HOW DO YOU suppose we get out?”

Nathaniel was happy with Tally—despite everything he had seen and experienced on Luna, he still remained stout and determined. A steady arm in a violent storm—at least metaphorically, since Nathaniel was well aware of the added damage done to Tally’s arm during his attempts to save Nathaniel. He didn’t say any of this, of course, he simply shrugged. “The Drobates will let us out.”

“Why would they do that? We’re the enemy.”

Nathaniel carefully looked at Tally through the gloom of the tunnel. “The Heart guides them, not makes them the enemy. They are just protecting what is, essentially, their god.”

“Why now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you not? You said the Heart was guiding you, or do not remember that now?”

Nathaniel smiled, glad Tally could not see him clearly in the gloom. It was good that Tally was suspicious. It suited his new line of work. But too much suspicion would be a mistake right now. “I remember, yes, and that is why I know. This is not an attack. It is simply the Drobates telling the humans to leave.”

“Couldn’t they just ask?”

“Tally, how are things in Ireland?”

Even in the dark Nathaniel could see Tally smile at that. “Sure and you have a point there.” They walked a little further in silence. “Where are we going now?”

Nathaniel had been down this tunnel before. A year ago almost, when he and several others had been rescued from the city by then-Lieutenant Bedford and a contingent of marines from Sovereign, after being on the receiving end of Drobate hospitality. It seemed so long ago now. So much had been experienced since then, so much discovered about the Drobates and the Heart.

“There’s a railroad a short way up,” he said, “it will eventually lead us to the Heart Chamber below Otterbein. With all the chaos there, we should easily be able to slip in. And if they ask, I will simply say I was off being solitary.”

“Solitary with me?”

“So it would seem.”

“Yer a queer feller at times, Nate. And if yer don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think this place is doing ya any good at all. Yer don’t seem the same man to me.”

Nathaniel stopped suddenly. Tally glanced back.

“This is me,” Nathaniel said, holding out his hands. “I appreciate I may seem more focussed on my work than usual, but sometimes it is easier to be like that than to think of all the pain and hurt I have been a part of. Edwin, Annabelle, Arnaud.” He shook his head. “And I suspect there is much to come. Tally, when do you suppose you will be able to return home?”

“Not for a long time.”

“No, but at least you have the chance. I am officially dead—I died a hero who was once accused of treason, or at least that is how my family will remember me; a role I agreed to play because I became tired of the danger my life had become to others. My brother died because of me, because of cowards who hide behind their political agendas in the name of the glorious British Empire. He was made a hero, given the award the government wished to bestow on me. Can you imagine that? They destroyed my life, made me a pawn in their political power struggle, and then awarded me the Order of the Royal Red Cross for services to the empire! Perhaps one day the truth will emerge, but I fear by that time the men involved, those who forced me into all this, admit to their roles, it will be too late. I can never return home, not ever. And in the meantime those around me continue to get hurt. I mean, look at your arm!”

“It’ll heal. Don’t yer be worrying about me.”

With a deep sigh Nathaniel lowered his head. For a moment there was silence, save for the occasional sound of water dripping, its echo like the void Nathaniel sometimes felt in his heart.

Tally placed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “You need to stop worrying about yer friends, Nate. Perhaps we’re all willing to go through this for you? Have yer never thought of that?”

“Tally…” Nathaniel forced a smile. “This is the man they’ve made me become. I sometimes forget that, and convince myself I am still Nathanial Stone of Putney Parish, but I am not. I am so far from that young naive fool who was invited to Arizona to work alongside Doctor Grant in ‘88. If I could have foreseen what would happen, I would have absolutely refused to join Sovereign on her rescue of Grant and Annabelle in the first place.”

“Stop being daft, man. We are all forged by the fire of circumstance—I am who I am because of all the circumstances of me upbringing. But I’m more than that, too. I like to think I am, at least, a good man. And so are you. That’s the truth. I’ve known it since I dragged you out of that pub. I’ve seen it. But,” at this point Tally smiled that cheeky grin that had first endeared him to Nathaniel. “But ya need to tell me one thing. Something I don’t understand. When ya got caught up in that glow, you shouted something.”

