Beneath Ceaseless Skies #88 Read online

  Issue #88 • Feb, 9, 2012

  “The Empire of Nothingness,” by Geoffrey Maloney

  “The Proof of Bravery,” by David Milstein

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  THE EMPIRE OF NOTHINGNESS

  by Geoffrey Maloney

  Overture: The God-Killer

  “So there we were, Adams and myself, in the sitting room of the Resident’s bungalow at Kalapur. We had the civilians safely upstairs and our infantry in the residency garden, exchanging cannon shot upon cannon shot with the mutineers. The first we knew that our line was broken was when this mountainous great native came crashing through the window. Seven feet tall he was, I swear it. And the bastard’s got this huge sabre in his hand that he starts swirling all over the place. Then Adams says, cool as a cucumber, ‘Should I give him the full twelve or do you think six will do?’

  “Now this is that silly gun Adams claimed he himself invented. Weighs a ton, the damn thing does. It has twelve chambers which may be fired individually, or a combination of the chambers simultaneously. At this stage, I was down to nothing but my ghurka, so I said to Adams, ‘Dear chap, I think the circumstances warrant the full twelve.’

  “No sooner had I said this than Adams blasts away. The native went one way, his arms and legs blown to the four corners of the room, his head blasted out through the window. Adams went the other way, the recoil of the gun smashing him into the rear wall of the sitting room. He was dead by the time I got to him. There was nothing I could do but close his eyes, place two coins upon them and a farewell kiss upon his lips.

  “The day after the siege was broken, the mutineer’s head, still intact, was found on the cantonment’s cricket field. A few of the local lads were using it for football practice.

  “So the moral of the story, gentleman, is that the Adams revolver cannot be trusted. I thank God he had it with him that day, and that he used it to save my life. But his own gun did kill him in the doing of it.”

  Major Powell, finished with his story, took his choti peg of whiskey from the Kalicut Turf Club’s immaculately polished bar and drank it down in one go.

  “Major Powell,” cried one of the small crowd who had listened to his tale, a gleam of intelligent eagerness showing in his bespectacled eyes, “what if you had advised Major Adams only to trust the simultaneous firing of six chambers. Perhaps that would have won the day and Major Adams may have lived to tell the tale as well.”

  Powell studied the man for a moment. Captain Aspley. Of the Intelligence Branch. Clearly not a military man. His domain was the facts and figures and strategies of books and paper files. All the tangible and intangible knowledge of the Empire reduced to so much paper. Powell found the thought of that entirely depressing.

  “An astute observation, Captain Aspley. But this was a field situation, not a controlled experiment in the laboratory. And no doubt should the boffins have done the right thing, Adams’s revolver would have been well-tested and its limits proven, and the intelligence of that conveyed to us all, before Adams introduced it into the field. Alas, it was not so.”

  Just then Major Powell caught sight of a man at the back of the group waving a black handkerchief at him. “You will excuse me, gentleman, Her Majesty calls.”

  “Major, just one more question.” It was Aspley again. “Is it true that you, yourself, still use an Adams revolver.”

  “Indeed I do,” Powell replied. “But as a repeating revolver only, each bullet fired in series, never in parallel. You will understand the wisdom of that, of course. Now, as I said, duty calls.”

  Sergeant McKenzie, short in stature, broad in build, was waiting on the steps of the club. He handed Powell a crisp cream envelope. It was under Her Majesty’s black seal. Powell took it into his hands carefully, gracefully, as if he had just been given a gift from the gods. With long slender fingers, he broke the seal and extracted the delicate sheet of paper that held his orders.

  “Sergeant, the Black Flag summons us,” Powell said. “A small party this time. A long journey. Recruit a couple of chaps from the Engineers. Make sure they’ve got some carpentry skills, boat building experience if at all possible.

  “We’ll need somebody from Intelligence as well.” He stroked his moustache. “Aspley’s one of the Flag. Yes, he will do nicely. Get onto his superiors. The idiots won’t understand, but they’ll know what it means: Captain Aspley is required for some obscure mission they care little or nothing about. It would be so much easier if we were in charge of everything, but there are so few of us and so many of them. The world is full of poodle-fakers, is it not?”

