Chapter 4 - The Kraken Gate
I would have laughed. Should have really, but I needed the money. Opportunities for women in security work were not abundant. Potential employers felt that women were more likely to welcome an uninvited guest in when in fact the reverse was true. The sane women I knew would rather shoot first and ask questions later rather than let a stranger into their lives.
It was my turn to get up. I walked up to the painting of the galleon, giving me time to compose myself. I wanted to avoid sounding hysterical; it’s so unprofessional. ‘Let me see if I understand the proposal…I’m to organise a small team of people to return to the site of an attack by homicidal aliens on an uncharted world, with a handful of non-metallic, prehistoric weapons, a site - I might add - that is almost certainly no more than a crater two-hundred hands wide. Is that it?’ Alright, so maybe that came across as hysterical, but then I feel quite strongly about suicide missions.
Harman smoothed down the pencil-line of his moustache. ‘As usual, Ms. Derringer, your comprehension is perfect.’
‘Why? Can there really be anything useful to discover from a place your niece says has been turned to rubble?’
‘Search and rescue,’ was the reply. ‘There might be survivors. Don’t you owe it to your man, Mr. Rendish?’
‘Survivors? From what I’ve just heard, the gate won’t be operational for at least half a year!’
‘We might be able to do it in three Meniah-cycles,’ the professor put in.
Harman coughed.
‘Well… maybe two, if everything goes smoothly.’
‘And you think our people can survive Ganessa for forty days?’
‘I thought Mr. Rendish was one of your most resourceful employees, Ms. Derringer.’
‘Oh, Ty Rendish is resourceful,’ I argued, ‘but you’re talking about surviving on a planet that is host to creatures that are so terrifying that we blew up half a city block and thirty-five of your technicians rather than allow any back onto our planet.’
Harman said nothing. He just cocked an eyebrow. Professor Maddison raised a hand to interject.
‘Er, it’s thirty-one technicians.’
‘Eh?’ said Harman.
‘Ms. Derringer said that thirty-five technicians were blown up…’
‘Damn it, man!’ the industrialist exclaimed, waving the professor to silence, never taking his beady eyes off me. ‘So, am I to understand you’d like to terminate our contract?’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Clients like Director Harman don’t grow on trees you know! ‘I’ll take a search party to reconnoitre what’s left of the site and look for survivors.’ Harman had put one hook into me that he knew I wouldn’t be able to shake, that of loyalty. I would look for Tyrone because he was one of my team, and we would bring back his body…if we were lucky enough to find it.
Obermann returned and announced the arrival of Chancellor Gordon. That Emberland’s First Minister was paying a visit in the middle of the night could only spell trouble for Director Harman, so I wasn’t surprised when he dismissed Ankush and me.
‘Splendid, Ms. Derringer! I leave all the travel details to you and your team. All the staff may go by air-train. Usher & Sons on Kanterbury Lane will ship any heavy equipment, paperwork and baggage by land train.’ Harman dipped a pen into an inkwell and wrote on a small pad of paper, tearing off two pages and handing them to me. ‘Give this note to Mr. Usher Senior as a guarantee of payment against any expenses, and use the details on this second note to send a message ahead via heliogram to my butler at the Lannerville site, Mr. Rigsby. He’ll make the necessary preparations to receive you all.’
We passed Chancellor Gordon as we were shown out of the study. I’d never seen the man close up before. He was of unremarkable stature. During his campaign to get elected three years ago, his greying hair and good looks had lent him a distinguished air. Since then, a combination of stress and too many business lunches had allowed gravity to gain purchase in all the usual places. His paunch, jowls, and nose had gained weight. Even his mutton-chop sideburns looked like fuzzy, overweight pears strapped either side of his face. His green eyes though, still shone with a fierce clarity, a reminder that this man had fought his way up to the top of the maelstrom that was Emberland politics. In spite of the early bell, Chancellor Gordon had made time to don his robes of office, a black gown edged in purple topped off with a heavy gold chain around his neck. Some stuffed shirt in a grey suit slid along after him, as though dragged by invisible shackles. Everywhere the chancellor went, Secretary Dereth Lampton, his scribe also went, silent as a shadow.
I asked Ankush to gather the rest of the team and meet me at the Diadem Inn. They’d need to be debriefed. I didn’t think it would go well. Assuming they decided to stay, we’d have to talk about Director Harman’s instructions. The loss of Ty Rendish and Edgar Finnian was a real blow to a small company like ours. We could still complete the mission, but I couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.
Ankush went one way, and I went another, back to my place on Petticoat Lane. My housekeeper, Mrs. Underhill was abuzz with the news of the explosion, and convinced that the wicked Nallians were at the gates. I wasn’t at liberty to disabuse her of the notion, so I had to listen to her breathless speculation while she drew me a bath. Mrs. Rosanne Underhill looked like the mother of seven children that she was. She was garrulous, mostly cheerful and sported a ruddy complexion. Her husband worked long bells on steam-loom maintenance in one of Emberly’s factories. Her eldest daughter looked after the rest of the children. Mrs. Underhill saw them for five bells on Draxilday, which was her day off each week.
The bath full, I was forced to evict Mrs. Underhill from the bathroom before she renewed her praise of Emberland’s brave resistance. I discarded my dusty clothes and sank into the scalding-hot water. I washed the grit from Winslow Hall from my hair, and would have soaked my sleep-deprived body for longer, but the water had turned the colour of a three day old corpse, so I got out.
I selected a clean roll of linen to bind my breasts. Why have corsets become so popular, especially among overly ambitious women? Oh yes, I remember…it’s because they give the wearer additional weaponry over their male counterparts. If you have to fight though, you have to breathe, and that being the case, a corset really is the worst kind of fashion choice!
