The Ghost Rebellion Read online

  Slowly, Wellington rocked up to a sitting position, and that was when he observed Lord Featherstone still in the air. He seemed to hang in the æther for a moment before plummeting like a stone. He hit the water hard, but then there was as second, more muffled impact. The passengers for all their terror were peering over the side, and then came the screams. One or two took time out from doing that to throw up on the deck.

  “Welly!” Eliza called, worming her way through the crush of sailors that were still getting to their feet. “Welly!”

  “I’m alive,” Wellington groaned. He looked at the pistol in his hand. There were muscles he didn’t know existed that ached, and he had been on the shooting end. “What on earth do Axelrod and Blackwell call this?”

  “I believe Blackwell called it the Mule’s Kick.”

  “Aptly named,” he said, craning his neck. “Featherstone alive?”

  “Not bloody likely,” Eliza said, with a tilt of her head. “I saw the ship’s bow mow him down, then he disappeared under the keel. I doubt Jekyll’s serum gave him gills, even if by some miracle the ship didn’t cut him in two.”

  “Dashitall,” Wellington said. “We needed him alive.”

  Eliza let the Mark IV rest on her shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to go through Lord Featherstone’s suite. I believe his was Number Twelve.”

  “Will you need a key?”

  She jerked her head towards her rifle and grinned. “I always travel with some way of getting in.”

  “Well then, let us not stand on ceremony.” Wellington motioned back towards the rest of the ship. The gesture hurt. He suspected everything would hurt for quite some time.

  “Oh, and I’m sorry you did not make it to dessert, darling,” Eliza said, putting a hand around his elbow. “I know how much you love crème brûlée. Maybe we can get the chef to make you some more.”

  “I fear, my sweet Eliza, that the time for brûlée has well and truly passed.”

  Interlude

  In Which a House Falls Under New Management

  Mr Jeremy Elliott tapped his fingernails on the long, mahogany table in front of him. Time was money, and it had been far too a long an airship journey from Manchester to Toronto to be kept waiting like this. A swift glance to each side of him confirmed to the Englishman he was not the only one with this thought: all of the men seated in the boardroom looked uncomfortable or completely outraged at being kept waiting. They shot each other covert looks over their starched collars and perfectly knotted ties.

  The hotel being so unfamiliar had put them all on edge to begin with, but discovering the hotel staffed as it was only elevated the tension. Usually they met on airships, or on a House of Usher submersible. Their current surroundings were almost banal in comparison. A lone grandfather clock in the hotel’s boardroom ticked on interminably. Jeremy did not know how much longer the eight of them could possibly stay seated, and in silence. The Lord of the Manor had never before taken such liberties with the board’s time. No one mentioned it, but the chair India’s Mr Cobra would have occupied was eerily empty. Jeremy was curious about how he’d managed to deny the Lord’s summons. Unless he was dead.

  Mr Badger shifted in his seat, stroking his moustache, and spoke with his broad French accent. “How much longer must we wait? We all have business to attend to, I’m sure.” He pursed his lips and then sneered to underscore his displeasure.

  Always one to break the ice, Mr Badger.

  Jeremy—Mr Fox to those around him—was not surprised in Badger’s sign of weakness. Silence made Badger nervous. It was a vulnerability many of the board members took advantage of in open debates. They might all be part of the House, but that didn’t mean any of them liked each other. It was hardly out of the ordinary to have board members attempt to eliminate others. Strictly business, of course.

  Mr Bear was, however, not as circumspect as Jeremy. The big Russian leaned back in his chair, making it creak alarmingly. “This is Holmes. Ever since Lord of Manor saved his hide from noose in America, things have been like this. Difficult. Inconvenient. What can be so urgent to call a board meeting like this?”

  The predatory aliases were an affectation. Most of the men in this room had ferreted out the names and histories of the others—Jeremy certainly had. Yet like many things in the House, it was all done in the shadows.