“Kaskuu-Losaa,” Nathaniel whispered.

“Aye, that. What does it mean?”

Nathaniel gathered himself up to his full height. “Let us walk, and I shall tell you what I have learned. I cannot tell you all, but when I was surrounded by the glow, I saw so much. Whatever the Heart was transmitting, all of it passed through me. So much that I do not think my mind can quite grasp all of it. But what I do know, I shall tell.”

“Sure and I doubt much of it will make sense to me,” Tally said, with a soft laugh, and the two men set off again.

Nathaniel tried to remember, to make sense of the madness that had surged through him. And it was madness—the thoughts and images, the ideas, the sheer scope of what he had been exposed to. The memories of millennia, events that shaped the very universe itself. How could he hope to actualise such thoughts? For Tally he would at least try.

“Kaskuu is a word not said in millennia, a name unknown to man until now. It is the Heart’s name. Although I do believe it is a name that has passed into mythology on Earth, or at least a derivation of it. Perhaps a result of the Drobates presence—a telepathic race memory, if you will? I do not know, but I feel I am right, simply because I have learned the names of eleven other Hearts, those scattered throughout the Solar System, and all of them have informed the names of lunar deities on Earth.

“Two I have met, although one was dead. Awlii I have known as Hermes, the intelligence that resided in the crystal plates of Mercury—all that is left of his body. And Anuuti, the Eye of Phobos. There are nine others, all existing within moons, and all, unless I am mistaken, either still asleep or dead.”

“And that other name you said—Losaa?”

“Yes, it was to Losaa that Kaskuu was communicating and not Plypolyplon like I incorrectly surmised.”

Tally patted him on the shoulder. “Well, yer weren’t to know.”

“Yes, thank you, but I was not feeling inadequate. Theories are only theories until proven true, or not. It is the nature of science.”

“Right so.”

They shared a sideways glance. Tally chuckled first, and shrugged, and before Nathaniel knew it he, too, was laughing. He was rather thankful to have Tally for company. True he did miss Arnaud and Annabelle, but they knew too much about him, and it felt good to be around someone who only knew what Nathaniel cared to share. In some way it made the moment more important to him, although he could not quite think why.

“Do yer know what these Hearts are?” Tally asked suddenly.

“Yes. They are Watchers—the Thirteen Watchers, sent to observe and guide the Drobates. The great experiment, to see how higher life forms evolved. But something went wrong, caused them all to shut down millennia ago.” Nathaniel glanced at Tally, his face a mask of concentration. “This is too much for you?”

Tally shook his head. “No, I can keep up. Not sure if I can get my head around this all, but I understand what yer saying.”

“Then if you find this concept difficult to digest, you can imagine a little of how I feel. So much is inside here,” Nathaniel said and tapped his head. “Much more than I will ever be able to recall. Do you know, exposure to Kaskuu drove Grant mad? Tereshkov was, of course, quite insane before he arrived on Luna, but knowledge of what Kaskuu contained pushed him over the brink. We are quite fortunate he is dead.”

“And what about yerself?” Tally looked at him closely. “Are yer feeling a spot of lunacy coming on?”

“No, not yet. I shall let you know at the first sign. But I can quite understand how Grant went mad now.”

“I’m not sure that understanding madness is a good thing.” Tally removed a cigarette and placed it in his mouth, and began to chew it. “You said there are twelve Hearts out there, but Thirteen Watchers? Did someone do their sums wrong?”

“No, there is another. But… I do not know how to explain it; only that Kaskuu will not reveal it to me, that…yes, that to find the thirteenth will only end in madness.”

“All this talk of madness. What happened to all that guff about the Heart being pure?”

“Yes, and this is why.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” With that Nathaniel quickened his pace, glad to be free of that conversation. There was so much more to learn, to understand, but his head felt tired. Being human, it seemed, had its limits. Still, he had a long journey ahead of him—plenty of time to work out what he now knew.

4.

HENRY AND BAXTER DISPLAYED no haste as they made their way through the corridors of the mansion towards the foundry. Henry was even humming some jaunty music hall number under his breath as they stepped neatly through the debris that had rattled down from the explosion. Bedford followed warily, his revolver ready and his finger on the trigger. But for the most part the curious pair seemed to be ignoring him.

