Phoenix Rising (3 page)

“His butler was using it as a base for—” She stopped mid-sentence when he raised his gaze once more.

“The same fate you meted out to the Embassy of Prussia.” He licked one finger and flicked over another page. “That was quite the diplomatic mess.”

“The agent I was following was largely responsible—”

One lift of his eyes and her protestations died on her lips. Eliza shifted slightly in her seat as he went on. “And then there is Operation Darkwater.” By the gods, she had hoped he wouldn't bring that one up, though it was natural he would. “The destruction of Nemo's base and the loss of his
Nautilus
blueprints must stand, by far, as the worst of your ‘snap decisions.' ”

She didn't even try to explain that one. Instead, Eliza held her breath. Would they cut her allowances with the Armory again, or maybe demote her to junior Field Agent?

The Doctor pushed back the folders and thrummed his fingers. “In light of all those occurrences, though, your disregard of the orders concerning Agent Wellington Books is particularly disturbing.”

Eliza swallowed hard. Ever since their mad escape she had been aware that trouble would follow. So she came back as she always did, with heat. “Agent Books is one of ours, Doctor, one of the Ministry. And when I saw him there I simply couldn't execute him, as my orders indicated.”

“And what made you think you had the right to ignore them? How can you be sure that Agent Books has not been compromised? As Chief Archivist he is privy to all the Ministry's secrets.”

“It was a feeling, Doctor. An instinct. The same instinct that keeps me alive in the field, something that I wonder if you can truly grasp spending all your time here!”

She gently caught her bottom lip under her teeth. Her temper. There was nothing she could do to take those words back, but she hated being questioned for her actions in the field. She was one of the Ministry's best. Her methods might be unorthodox and final, but they always produced results.

Doctor Sound continued to study her, his expression impassive.

“I looked down at Books and just had the feeling he hadn't broken. And as he was one of ours, I made a judgment call, as is my right in the field. We have never lost—” She swallowed those words, and tried again. “We have never executed one of our own. I was certainly not going to be the first to do so.” She then allowed herself a smirk. In for a penny. “Besides, it was far more of a challenge to get him out alive.”

“And this roguish behaviour, Agent Braun, is exactly what troubles me. The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is far more than simply acting on one's impulses in the name of the Queen. The best way to defeat the shadows of menace and evil is to become a shadow yourself. We protect the Empire in secret, a detail you seem to overlook . . . often. You could take a lesson from your predecessors, and perhaps develop a lesser reliance on black powder and dynamite.”

“But I
like
black powder and dynamite.” She was aware she sounded like a child with her favorite toy taken away but that was what she was reduced to.

One corner of Doctor Sound's mouth jerked, and she hoped he was repressing a smile—but it was terminally fleeting. “Due to your mission history and your penchant for ‘snap decisions,' disciplinary action is unfortunately warranted.”

Eliza's mind raced over the options. Maybe the good Doctor was going to reassign her to the Ministry's Far Eastern outpost—that wouldn't be much of a punishment really. His next few words, however, came as a surprise.

“But first,” Doctor Sound rose from his chair. “I think a different perspective is needed. If you please,” he said, motioning to the door

For a second Eliza wondered if she had misheard or missed the punishment altogether. “A . . . different perspective, Doctor?”

“Indeed.” He closed her folders and dropped them into his “Out” tray. “Between this morning's appointments and your own words, I believe I do need a change of scenery.”

“Very well, Doctor. Exactly where—?” Eliza began to ask, her head still spinning with the Director's sudden change in demeanor.

“No need to grab a parasol, Agent Braun,” he chuckled, “We're staying close to home.”

“Very good then, Doctor.”

Her mind was reeling, trying to ascertain exactly what disciplinary action he had in mind for her. She tried to calm her breathing. They passed Miss Shillingworth, now back at her desk, and every trace of her earlier predicament absent. The waiting area was, as it always appeared to be whenever Eliza visited, immaculate.