  “Perhaps this is pertaining to House finances,” grumbled Mr Lion, a tall, bald man seated at his right. His tanned skin would be outrageous in London society. “My coffers have been nearly drained dry, and seeing as how our diamond market has been supporting operations of late,” he said, casting his eyes around him while slowly tapping on the fine mahogany table where they all sat, “I would like to open discussions on where exactly our finances are going.”

  Brazen. Blunt. These traits, along with being the board’s oldest surviving member, made Mr Lion the most formidable man in the room.

  That did not mean he was immune to opposition. “You are not the only one with fiscal concerns,” spoke Mr Dingo, the representative of their Australian operations. “Our own silver and opal markets are finding it hard to keep up the growing demand from the Lord’s office. Do not dare regard your problem as a unique one.”

  Jeremy leaned forward and took a cigarette out of the silver box in front of him. Through his initial puff of smoke, he observed Mr Lion lean over and whisper to Mr Dingo. If those two were setting aside old rivalries, the end result could not be good.

  Bear gave a slight sniff. “Perhaps we should open discussions concerning this ‘grand asset’ from your part of the world,” he suggested to Jeremy. “Seems to eclipse all else.”

  All the board members shared a look, to which Jeremy released a derisive snort in reply. They all believed the archivist to be nothing more than a key to the secrets of the Ministry, and that was what he wanted them to think. Only the Lord of the Manor and Jeremy knew of Project Achilles; an astounding creation of breeding, training, and scientific manipulation. The template for Tomorrow’s Soldier. Their soldier.

  Unexpectedly, Wellington Thornhill Books had not turned out to be nearly as compliant as advertised; and that non-compliance was demanding from the House a high price. Project Achilles cost them one of their finer agents, Evelyn Primrose, after Arthur Books, in an apparent fit of rage, or spite, or perhaps a touch of both, eliminated her following the project’s departure. Then, after finally obtaining their prize, came the loss of their Antarctic outpost. Finally, there was the recent catastrophe that was Operation Poseidon, proving that Books would continue to be a menace to the very organisation that had commissioned his creation.

  Mr Tiger glanced his way, and he knew what the Chinaman was thinking. Jeremy’s obsession with Wellington Books and its toll on the House was his fault. The Ministry, this “Maestro” nonsense, and the assassin’s defection—all being laid at his feet. As if Mr Wolf, in control of the Americas, was completely immune, even though Operation Poseidon had been his responsibility.

  Mr Badger couldn’t quite keep the smile off his lips, shooting Jeremy an arched eyebrow through the smoke. The Frenchman had nothing to be smug about—Books had been in France when the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences enacted Phantom Protocol. Another opportunity to capture their elusive prize. Lost.

  “I hardly think we are here to discuss the Ministry,” Mr Scorpion said softly, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Being summoned all the way to...” He looked around, his scowl deepening, “Toronto.”

  “Perhaps not as rich in history as your beloved Egypt, but believe me,” a smooth voice appeared among them as quickly as a hawk stooping might, “this city is quite a treasure trove of delights, I assure you.”

  It was not the Lord’s voice, though he stood next to the speaker. A chill crept up Jeremy’s spine, not on seeing the elder statesman of the House of Usher, but on locking eyes with Dr Henry Howard Holmes.

  Jeremy tried to keep his face in an unreadable mask as he looked at the interloper, but he caught from his fellow boa
rd members the faintest of straightening in their seats. He preferred not to meet the gaze of Holmes. It had been a trip to Chicago in 1892 when Holmes captured the Lord’s attention. What developed quickly between them was a relationship of opportunity, primarily for Holmes. The American might stand at the side of the Lord of the Manor, but he had not earned the right to be there.

  They all watched as their leader strode to his place at the head of the table. It was the forced march of a man trying to conceal any weakness. Jeremy doubted any other man in the room was fooled by it. Holmes took his place quietly behind his right shoulder and gave them a pleasant smile.

  “Gentlemen,” the elder began, but then suddenly his brow knotted. His lips moved, but no words came from them.

