Ghosts of War (12 page)

Rutherford knew it was a waiting game now. Arthur would be along shortly, as he always was, and he would stop to pass the time of day with his acquaintance, Jerry Robertson. It was then that Rutherford would have to show his hand, and hope to God that Arthur didn't lose his cool.

In any event, it was only a matter of a few minutes before the gangly curator came bustling through the exhibit carrying a cardboard box. His glasses were balanced precariously on the end of his nose—a little jauntily—and he looked hassled, as if the day were already throwing up insurmountable problems. He stopped, however, his expression changing, when he saw Rutherford standing by a glass case filled with Roman coins.

“Hello, Jerry. A little early in the day for you, isn't it?” Arthur said in his bright British accent.

Rutherford smiled. When he spoke, it was with the thick New England accent he'd spent so long affecting during the last few months. “You know what they say about the early bird, Arthur,” he said, grinning. “I was hoping to have a word.”

Arthur looked a little taken aback, but nodded. “Of course. Why don't you come with me while I find a home for this box? Another fragment, I'm afraid. Not much use to anyone anymore.”

Rutherford smiled, then followed Arthur across the hall toward a small office hidden in the far corner. The door was inset with opaque glass. Arthur handed Rutherford the box while he unlocked the door, and Rutherford was surprised by how heavy it was. “My office is upstairs, tucked out of the way. This is just a storeroom. We're using it to store all of the fragments while I see what we can save.” He held the door open and Rutherford stepped inside, sliding the box onto a wooden workbench that ran the length of the left-hand wall. The room was small and overflowing with fragments of broken statues, pottery, and cardboard boxes. Disconcertingly, a woman's head, carved exquisitely from white marble, lay on the floor just by his feet.

“So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about, Jerry?” Arthur ventured, still standing in the doorway, propping the door open with his foot.

Rutherford cleared his throat. He fixed the other Englishman with a serious expression. “Step in and close the door, if you will, Arthur,” he said, dropping the accent and allowing Arthur to hear his real voice for the first time.

Arthur's expression changed immediately from one of interest to one of suspicion. “What's going on, Jerry?” he said, remaining steadfastly where he was. He looked back over his shoulder, as if to see where the security guard was placed.

“My name isn't Jerry,” Rutherford said, quietly. “It's Peter Rutherford. I'm an Englishman working for the British government, and I'm here to ask for your help.”

Arthur stared at him, his eyes wide with incredulity. “So you've been lying to me all this time? Pretending to show an interest in my work, so you could…what?
Recruit
me?”

“No, it's not like that, Arthur. Please believe me.” Rutherford wanted to grab the other man by the collar and shake him, tell him to shut up and listen, that he was the only one who could help. But instead, he kept his tone calm, measured. “Please, step inside. We need to talk.”

Arthur glowered at him, but did as he said, and Rutherford breathed a short sigh of relief. So, he was willing to listen. “I'm sorry I deceived you, Arthur, but I'd ask you to believe me when I say I was trying only to maintain my cover. I've been working in New York for some months, infiltrating a small group of powerful men who are planning to try to start a war between the United States and the British Empire.” He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. “There's an airship leaving for London in a few days, ostensibly disguised as a passenger liner, but in reality carrying some sort of superweapon that it will attempt to deploy when it arrives. The men behind this attack believe the British government will see this as a preemptive strike from a country with which they have been locked in a cold war for the last decade and will advise the queen to commit to a full retaliation. By that time, however, half of London will have been destroyed, and the war will already have been lost.”

Arthur shook his head in apparent disbelief. “This is madness. You're telling me the US government is about to lay siege to London?”

Rutherford shook his head. “No, not quite. It's a splinter group, nine men with enough money and motivation behind them to engineer the attack. But if they succeed, it'll be enough to ignite the conflict and bring everything to a head. The British will have no choice but to respond, and then the US government will order in their troops. It'll be a bloodbath.”

“And why come to me with this? I work in a museum, for God's sake! What can I do?”

“I need you to take a message to the British embassy. That's all. Just walk in there and hand them a note. That way they'll know what's going on and they can get a warning to London. They have a secure line, directly to the Minister for Foreign Affairs.” Rutherford rubbed a hand across his face. This was it. This was crunch time.

“If it's such a simple task, why can't you perform it yourself?” Arthur asked, clearly wishing he were somewhere else. “Why involve me?”

“Because the embassy is being watched, and they know who I am. I'd never even get through the door. You, on the other hand—no one will suspect a museum curator of being involved, especially as you're planning a trip home.”

Arthur shook his head. He made to reach for the door handle. “Look, I'll have no part in your ridiculous war games, Rutherford—or whatever your real name is. I think you need to leave.”

“Arthur, you're missing the point! I'm trying to
prevent
a war! Can't you see? If this attack is allowed to go ahead, the British won't hesitate to authorize a full-blown retaliation. Queen Alberta is spoiling for a fight. Things will escalate, and before we know it there'll be another conflict, this time on a scale none of us can even imagine. Millions of people will die. It's in your power to help me put a stop to it.” He paused, searching the other man's face. “Please, will you do it?”

