The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (48 page)

“We fired a repeating gun into it with a whole box of ammunition and it did nothing,” Georgina said.

Earnestine agreed: “The superstructure protects it. I had to fire a Verey pistol inside before I got one to explode.”

“Crikey,” said Caruthers.

“Perhaps–” McKendry began, reaching for the rifle.

“Let her do it,” said Earnestine.

Charlotte ignored them.

She brought the gun back up, aimed.

The Zeppelin was turning, it was now or never, but Graf wasn’t stepping into view. It was hopeless… unless… yes. She shifted, aimed lower, let the rifle move with the great behemoth.

McKendry spoke: “Perhaps–”

“Shhh,” said Earnestine and Georgina together.

Squeeze… so gently, so very gently.

She saw the wood splinter with the shot.

“You missed,” said McKendry. “He’s still alive.”

“No, she didn’t,” said Caruthers, still holding the binoculars up. “She hit that control box.”

“Good shot, Charlotte,” Earnestine said.

“Yes, Lottie,” said Georgina. “Thank you.”

“Oh my word…” said Caruthers. “It’s…”

“Can I see?” Charlotte asked. “Can I see? Can I see, please?”

“It’s not for a lady,” Caruthers replied.

“I’m not a la–”

“Charlotte,” said Earnestine, “be quiet.”

Above her, Charlotte imagined she heard the Graff shouting as his untoten army turned on him, tearing him limb from limb.

“He’s done for,” said Caruthers, finally and he lowered the binoculars, “so’s the pilot.”

The airship rose, caught the wind and slalomed away towards Covent Garden. They stood for a long time watching it until the black shape was swallowed by the dark clouds.

“A ghost Zeppelin,” said Caruthers. “It’ll wander the skies like the Flying Dutchman.”

“Until it crashes to the ground,” said Charlotte.

“Perhaps,” said Earnestine, “we should go in out of the rain.”

Epilogue

Miss Deering-Dolittle

It rained, which was appropriate for both England and a funeral, and a patch of umbrellas opened like a ring of mushrooms as the men appeared, holding the thin shields above the sisters.

Everyone was all in black and the leafless trees were like skeletal hands reaching from the ground. The overcast sky was grey and forbidding. The small group, led by the three sisters, came from the church and gathered by the graveside.

Earnestine shuddered; Georgina, dressed in bombazine fabric with crepe and a widow’s cap, cried, softly, but she was allowed to, and Charlotte looked serious.

When his three Gentlemen Adventurers had not returned, Major Dan had organised a makeshift militia and they had marshalled in time to deal with the few, the very few untoten who had escaped the flood. The Graf’s great army had been washed into the Thames and out to sea. There had been no reports of Zala himself or his Zeppelin. The wind had been easterly; he must be floating over Mongolia by now, Earnestine thought. Prince Pieter had ordered Mordant’s unnatural science to be destroyed and he had promised to oversee the process himself. All the notes would be burnt.

And Pieter – beautiful Pieter – himself had his duty: Russia beckoned. He was a minor European Royal, but Royalty had their responsibilities. One only had to consider Queen Victoria herself. If he married one of the daughters of Tsar Nicolas II, Olga, Tatiana or Maria, then the Royal bloodlines would be folded back towards the European dynasties. One day, perhaps even a direct issue of Pieter, an Austro–Hungarian–Saxe–Coburg–Romanov child, would inherit the thrones of the British Empire, the Russian Empire and the German Empire along with thrones in Spain and Brazil: three quarters of the world’s land. There would be peace, a wonderful glorious peace that would mark the coming twentieth century out as a golden age unblemished by the taint of war.

What was the happiness of two people compared to that?

They were near each other now.

“You have your duty,” she said.

“Ja.”

Earnestine stepped forward, wanting to hold him and kiss him, but they moved apart and stood on either side of the yawning gulf of the freshly dug grave.

Mrs Arthur Merryweather

As her dear Arthur was carried into the church on the shoulders of his colleagues, Caruthers and McKendry at the front, the Vicar had read the traditional announcement.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

No–one had appreciated the words, so desperately ironic and terrible.

He’d gone on: “worms destroy this body” until finally “the Lord taketh away”.

It had been a lovely service, everyone had said so as they left the church, so it must have been. Georgina had a few handkerchiefs embroidered ‘APM’ and she’d used most of them already. Caruthers had spoken about Arthur’s bravery, his actions and awards, and his love for poor Georgina. Their life together had been cruelly cut short, everyone said – so short, so sad, so sorry.

But she had enjoyed the precious little time they’d shared.

The reading had been from Corinthians: “…risen from the dead, and become the first–fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead…”

She saw his ruined face as if it were in front of her, and she had seen that fleeting expression of understanding and forgiveness.

The Vicar droned on: “…what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not?”

But she would not remember that, or if she did it would be in cold, dark moments; instead, in an act of will that Earnestine’s example had taught her, she would remember him alive.

“…but some man will say, How are the dead raised up?”

They are raised up, she thought, in our memories and it was her choice whether she should remember his death or his precious, wonderful life. This was more powerful than any monstrous apparatus born of Unnatural Philosophy and Galvanic processes.