  Watching Holmes gently take hold of the old man’s shoulder made Jeremy’s skin tingle. With a nod from his charge, Holmes turned and addressed the assembled directors. “An unexpected gathering, yes? Mr Cobra sends his regards as well as his regrets for not attending. An unfortunate complication has arisen in his current operation. The Lord of the Manor granted him leave to deal with it. As for the remaining corners of the world, all are represented at this table.”

  “Da,” grunted Bear, “most impressive. Now we ask, again, why?”

  “Since the failure of Operation Poseidon, we have been—”

  “We?” Jeremy asked, his apprehension yielding to his contempt for Holmes.

  Holmes’ reply was a polite, civil smile. So civil, in fact, that Jeremy suddenly grew aware of the pistol he had concealed in his right sleeve.

  “The Lord of the Manor confided in me his concerns about the House of Usher and its current direction.”

  “We seem to be struggling forward.” Wolf shook his head as he took a final drag from his cigarette. “If we have a direction at all.”

  Holmes gave a sigh of delight as he pointed at Wolf. “How very apt, Mr Wolf. Keen insight, indeed. I would expect no less from the esteemed Adams bloodline.”

  Jeremy watched as Mr Wolf, his real identity Milford Scott Adams III, reddened with anger. Rather daring for Holmes to allude to Mr Wolf’s true identity so openly amongst the other boardmembers.

  Holmes continued, ignoring Wolf’s outrage. “If we have a direction at all. My own observation, as well. Seems that we have been tripping over ourselves, particularly when the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is involved.” Holmes paused, looking at each of the board for a moment before continuing. “It was the topic of conversation just before we entered, was it not?”

  Tiger sat upright, his frown deepening. “I do not care for being spied upon.”

  “Oh, please.” Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “You all have spies within your branches, perhaps even double agents and—knowing you lot—triple agents. You see, this is what happens when an institution lacks direction. A shame it should happen to the House of Usher.”

  “Who are you to scrutinise us?” Lion said, straightening in his chair. “You are an assistant to the Lord. His valet. You have not served the House over the years as we have.”

  “No, but therein lies your problem.” Holmes stated. He did not address them as superiors or even equals. He was amused by them all. “You are too close to the issue at hand.”

  “What issue,” Badger said, interlacing his fingers together as he leaned forward, “is at hand, monsieur?”

  “You are all so close to the House of Usher, to its history and reputation, that you refuse to acknowledge its decay from the inside, this mistrust of each other.” Holmes let that assessment hang in the still air of the room for a moment. “The House of Usher has become something of a jaunty music hall number, now hasn’t it? Reduced to a laughing stock in the intelligence community.”

  “I beg your—”

  Holmes ignored Scorpion’s protest. “You have lost direction as you have lost your foundation. The House of Usher was never intended to be some fat git’s getaway from the missus, now was it?” Bear, a man of considerable carriage, bristled a bit at Holmes’ words but the Lord’s right-hand continued. “To be the society the House of Usher desires to be—undeterred, undaunted, uncompromising—you must have a foundation.”

  “I assume,” Wolf began, “that you are intending to rebuild this foundation you pine for, yes?”

  “Indeed,” Holmes replied, his smile almost illuminating the room. “A foundation such as the one for this hotel is but a simple thing—stone, mortar, dense cornerstones. I believe the House can be great once more if you all focus on three things.”

  His fingers pressed against the surface of their shared table, and a panel Jeremy had not noticed on earlier inspection slid back. Behind it were three rows of buttons and switches, each row a singular colour. One row of buttons was white while another was a deep green. The final row nested between them was red.

  In that moment, Jeremy finally took a prolonged notice of their leader. He was smiling, bobbing his head as if to some invisible tune, his eyes catching and following specks of dust that floated in the air before him. The Lord of the Manor was not just getting feeble in his advanced years; his wits had quite left him.

  “The first rock we must lay in this new foundation is Authority. You all must believe in your leadership.” He then looked over his shoulder to the Lord. “Sir, it’s time.”

  His eyes jumped to Holmes, and a clarity Jeremy had not seen since his entering filled the old man’s eyes. “Very good, Holmes. If you are ready, carry out my order.”