Arthur was wearing a pained expression. “I won't be a pawn, Rutherford. I won't be misled into getting involved in something above my head. Something dangerous.”

Rutherford sighed. “I won't lie to you, Arthur, not anymore. It might be dangerous. But if you don't help me, it's likely I'll die trying to make that call.” He met the other man's gaze. “I might well die anyway, but at least that way I'll die trying to make a difference. Trying to stop that airship from ever leaving New York. If you can take this message to the embassy”—he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of paper, holding it out to the other man—”then even if I fail, at least they can be ready. At least they can try to defend themselves.” He searched Arthur's face. “If I'm wrong, what's the worst that can happen? You make a fool of yourself taking a scrap of paper to the embassy and telling them a spy came to see you at the museum and handed you this note.”

Arthur eyed the folded piece of paper in his hand. He seemed about to reach out for it, and then hesitated. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked.

Rutherford shrugged. “What have I possibly got to gain? I've been through one war, Arthur, and it damn near ruined me. I've seen what it can do to a man. I've seen better men than me perish in their thousands. I won't allow that to happen again. This isn't what the American people want, and it isn't want the British want, either, despite what Queen Alberta might say.”

Arthur nodded, and then reached forward and plucked the note from Rutherford's hand. “All right, I'll do it. I'll do it because I can't risk not taking you at your word. Because if I didn't do it and all those people died, I couldn't live with that. I'll do it to prevent a war.”

Rutherford nodded. “Then you have my undying thanks, Arthur. Act quickly, as soon as you possibly can. The earlier we get the message to London, the better. It's all in the note.”

“What will you do now?” Arthur said, a concerned expression on his face.

“Whatever it takes, Arthur,” Rutherford replied levelly. He'd been mulling it over as he'd been talking, and a plan had slowly begun to resolve in his mind. He knew who was responsible for this mess, the man who had originally conceived the plan to attack London, the man who the others in that small cabal of statesmen and politicians all looked to for their lead: Senator Isambard Banks. That was his best lead. He was the man on the ground, and he had to act. Arthur would get the warning to the embassy, and from there they would transmit it to London. Now it was up to Rutherford to see if he could prevent the attack from happening at all. “I'm going to try to stop a war,” he said determinedly.

He reached out and took the curator's hand in his own, shaking it briskly. “Thank you, Arthur. And good luck.”

Arthur gave him a wry smile. “Don't go and get yourself killed, Jerry—Peter,” he said, tucking the scrap of paper into his shirt pocket.

Rutherford grinned. Getting himself killed was absolutely the last thing on his mind.

T
he hangar was immense.

It squatted like some vast, metallic growth by the docks, all steel cladding and heavy iron girders—a huge, shining limpet in the heart of a gray industrial landscape. It had been erected six months earlier along with its twin, which sat squarely beside it, identical in almost every way. The buildings had been commissioned by the state of New York and, as such, had actually been funded by taxpayers, although if asked, most tax-paying New Yorkers wouldn't have known anything about them. If anyone
had
cared to look, they would have been able to trace the paperwork all the way back to the state senator himself, Isambard Banks.

Inside the hangar was suspended a enormous airship, a transatlantic liner that had been adapted, altered, and otherwise transformed into a military behemoth of a sort never before conceived. Weapon clusters bristled from wide gashes in its silvery, reflective skin—machine guns, grenade launchers, even cannons—and it bore no livery or marking of any kind.

The maiden voyage of this particular vessel would be its one and only crossing of the ocean. No air traffic controller in London was expecting to receive it at a berthing field on the outskirts of the city. No wives or children impatiently awaited the return of their menfolk who had been away on business. No, the purpose of this particular vessel—which Abraham had taken it upon himself to name
Goliath—
was singular and devastating.

Goliath
was designed with only one purpose in mind: to deliver a weapon to the heart of the British Empire, a weapon so powerful and unique that it would bring the empire to its knees.

Within days of
Goliath'
s arrival in London there would be a new world order. Buckingham Palace would have been utterly destroyed, and with it, Queen Alberta and her legions of cronies. The war would be over before it had even begun, and the victors—the great republic of America—would reap the spoils. What was more, it was down to him, Abraham, that such a thing could even be conceived.

Abraham shivered with delight at the thought. In his hands he held the power to change the world. He had discovered and built the device that would win the war. Now he was fitting it inside the ship that would deliver it to its final destination. His chest swelled with pride.

Of course, all of this was colored by Abraham's concern that, by rushing him in such a way, the senator was effectively dooming them all. The man was arrogant—an egomaniac, even—and while his belief in the American ideal was to be applauded, his zeal also spoke to Abraham of a certain ignorance. He seemed to think that faith alone would be enough to protect them, no matter what they unleashed on their enemies. He clearly thought they'd be able to control the creatures, once the weapon had been activated and they had spilled hundreds, if not thousands of the things upon the unsuspecting British.