“…so also is the resurrection of the dead: It is sown in corruption; it is raised…”

She would live, she thought, a good life, a life dedicated to her lost husband and she would make him proud.

And then they went to the grave, outside in the persistent, dreary rain.

“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”

But he was not full of misery. Certainly not that one night, and there were other moments too when she thought back across London, the seaside, under the sea, on the doomed ship
Mary
, on the train through Europe, on the mountain, in the school, when he stuttered in the hut and when he’d appeared out of the snow to save her. She saw him smiling, always a smile – for her.

The Vicar, his balding head glistening with the rain, read on in a muttering voice: “In the midst of life we are in death…”

She would remember his life and lock it away in her heart.

“…the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection–”

Georgina flinched at the mention of resurrection. For a moment the sisters were back underground facing the unspeakable horror of it all.

The priest, oblivious, droned on: “…to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”

“Present… fire!”

The soldiers of the late Captain Merryweather’s regiment raised the weapons and fired a volley, the sound muffled in the wet air. The bolts clanged back and forth. It was as if the burial itself was a re–enactment of the battle they’d fought below.

“Fire!”

In her mind’s eye, Georgina saw those terrible creatures lumbering towards them again.

“Fire!”

The third volley jolted her back to the present and she was standing in the graveyard again.

The funeral was done.

The dead lying all around them stayed in their graves and the horrors were only in their minds.

Uncle Jeremiah patted her hand to comfort her, before he shook his head sadly and made his way to his carriage. Some lady in a burgundy dress and a hat with a black veil opened it for him, but Georgina’s eyesight had misted over again. The officers came next and mumbled some condolences, words oft–repeated by soldiers used to losing comrades. Georgina heard none of it. Eventually, the troops armed with umbrellas broke formation and made their sorry way down the path.

The rain too had deserted them.

Finally, even her sisters took a few steps back to leave her by the graveside. In that oak box, once bedecked with a Union Flag, but now only spattered with handfuls of mud and earth, was her husband. She knew she should feel something, but it was as if she had been killed and her body merely carried on as a facsimile. Like an untoten.

Miss Charlotte

“You can cry if you want,”? said Earnestine.

“No,” said Georgina.

Standing at a respectful distance was a contingent of Europeans gathered in a knot around Prince Pieter. As they passed, the Prince bowed to each in turn.

“Fräulein Charlotte.”

“Your Royal Highness.”

“Frau Merryweather.”

“Your Royal Highness.”

“Fräulein… Derring–Do?”

“Miss Deering–Dolittle,” Earnestine said.

“Miss.”

He clicked his heels and moved on, walking slowly towards the open iron gateway.

“Ness?”

“Gina?”

“Go to him.”

“Gina, it’s–”

“Ness, go to him.”

Earnestine picked her way carefully over the graves and as she approached, Pieter came forward until it was just the two of them surrounded by stone angels. The Austro–Hungarian stepped forward and took her in his arms.

“Lawks! She’s kissing him,” said Charlotte.

“Disgusting,” said Georgina, “if anyone sees…”

“What’s the harm?”

“Charlotte! He’s to be engaged to another woman, so that activity makes our sister a loose woman.”

“But… you’re as bad as Ness.”

Georgina considered for a moment: “Thank you.”

Charlotte made a noise and leaned closer to try and catch what the Prince was saying.

“Goodbye, mein… my love.”

Crown Prince Pieter held out his hand and Earnestine took it. He held her grip far longer than was seemly, before he clicked his heels and bowed formally, taking her hand higher and kissing it for far longer than was decent.

And then he was gone.

Earnestine seemed only vaguely aware that time was passing as her sisters joined her.

Georgina plucked a small embroidered handkerchief from her handbag and passed it to Earnestine.

“Here,” she said.

Earnestine looked down at the white cotton square fluttering like a flag in the breeze.

“What’s that for?” Earnestine asked, “there’s nothing in my eye.”

Georgina’s bag snapped shut: “Of course not.”

“It’s not back to school, is it?” Charlotte asked.

“No,” Earnestine said, “it’s Georgina’s decision, but I think that the Derring–Dos would–”

“Ness,” Georgina interrupted, “I’d rather you were in charge.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, as we’ve just saved the British Empire, I think the least they can do is finance a little expedition up the river.”

Charlotte jumped: “Spiffing!”

“Charlotte, although Mrs Merryweather and I agree with your sentiments, perhaps a little more decorum please.”

“One for all,” said Charlotte and she put out her hand.

“And all for one?” said Georgina, and she added her own.

The two girls looked expectantly at Earnestine.

“An adventure?” Earnestine said.

Come on, come on, Charlotte prayed, and then her sister, Ness, added her own hand to the clutch and summed it up in a word.

“Abso – bally – lutely!”

The End

will return in the

Year of the Chrononauts

About the Author

David Wake
is a writer, director and technical stage–manager and has an MA in Writing from Birmingham City University. He’s been part of SF fandom for many years and published this book to mark being a Guest of Honour at ArmadaCon.