  * * *

  Part I: The Burden of the Desert

  On a sandy beach, far up the meandering Cremorne, at the breaking edge of the Empire’s newest colony, five men lay face -down, their hands strapped behind their backs and their mouths gagged. These were the captain and the crew of the River Rover, a steam-driven barge hauler that had travelled one port too far.

  Major Christopher Powell of Her Majesty’s Black Flag strode up and down the firm wet sand, surveying his captives and enjoying the early morning sunshine. With his tanned face and aquiline nose, he could have easily passed for a member of the Pakhtun tribe, a warrior race that inhabited another breaking border of Her Majesty’s Empire in a far and distant land. Further up the beach, on higher ground, Powell’s subordinates, Captain Richard Aspley, Sergeant McKenzie, and the two privates, Benson and O’Neill, laboured to calm the horses and shackle the bullocks to their dray.

  “Captain Aspley,” Powell called out, “bring your journal please.”

  Aspley finished securing his mare, then grabbed his leather-bound journal from his saddle bag. He sat himself down upon the beach cross-legged, adjusted his spectacles, and opened his journal, ready once more to play the role of loyal intelligence officer to Powell’s warrior major.

  “Such a glorious morning for the executioner to call,” Major Powell said, pulling the Adams from his holster and walking to the first man. “Captain Aspley, please read the charges.”

  “Stephen Lewis, boat-hand. Asked too many questions, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, he was the one who said, ‘Gotta be madder than a cut snake to go up to Claridine these days. Madder than ten cut snakes to go beyond it, out there into nothing. You chasing something, I reckon.’”

  “Well, remembered, sir,” Aspley replied. “Nicely mimicked.”

  “Oh, sweet dreams! Oh, pleasant land of solitude and mystery,” Powell said as he fired his first shot into the back of the boat-hand’s head and moved to the next prisoner.

  “Daniel Sharpener. First mate. Another who asked too many questions, sir, and not as sharp as he should have been,” Aspley said.

  The second shot was fired. “The sun upon my skin, the taste of the air, the scent of the soil and the stillness, the immaculate, immaculate stillness of it all,” Powell said. “You may omit your feeble humour, captain. Next.”

  “Captain Frobisher. Asked for too much money to hold his tongue, sir,”

  “Never was there such a country full of nothing,” Powell continued, aiming his pistol once more. He pulled the trigger. “Sweet dreams, Captain Frobisher, a pleasant solitude. A bullet always buys more quietness than all the gold in Ophir. Next...”

  Two more bullets were fired. Captain Aspley closed his book and rose to his feet. It was a pity, he thought, but still it was work that had to be done. Order was being brought to the natural chaos of the world. Tough measures were needed. Sacrifices had to be made. He looked forward to the day when the Empire completed its dominion of the globe and peace and prosperity for all p
revailed. In any case, men of this kind knew nothing but rough justice anyway.

  “Sergeant,” he called. “When you have finished loading, arrange for the deceased men to be returned to the ship, then torch the lot of it. I imagine these ill-repaired steamers are always blowing, and a wash of charcoal down the river will bring no surprises.”

  “Aye, Captain,” McKenzie said. “No surprises. I’ll grant you’re right.”

  “Splendid, isn’t it?” Powell said, coming up behind Aspley. “It is an immaculate land. Can you feel it, Aspley, can you feel it calling us?”

  And there was such a passion in Powell’s voice that for a moment Aspley did listen, capturing the sound of the she-oaks whispering and the soughing of the tall white gums in the breeze. But there was no hint of anything else.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Captain Aspley replied. “I know nothing of the purpose of our endeavour but follow my orders as my duty requires.”

  “Nor do I, Captain, nor do I, but all shall be revealed in due course.” Powell winked at him and tapped the breast pocket of his jacket where he kept the next of his sealed orders. “Our instructions are to follow the river to its source, and that is all we need know for the moment.”