“Capital job, Shillingworth,” chortled Doctor Sound.

The secretary blinked. Compliments from the Director, Eliza perceived, seemed to be out of the ordinary.

“We will be just a few moments,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a small folded piece of paper. “Tend to this, and please ask any appointments, expected or otherwise, to call on me after lunch. There's a good lass.”

Shillingworth nodded and placed the envelope at the centre of her frighteningly tidy desk.

Doctor Sound turned back to Eliza, and smiled warmly as he gestured to the lift. “After you, Agent Braun.”

Eliza felt the goose flesh return with a vengeance underneath her clothing.

CHAPTER THREE
Where Our Dashing Hero of History and
Cataloguing Is Finally Granted a
Proper Introduction to Miss Eliza D. Braun

D
rip . . .

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Wellington glanced up from his wide desk, his eyes staring into the shadows of where the sound originated. Once upon a time, that metronome had been a harsh reminder of the deplorable conditions here. The constant, low rumble of the boilers didn't concern him because those devices were doing their job: they kept the moisture contained. Some pipes and smaller chambers, however, could not help but sweat. Add to that the stresses of the mighty and powerful Thames on the opposite side of the wall and you were bound to get damp of some kind.

This challenge he had willingly taken on. He could only complain so much.

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

A strategy
, he had told himself early on, when accepting this position in the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.
Have a strategy in obtaining what you want. Be decisive in the battles you undertake.
That military training of his really was coming to use in everyday life. With the Archives in such a state that the term “disarray” would have been considered a compliment, Wellington rose to the challenge and kept his grumblings to himself. Quietly, he surmised the problems, prioritized solutions, and then implemented them. The ones he knew would require Doctor Sound's immediate attention—such as the need for a dehumidifier in order to keep the Archives' moisture under some degree of control—were reserved for those meetings when it was the two of them, alone; and Wellington would have his rapt attention.

Those meetings were few and far between one another.

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

The dripping that echoed throughout the vast collection of notes and artifacts from the field had become the pounding of a war drum. The Archives were his responsibility, his charge for Queen and Country. Each drip mocked him. Each drop challenged him. And even with his own efforts back home to assemble a dehumidifier adequate for the dank, cavernous space underneath the Ministry's office, the problem persisted. His own failures and ongoing challenges were both continuously brought to the forefront of his mind every day as he toiled at his desk.

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Now, following his ordeal, each drip was a sound as sweet as Johann Sebastian Bach's “Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Minor.”

He allowed his eyes to wander around the Archives, following the various pipes, pulleys, and shelves of discoveries, eventually having his gaze end at the analytical engine's interface. His smile widened a bit, purely a vain, narcissistic reaction to his practically Shelly-esque creation that had confounded those arrogant shlockworks of the Ministry. And why shouldn't Wellington take pride in this diamond hidden within the Archives' rough? It improved efficiency down here a thousandfold, and had involved absolutely no input from the clankertons in Research and Design.

He slid out his desk's small extension and followed the various sequences down to the one he knew would be there, the one that would fit his mood. His fingers pushed against characters both numeric and alphabetical, coaxing from the metallic monster a series of clicks, whirs, and steambursts. The machine took Wellington's keystrokes, calculated, and finally followed the programmed command.

The silence was only for a moment, and then came the long, languid notes from the analytical engine's horn. Johann Sebastian Bach. “Violin Concerto No. 2.” In E. The Adagio. Just what he needed.

If the recording were to be playing at home, it would sound slightly tinny in its playback. Here, in the Archives, the acoustics gave the music a delightful resonance. Not the same as being there in concert, but most assuredly close to the experience. Wellington breathed deeply, and when his eyes opened once more, he found himself staring at the open pages of his journal.

I am home. I am back in my haven
, he had only just written.
And yet, I feel as if the worst is yet to come.