They slowed their approach slightly when they came upon a set of large metal doors swinging open at the hinges. Henry poked his nose around the edge before ducking back. “All clear,” he said, and he tapped his nose.

Bedford followed him into a dimly-lit metal corridor where the coals of smelters and ironmongery tools gave a glow to the hot, oily air. The booths to the sides of this corridor—which Bedford thought may well bear an uncanny resemblance to Hell itself—had workbenches covered in twisted bands of scrap metals and, on occasion, a man cowering in the shadows of some recess of his workstation, camouflaged by the soot and grime caked to his face.

It didn’t take Baxter long to spot one of these unfortunates, and he stepped smartly towards the lurking figure and doffed his top hat.

“Come on out,” he said cheerfully. “We won’t hurt you.”

The man waited for a moment in the darkness. The outline of his silhouette was just about visible, but it did not move a fraction of an inch. Then, some desperate part of his mind urged him forward to his doom or deliverance, and he stepped out into the light. He was younger than Bedford expected—maybe in his early or mid-twenties—but his sunken cheeks and eye-sockets and general sense of desperation made him appear far, far older.

“Now,” said Baxter paternally, stepping forward gently to the youth, “what’s been going on here then, eh?”

“It was the twins, your honour.”

Baxter chortled gamely, turning around to catch Henry’s eye. “Your honour indeed. Please go on.”

“Well, they got us building all these cages, see. Like a suit of knight’s armour, like they got in England. We just put ‘em through the hatches, and…that was that. Then…then there was the hangings.”

“How terrible for you, my’boy.”

“The hatch up there.” He pointed to a trap-door set into the ceiling at the furthest end of the hellish corridor. “When they strung someone up we had to stand there an’ catch ‘em before the rope bit. Sometimes we didn’t make it, and then one of us would have to go instead. It was Hell on Earth, mister. Why did they do this to us?”

“They’re not very nice men, that’s why, m’lad. But don’t fret. They’ll get their comeuppance, you mark my words. Well, I think that’s everything. What do you reckon, Mister Henry?”

“I don’t see the harm,” grumbled Henry, somewhat sourly.

“Splendid. Well, then you and your fellow captives are free to go. I’d get out of Souptown pretty quickly if I were you, m’boy. Don’t even pack your things, and spread the word. I’m afraid this is the end of Souptown, and those who remain will be playing a dangerous game with their life. Oh, and tell everyone to avoid the western roads—there’s a small band of apaches camped there. Toodle-loo!” He patted the boy on the back and nudged him on his way.

“Wait,” said Bedford, catching the boy’s arm. He leaned in close so Henry and Baxter couldn’t hear. “While you’ve been trapped here,” he hissed. “Have you seen a boy? Named Andy Bell?”

“No sir, we don’t really speak in here. T’ain’t allowed. Sometimes he gets us to sing. Like hymns, y’know. A choir. It’s ghostly.”

“How about a green mineral, then? Like crystal shards. They glow.”

“Seen a green glow sometimes, sir. Always seemed to come at the same time as the screaming. Only I can’t say I paid much attention ‘cause those were the times we sung the loudest.”

5.

THE RIFLE’S BARREL WAVERED between the two identical heads, both with the same panicked expression and quivering hands outstretched. She couldn’t really make the shot on the twin Enderby was holding. She was good, but who knew what extra firepower this fancy weapon had hidden in its working? She’d probably get the twin but might rip off half of Enderby’s face into the bargain—and as satisfying as that might be, the man was not so obnoxious as to really deserve it. Just. She’d have to take her chances with the twin kneeling on the floor. It was still vengeance, as far as she was concerned. The Bureau and all their petty, bullish manoeuvrings could go hang. She cocked the rifle.

“Mrs Bedford!” called a voice. It was the last thing she would have expected—the clear, bright tones of a well-educated English voice. For a second a heart leapt and she thought it might be George, but no—it was older, and far too plummy.