  Major Powell climbed the riverbank, up to the rest of his men. “Gentlemen, when you have finished your work please change into your regimental khaki. We are no longer required to cloak ourselves as simple-minded gold-diggers. This is an official expedition of Her Majesty’s Government. We sail under the Black Flag.”

  * * *

  The Journal of Captain Richard Aspley

  25th June

  We have followed the river for three days as it cuts its course through a green valley. It has narrowed severely, now barely broad enough to take a canoe, yet its flow remains strong.

  Game is abundant and a number of kangaroos have been slaughtered. The meat when roasted over the fire is pleasant enough, and certainly the freshness of it is preferable to the salted beef we keep in reserve. Major Powell has insisted that we live off the land, in so far as it is possible to do so, and save the major portion of our provisions for the day when no further choice remains to us. As always with such remarks, Major Powell seems to hint that he may know more than he is willing to allow myself or the others be privy to.

  Later ~

  The river petered out shortly after lunch, ending in a small marshy lake thick with reeds. Major Powell and I rode ahead. After a distance of only a few miles, we found our further passage blocked by sheer granite cliffs that reflected the sun harshly. The river and its valley had come to a simultaneous end.

  I thought at this point that Major Powell would pull the next of his orders from his pocket and break their seal. In fact, I willed him to do that very thing, but he did not. He merely dismounted his horse and gazed upwards, to the top of the hills.

  At that very moment, a flock of birds passed overhead. There were perhaps twelve or more of them flying in a tight skein, each one with great white wings seemingly etched into the bright blue sky.

  “Ibis. Water-birds,” Major Powell declared. “It augurs well. We shall climb. It is up and over, we shall go.”

  I am no ornithologist, but I doubted the birds were ibis; their beaks were too short. “But the river ends here,” I replied, hoping that would be hint enough that our new orders were called for. A gust of wind blew down the valley, as if the earth itself had sighed with the exasperation I myself felt.

  Powell crouched down and turned over a rock. Its underside was dark with moisture. “You see, dear Aspley, the river has merely gone underground. We shall find it again on the other side.” And the tone of his voice bespoke of such certainty that I raised no further objection.

  Night ~

  Major Powell has retired to his tent. Since early evening he has entertained Private O’Neill with rum tinctured with laudanum. I heard Powell reading poetry to the young O’Neill earlier: “Oh, great and silent land. Oh, timeless ancient place. Before you we should kneel, be humble in your space...” Clearly, the laudanum has gone to his head. Bad poetry appears to be the most obvious symptom.

  I advised Sergeant McKenzie that he should discipline O’Neill. McKenzie whacked me on the shoulder in an overly familiar fashion. “Aye, sir,” he said, “you’re right, but he’s a good carpenter as well as a pretty face. Been a boat-builder too. One thing I’ve heard about Major Powell, sir, is that he knows how to pick his men. Wouldn’t any of us be here otherwise if it weren’t the case.”

  “Which means?” I said.

  “Well, sir, I don’t mean to be too presumptuous, but it’s plain as day to me and the lads that it’s the inland sea we’re chasing, and we’ll be needing boats when we get there, so as to chart its waters. After all, we’ve got the mast and sails packed away at the bottom of the dray.”

  “Yes, sergeant,” I replied, “that is a presumption on your part.”

  “I understand, Captain,” McKenzie said. “It’s all part of the great game we are upon, and knowledge is revealed as and when the time demands.”

  Sergeant McKenzie departed, certain in this venture. I reinforce his certainty merely by saying he is presumptuous. But he is an Engineer, and like all Engineers, a builder at heart. Military men grow restless when there are no skirmishes to be involved in. McKenzie and his ilk are happy if there is a wheel or an axel that warrants repair, and officers from Intelligence, such as myself, are at their wit’s end when they do not have enough information upon which to judge the validity of actions being taken. I find myself thinking frequently of the orders that Powell carries, believing that they will reveal the true nature of our journey when they are finally opened.