As I wound the material about me, I considered the prospect of facing the Charg. The secret to a long and successful career in the security business is having a healthy respect for risk. Steps can be taken to ensure that minor ones don’t bloom into major problems, while very significant risks should be avoided at all costs. Director Harman had taken my choices away from me. Some people in my position would have delegated that risk. I couldn’t do that. I’m not prepared to send those who work for me into a situation I’m not prepared to deal with myself. Perhaps it’s a personality defect; my father certainly thought so.
‘You’ll never rise above the muck if you don’t delegate!’ he’d chided me on more than one occasion. I had still been in the Marines at that time, with bigger problems to worry about than my career trajectory, but they weren’t things that I was able to share with him at the time.
Still acutely aware of my role in last night’s catastrophe - that being the only word I could find to describe it - I donned the smartest outfit I owned; a dark sapphire pair of jodhpurs with quasi-military braid down the seam, a white blouse with a royal blue trimmed collar and breast-pocket, and a grey waistcoat with useful pockets. To complete the look, I buckled on my favourite cutlass. It’s much harder to chastise someone with an impeccable dress sense and a business-like blade.
My cutlass reminded me of the problem of being unable to take our usual weapons through the gate which I pondered as I laced up my knee-length boots. Again, I recalled my relief when I discovered that dynamite was unaffected by the Koulomb Field. It’s a well known saying that “to a tradesperson with a hammer, every problem looks like a nail”, well…to a girl with a chest-full of medals for army demolition, there are genuinely hundreds, if not thousands, of problems that can be solved with dynamite. With a grin, I remembered Sergeant Daffid, one of the army instructors.
‘The problem hasn’t yet been devised that cannot be solved with explosives, Ms. Derringer!’ he’d said, without a trace of humour.
‘What about politics?’ I’d countered. He’d fixed me with one steely eye and its counterpart, a fierce-looking eye-patch.
‘Politics, Private Derringer, can only properly be solved with explosives.’
My boots needed only a swift polish with a dry rag to lose the worst of the grime. My housekeeper tried not to show her delight when I informed her that I may be away for a Meniah-cycle or two from the morrow. Her joy was punctured like a balloon in a briar hedge when I made it clear that my clothes were to be cleaned, packed and ready for departure the following morning. Giving her a cheery wink, I fetched my blue army-surplus greatcoat from the stand by the front door and headed for the rendezvous with my team. My damp hair would have to dry en-route.
Poplar Square in the west end of Emberly is always busy. It's the melting pot between the industrial Yardlan district to the east of the docks, the commercial zone, and Tellemarch Park where the great-and-the-good have their mansions. As usual on Angsday morning, the one-way system was clogged with carriages of all kinds; hansom cabs, hackneys, gigs and coaches. Streaming around them, across the pavement and road in all directions was foot traffic, some heading for the steam presses and looms in Yardlan, while others made for the stalls and shops. Of the gentry there was no sign, it being far too early in the day for them.
The last of the haze over Rostov Park and the new day’s factory coal smoke was being driven north on a lively breeze, leaving clean air and an azure sky in their wake. Aripole and her consort, Draxil were bright in the summer sky, content in their perpetual dance around each other.
A mail-coach or some such heavy conveyance was approaching, two placid roan horses in no hurry to close the gap to the throng ahead. I caught the eye of the driver on his high-seat as I stepped off the pavement. At that instant, a gunshot rang out close by. Both horses reared in their trains and charged at me, eyes rolling in terror and screaming as though wounded in battle. Unable to arrest my forward momentum in time, I dove headlong to the opposite gutter. The hoof of one of the horses caught the boot on my right foot a glancing blow and set me spinning. The pommel of my cutlass dug into my ribs, winding me and pitching me over so that I knocked my forehead against the kerbstone.
Pain flared and I nearly blacked out. I was vaguely aware of shouting, the clattering of hooves on cobbles and the splintering of a solidly built coach. An old lady in a grimy grey dress helped me to my feet. Double-vision and a host of stars would have been the worst of my problems if it hadn’t been for the blood sheeting from a gash above my right eyebrow. Alternately thanking the old woman and cursing the turn of events, I staunched the wound with my kerchief. I blinked a few times to clear my vision. A crowd had gathered. Animated discussions were in progress and loud ‘peep-peep’ was evidence that someone had summoned the constabulary.
I pushed through the throng, limping slightly. With the traffic blocking the street around Poplar Square the horses had mounted the pavement which was less crowded. They’d dragged the coach behind them. It had bounced over the kerb but must then have caught on the tall iron railings that separated the townhouses from the square because its right-hand side had been ripped clean off. Splinters of black lacquered wood lay everywhere. The impact had thrown the coach over on its side and tripped the horses up. One had crashed into the other bringing them both down onto one of the roadside bollards, still tangled in their traces. Several men were trying to calm the animals and cut them free of their gear. One of the animals had a broken foreleg and would likely never see another day.
A stall-holder put his barrow down and joined the old lady beside me. Both asked if I was alright.
I nodded, muttering my thanks, but my attention was focussed elsewhere. Who had fired the pistol; it had sounded like a pistol. Had the driver been shot? Was anyone else wounded? My natural paranoia threatened to take hold. My brain was telling me it was an accident. A loud sound had frightened the horses, that was all. My heart said otherwise. If this had been an attempt on my life, it had very nearly succeeded. I would have liked to have questioned the driver of the coach who had been thrown clear of the wreck, but the constables had turned him over and it was obvious that he wouldn’t be providing answers. I could see no bullet wounds, but his neck was broken.
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