She backed away from the door slightly, keeping the Winchester trailed on the prostrate twin. Enderby held his position but twisted his captive’s arm to ensure total compliance. A thin trickle of blood was starting to dampen his collar where the saw’s teeth had dug into his flesh.

“Annabelle!” she heard, and this time it was him. “Are you safe? Annabelle!”

“George!” she yelled, and the footsteps started towards her. “Be careful, George!”

She heard the voice of the older gentleman say “Mister Bedford, please, let’s not be hasty…” But his voice trailed off as George jogged cautiously into the room, his pistol drawn. He took in the scene around him—the captive twins, Annabelle standing, ready to fire.

“I don’t know why I worried,” he said.

“Now’s not the time to be glib, Bedford,” said Enderby. “I know that voice. Get behind the door.”

George quickly complied. “You know those two?” he asked.

“Seen them in the offices a couple of times,” hissed Enderby. “Sometimes in the better class of Soho men’s clubs, too. Freelancers. I know Tooler certainly had sent them out a couple of times, but I didn’t pay them much mind. They looked more like the diplomatic sort. Then we got wind of who else who they were working for, and exactly what it was they were offering.”

“A very concise approximation, m’boy. Do give my regards to Mister Tooler, and tell him his wife’s apricot jam is simply the finest I have ever tasted. And as our reputation precedes us, let us not waste time.”

A man stepped through the doorway, carrying the carpet-bag in his left hand. He looked up and brought his arm forward with an impossible swiftness, a scalpel flying from his hand, whipping through the air to embed itself half an inch from the knuckles Enderby was using to hold his saw, straight through the windpipe of the twin. There was a second, and then blood began to flow freely from the wound.

“Eustace!” screamed the other twin.

“Well,” said Annabelle. “I’m glad we got that solved.” She raised the rifle and fired at the assassin, who ducked out of the way but fumbled as the scalpel whipped back to his fingers on the thin chain, dropping his carpet-bag in the process.

Enderby let the twin go as the blood began to flow more readily. The twin had gone limp and was gurgling slightly. The heavy body fell and twisted; Enderby could see Eustace’s eyes had swivelled up into his skull. Thinking quickly, he yanked the strap of the Winchester and pulled the weapon with him as he darted to one side. Quickly, he doubled back and ran into the room, darting across the floor to pick up the other Soup Twin up from his knees and drag him to relative safety.

“Don’t kill this one,” he scowled across to Annabelle. “We need him.”

But Casey wasn’t beaten yet. With Enderby’s attention directed at his crowing, the more cunning of the two brothers brought his elbow up sharply into the agent’s solar plexus. In spite of the shock and the sudden pain, Enderby’s honed instincts kicked in and he turned away from the blow, making sure Casey couldn’t snatch the Winchester back from his grip. He was surprised when no such grapple came, and looked up to see Annabelle taking aim at Casey as he dashed across to the other side of lab.

“No!” yelled Enderby. “Don’t kill him!”

There came a resounding boom as a blunderbuss went off again, and everyone bar Casey staggered as the heavy metal-framed door was blasted off its hinges not far from where they were standing. Annabelle had fallen back awkwardly on her prosthetic leg, and she struggled to raise herself back up to aim. George fired a warning shot high above the bandit leader’s head but it did not deter him from reaching his goal. The bulky, roughly man-shaped object covered by the sheeting with the rusty brown stains. Casey pulled the covering away to reveal what remained of Harry Mackett, the poor hanged boy, jammed into the hideous armour like a ragdoll.

Casey grabbed a lever by the side and pulled down with all his might. Sluggish green liquid began to pump through the tubes that wrapped his savaged, broken limbs as a wound spring began to slowly depress the plungers on a set of copper syringes bolted just above his heart. The body seemed to twist and jolt as the clamps holding its arms and legs against the upright operating table sprang free, and it stepped uneasily out into the foundry, as if drunk. The head seemed to sway momentarily, then the brute raised its head up and roared, its eyes wide, throwing its arms to the side as if to greedily suck up the strength from that glowing heart of power.

Casey scrambled off to one side and Enderby yelled; “Annabelle, look out!” She only just had enough time to turn to see the scalpel blade, its tip glinting despite the gloom, heading directly towards her.