  More bad poetry has disturbed the quiet night. Just now Powell cried from his tent, “Oh, great gods, in heavenly abodes. Grant me this. Forever in a sunburnt country I shall dwell.”

  I shall go to sleep now, I tell myself. Mast and sails packed away! A flock of ibis! Folly, indeed.

  26th June

  Today I advised Major Powell of the work that needed to be done to reconstruct the dray to accommodate the bullocks harnessed in single-file for our journey up and over. He had a haggard look in his eye that bespoke of too much rum and too little sleep. He nodded abruptly, giving his assent to the plan, then retired to his tent to wrestle with the dog that bit him last night.

  Seeing that McKenzie and his men were working in good order, I saddled my horse and ventured up the hills, anxious to gain some knowledge of the land that lay ahead. I was not convinced as Powell was that the river would suddenly burst forth into a stupendous flow once we were on the other side.

  It is almost impossible for me to convey with words the sight that greeted my eyes. Ahead lay a desert that was more worthy of the name than any desert I had ever seen or heard of before. There was nothing but a barren featureless plain reaching all the way to the horizon—dramatic only because of the rich red iron oxide of its sandy soil. There were no trees, no rivers, no rocky formations protruding randomly, nothing to shield man or beast from the savage beating of the sun.

  Such a stark opposition in nature I have never before borne witness to, as if the ridge of hills upon which I stood were the boundary line that demarcated the territories of heaven from hell.

  As the sun was fast approaching its zenith, I took my sextant, almanac, and chronometer from my saddle-bags and took my readings. The heat of the day had cast a pall upon the landscape. No birdsong or breeze stirred the air, nothing save the constant droning of insects to break the silence. Thus I moved along the ridge, feeling for a moment that I was utterly alone in this world, taking my readings and gathering a sense of foreboding for the journey that lay ahead.

  * * *

  Terra Incognito

  The expedition was strung out in a weary line. The ground beneath men and beasts was cracked and hard-baked. A dry red ochre, it crumbled to dust beneath foot and hoof. Above, the sky was a listless blue, pale and washed out, bleached by a sun that burnt white hot.
<
br />   As always, Major Powell led the way, but he had abandoned his horse and now travelled on foot. Slowly a step this way, slowly a step that way, the course he charted departing in peregrinations from the expedition’s preferred linear progression. In his hand he held a y-shaped stick, cut from a gum upon the hills they had recently left. It twitched frantically as he walked, possibly from the tension in his wrists or perhaps, Captain Aspley thought, from the underground river whose course Powell was certain he was divining with his dowsing. When the twitching ceased suddenly, Powell turned this way then that, seeking the change of direction for the water he was sure still flowed beneath.

  Surely, this was madness, Aspley thought, then cast a look at Sergeant McKenzie who rode beside him, fearing he had voiced those thoughts. But McKenzie it seemed had heard nothing or, if he had, felt in no need of a reply. He stared resolutely ahead, his eyes fixed upon a horizon that should have been sharp and clear, with the vivid redness of the desert contrasting so sharply with the bright blue of the sky, yet it was not. The certainty of it was completely lost in a savage heat haze.

  A cry came from up ahead. Major Powell’s strange dance had come to an end. He stood rigid. Just for a moment. Then he flung his dowsing stick to the ground and cracked it beneath the heel of this boot.

  “At a guess, sir, I’d say,” Sergeant McKenzie ventured, “that Major Powell himself now believes the river has run dry.” And there was a smile upon his face that showed a man of his years and experience knew well the vagaries of those he’d served under.

  “Aspley!”

  Another cry from Powell. Aspley spurred his horse into a quick trot.

  If Powell was angry at the loss of his river, he did not show it. Certainly, his face was a little reddened, like those of the others, but that was more from the scorching fingers of the sun than a flush of sudden emotion. “Telescope,” he said.

  Aspley took the heavy brass instrument from its sling on his saddle and placed it in Powell’s hands. Powell tested the weight of it for a moment; then raised it to his eye and swept the limitless earth before them. He found nothing, as Aspley had predicted from their vantage point in the hills some days before.