Wellington swallowed hard. He had no idea what he could have done to deserve such attention as the House of Usher had bestowed upon him. The lengths at which they had gone to spirit him away from Mother England to the farthest reaches of the Empire were impressive, if not humbling.

He nodded, dipped his pen into the inkwell and added,
Perhaps this is merely the anxiety most feel upon returning from a battle. They are surprised to see the next morning's light, returning to their lands a hero. In secret, they expect their days to end abruptly. It is living the old Arabian parable of a merchant seeing Death in the streets.

Had he returned a hero? Perhaps, an unsung one. After all, he had held his tongue—no secrets of the Ministry had been divulged. True, they hadn't begun the interrogation process, but there had been some tense moments. Very tense. Not that he would have admitted it to anyone in the Ministry, but maybe a few tears had leaked out.

Luckily, anyone who might have revealed such an embarrassment had been lost in ash, fire, and snow. Thank God.

The analytical engine clicked and whirred again, now following the protocol cards that Wellington had associated with this command. It kept with the composer, but instead searched out for another musical refrain to play. This time, the analytical engine chose “Concerto for Violin, Oboe, and Strings in D Minor.” He shuddered at the shrill cries of the featured woodwind. Normally, he enjoyed the oboe, but this was not a morning for such. He punched the randomizer key, offset from the interface's array, and the analytical engine immediately searched again, this time producing the slower-paced “Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Minor.” Wellington gave a slight huff of relief, returned to his journal, and jotted in the margin.

[NOTE: Review the sequence cards and protocols of the difference engine's musical selections. Attempt to program “mood” as a variable alongside composer.]

Before he could return his thoughts to his brief imprisonment, the large, heavy door clanked open, expelling a low noise that cut through Bach's soothing melodies. Wellington placed the thin ribbon of silk between the gutter of his journal, gently closed it, and pressed with his fingernail the six keys that locked his thoughts within its supple leather cover. By the time his journal reached the safety of his desk drawer, the two figures had descended two of the four storeys. He could just make out the larger man's chuckling to the smaller figure trailing behind him. From the man's gait, it could only be the Director, Doctor Basil Sound.

Here it comes, Wellington.

Should he prepare a spot of tea for him and his assistant? Or would that appear ostentatious? How many other department heads did so on surprise inspections, unless it were to soften a pending hammer blow or butter up the Director in order to gain something? Then again, apart from his own department and the clankertons, how many other departments were there in the Ministry, really?

One storey remaining . . .

Wellington yanked out the concealed blotter again, followed his fingers down to the desired sequence, and then punched it into the difference engine. With his thumb depressing the “3” key, a quick burst of steam drowned out the concerto for an instant and then the device clicked and purred while No. 1 in A Minor continued to play uninterrupted.

“I say, Wellington, you are full of surprises.” Doctor Sound beamed, and immediately the Archivist was on the defensive. “I should have known you had also provided this difference engine of yours a library of music.” He allowed his hand to float in time with the music. “Johann Sebastian Bach, I do believe. One of my favorites. ‘Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Major.' ”

Wellington cleared his throat, “Minor, sir.”

Doctor Sound's conducting stopped. His wiggled his fingers as he glanced over his shoulder and then back to Wellington. “Ah, yes. Quite.” He then quickly turned behind him to motion to the second figure lurking in the shadows. “Now come along, it's not like we are strangers here.”

His back suddenly wrenched upward at the sight of his Angel of Destruction, Field Agent Eliza D. Braun, who seemed preoccupied at the vastness of her surroundings.

“Agent Braun!” Wellington brushed off his hands and extended one towards the striking field agent. “I can now properly thank you for saving my life.”

Her heard turned quickly to look at him and the look of awe vanished. “Yes. Not bad for an idiot, eh, Agent Books?” The bitter edge was obvious in her voice.

So, she hadn't forgotten.

Now it was Wellington's turn to fidget. “Ah, yes, well . . . words uttered in the heat of the moment. I do apologize if you took them as a slight to your character.”