  Holmes nodded. “Serving you has been beyond pleasure. Thank you.”

  The Lord of the Manor released a small titter of excitement as he breathed, “Oh, you are most wel—”

  Holmes flipped the red switch within the crook of his index finger and light flared and danced from underneath the head of the House of Usher. Their leader was trying to scream, but his muscles all locked and stiffened against the violent convulsions overtaking his body. While quick flashes continued to pop and flicker from underneath the old man’s seat, sapphire tendrils of electricity leapt across his face, fingers, and neck.

  The clamour and chaos of the assault ended, and the Lord of the Manor slumped back in the chair. Holmes pressed the green button just underneath the switch that had killed the elder, and the corpse descended into the floor. He took a deep breath and announced, “I hereby formally accept this unexpected appointment as Lord of the Manor.”

  Surprisingly, Tiger lurched to his feet, but hesitated as Holmes’ finger now rested on another red switch. Keeping his dark gaze on Holmes, Tiger returned to his seat once more. Next to Jeremy, both Lion and Dingo took stock of their own seats.

  “Edison had been such a delight to work with during Operation Poseidon,” Holmes said, his chuckle mingling with his words. “While his first electric chair may have been something of a disaster, I dare say he has perfected it.”

  The slightly charred chair—the Lord’s body notably absent from it—now rose from the floor to lock back into place.

  Badger recovered first, pointing a finger at Holmes. “Exactly what makes you think we will follow you? You are not one of us.”

  “Have I gone through your ridiculous initiation phase, memorised your impressive but somewhat stagnant history, and endured your melodramatic rituals?” Holmes gently caressed with a single finger the tops of the scarlet switches. “You are correct; I have not been anointed by you—but that is the Usher of old. We must rebuild on this new foundation comprised of Authority.” His finger stopped. “And Accountability.”

  Holmes’ fingertip pressed the white button underneath it and the floor collapsed from underneath Mr Bear, both chair and occupant disappearing from view. There was a rush of metal against wood, and then all went quiet again, though not for long as Bear’s shouts rose from under their feet. The whole board was out of their chairs now, but remained rooted where they stood.

  Dr Holmes smiled. A handsome, terrifying smile. “Accountability is key, gentlemen, if success is to be obtained. We have a new initiative currently
underway in Russia, and it has fallen woefully behind schedule. The Lord of the Manor—my apologies, the former Lord of the Manor—was rather indulgent when it came to patience. I, however, am not.”

  Holmes gently stroked his moustache, as underneath the table Mr Bear’s curses filtered upward, muffled by the wood and—based of the echo of his vulgarities—size of the room.

  Mr Lion cleared his throat. “Mr Holmes, if you have learned anything about the House of Usher in your time caring for our recently-departed elder, you know we are about more than mere survival.”

  “What I do know is that the House up to this point has been barely existing.” He calmly took the Lord’s place at the head of the table, the control panel well within reach. “Your collected incompetence has pushed the House to the brink of collapse. You all have been plotting and scheming against each other for how long now? Years? Decades? Forming alliances within when you should have been united under the raven’s crest. My country knows all too well the cost of division.”

  Mr Bear’s curses paused at that moment, and then came a strange, high-pitched whine followed by the sound of something slicing the air. His screams erupted anew, but this time they were not of outrage and indignation, but of agony and terror.

  Their new leader motioned for the remaining predators to resume their places at the table, even as the screams turned bloodcurdling, the quick cuts through the air growing louder and faster. One by one, they took their seats again. After all, they were of the House—screams were their stock in trade, but even Jeremy had never heard such fresh anguish as this.

  Nausea welled within him. Casting his eyes around the room—Bear’s screams now laborious pleadings—did nothing to calm this strange sensation of vertigo. The hotel’s valets. The Lord of the Manor’s seat. The room below them. It made sense. This was not an Usher safe house where they met. This was a structure commissioned after Holmes’ rescue years ago. Money from all their lucrative ventures had been funnelled into this project: a recreation of his killing house in the White City during the Great Exhibition.