Her eyebrows rose. “And pray, how else was I supposed to take them?”

“Now, now, Agent Braun,” Doctor Sound chided. “Our boy Wellington here was out of sorts. I mean, how would you feel if you were entering in a pub one moment with high hopes and expectations for an evening of fine dining and companionship, only to awaken mere moments later in the hands of our most formidable opponents, bound for Antarctica?”

Bach's concerto concluded there. Wellington depressed the “Stop” key, leaving only the constant dripping to interrupt the heavy solitude.

“Sounds like you have a leak somewhere, Books.” Braun shattered the quiet. “You should have that seen to.”

Wellington opened his mouth as if to reply, only to have his words kept at bay by Doctor Sound. “Agent Books, as a token of gratitude to Agent Braun here, would you mind giving us a brief tour of the Archives?”

“Yes, Director. Agent Braun, follow me, if you please.” The Archivist forced a smile and motioned with his hand towards rows of gaslight lanterns that extended into the darkness. He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw, just for a moment. Wellington eventually did break the silence; and even to his ears, his words sounded rehearsed. “Welcome to the Archives. In this section of the Ministry, we catalogue all case notes and related artifacts. Obviously, some years are more busy than others, but at the end of this walk resides the beginning, the very foundations of the Ministry.”

He looked over to Agent Braun, who craned her neck to stare up at the shelves.

“There must be hundreds of case files in here,” she finally managed.

“Thousands,” Wellington corrected. “We are in need of a space this massive, not so much for the case journals as for the collected evidence accompanying them.”

“But . . . why?”

Pushing back the sudden headache, Wellington returned the civil smile to his face and motioned to Agent Braun. “If I do recall, a previous case of yours took you to the Caribbean?”

“Yes, Agent Hill and I were called to the Bahamas to investigate the disappearance of Lord and Lady Gosswich. They were last seen in the vicinity—”

“—of the area known by sailors as the Devil's Triangle, yes I know. And do you recall a small relic that served you and Agent Hill rather admirably in the field?”

Agent Braun's eyes flickered, and the sudden childlike wonder in her face softened his posture. “Oh yes! Clever device, that was. If I recall, it was a pyramid with something fastened at its summit.”

Urging them to follow, Wellington continued deeper into the shelves. He whispered aloud the years until finally coming to a plaque illuminated by twin gaslight globes:

1872

Wellington stopped at the terminal, an interface much like the analytical engine by his desk, centered underneath the plaque. Slowly, deliberately, Wellington began pressing keys. The tiny window above the keypad revealed letters he selected, each character illuminated by a soft amber glow:

“And,” Wellington said, pressing one final key, his smile wide, “enter.”

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Nothing happened.

Doctor Sound lightly cleared his throat and motioned to the display screen:

DEVLIS TRIAGNLE

“Oh, dash it all!” Wellington swore as he cleared the entry and typed again, even slower this time.

DEVILS TRIANGLE

“And,” Wellington said again, “enter.”

This time, the “Enter” key brought to life the pulley system above them, adding a
clickity-clack-click-clack
drone underneath the drips. The pulley system eventually surrendered as a winch lowered from above their heads a small basket containing a portfolio and a chestnut box the size of an ostrich egg. Wellington took the box from the suspended tray and removed its lid, revealing a pair of identical devices.

“Gate Keys. Obtained in 1872, when the Ministry followed the path of the two-hundred-eighty-two-ton brigantine
Mary Celeste
.”

“You mean, we had been to the Devil's Triangle before?” asked Agent Braun.

“The
Mary Celeste
's crew, Ministry agents discovered, had been spirited away to an underground base in the Atlantic. These devices, used in the proper conditions, created
aethergates
that—I do believe you and Agent Hill used for Lord and Lady Gosswich's escape—connect two points in time and space, granting the users quick passage from Point A to Point B.”