Abraham, however, knew differently. He knew this because he had tested a whole plethora of weapons against the creature he had trapped in the other hangar, and it had proved impervious to them all. Something about its extradimensional origin meant that it didn't react to terrestrial matter in expected ways. He had managed to harm it eventually, of course, but that was only because it was weakened by his continued ministrations of the poison. He kept it that way, just on the verge of death, just to be sure. Nevertheless, it had proved incredibly resilient. Even if it managed to escape in its current condition it would put up a hell of a fight. Without the solution—without the blood with which to make it—even the might of the American military would be as nothing against an army of these alien things.

The weapon was a Pandora's box: once it had been opened it would be near impossible to close it again. That was the price they would have to pay for victory and dominance, and the risk they would run for their haste.

Abraham rocked back on his mechanical legs, admiring his handiwork. The cavernous interior of the hangar bay in the lower section of
Goliath
was filled with a vast array of mechanical and electrical components: a bank of six miniature Tesla coils which, when powered up, would generate enough electrical current to force open the dimensional rent; thick, snaking cables tied in tight bundles; pneumatic pistons that would open the loading doors and release the creatures once they had begun to pass through the rift.

Then, at the center of it all, his crowning achievement: the gateway itself. It was like some bizarre fusion of the ancient and the modern: a large archway formed out of shaped iron girders and steel cladding, but etched with an array of incomparably ancient runes and symbols, some of them so intensely
alien
that Abraham couldn't even look at them for more than a few moments before being overcome with a strange giddiness.

It had taken him weeks to etch them onto the framework, and longer still to prepare himself to test it. He'd known what to expect, of course—during his time working for the Roman he'd become more than familiar with the procedure used to birth the creatures through the interdimensional rift, but procedure was one thing, and he had not been present when the Roman had finally managed to lure one of the creatures through. He was glad of that, in retrospect—the procedure had evidently gone horribly wrong and the Roman had been killed in the process, along with pretty much everyone else who'd been present.

Of course, Abraham's attempt to test his machine had been far more successful, and had given rise to the creature now trapped in the pit in the neighboring hangar.

The Roman had been almost as zealous as Senator Banks, Abraham mused, and that, he supposed, was why everything had gone wrong. It was an object lesson in caution, and one Abraham had been quick to learn. He certainly believed in letting others make all the mistakes first.

Abraham had been employed by the Roman ostensibly to build the crime boss an army of artificial mobsters—golems created from earth and clay, built on a subframe of brass. They'd been effective, in their way, but inelegant and rather unwieldy. Nevertheless, they'd inspired Abraham to develop the raptors, using the techniques he had learned creating the moss men, drawing on the occult sciences and marrying those ancient methods with more modern techniques. The results had been quite astounding.

Abraham wondered how his flock was getting along. He'd taken a huge risk that evening, sending them all out at once on Senator Banks's instruction. He supposed he'd had little choice. He needed to find a ready supply of the right blood if he was to have any hope of making enough of the solution to pacify or destroy the creatures that would be deployed by
Goliath
, and with Banks accelerating the timeframe of the whole venture—well, he'd had to do it, of course.

He cringed when he considered the gaggle of pathetic, mewling creatures that would be waiting for him back at the other hangar—assuming, of course, that his raptors had done their work.

Abraham had never intended to become an executioner, and the role didn't really sit well with him. The occasional death here and there—well, that was inevitable in his line of work, and he'd reconciled himself to that long ago. Even more recently, he'd enjoyed watching some of the people brought back by the raptors—the rejects from his experiments—begging for their lives before being pushed into the pit to be consumed by the alien creature. But it was all a matter of scale.

It wasn't because he was squeamish, nor because he had any qualms about ending those people's pathetic lives. No, it was because, he considered, he would have to deal with them all while they were still
alive.
At the end of the day, Abraham simply wasn't cut out for dealing with people. He hated interaction with others, abhorred the way people stared at his strange, mismatched body, and worst of all, couldn't bear the way they would do anything—anything at all—just to hold on to their ridiculous lives. As if any of them had anything worth living for. Nevertheless, as his old mom had always told him, you couldn't make an omelet without breaking some eggs.

Abraham surveyed his work one last time. It was nearing completion. He'd had to work through most of the night, and would have to do so again the following day, but the
Goliath
would be ready for its maiden voyage on time.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He couldn't put it off any longer. If the raptors had brought him a plentiful bounty of potential donors, he would need to start processing them immediately. It was a quick enough test to carry out—he need only draw off a vial of their blood and allow a few droplets of it to fall on the creature in the pit to identify whether he had a match or not. It would only take him an hour, and if he was quick, he could dispose of the unnecessary donors immediately. He didn't want to wake to such an onerous task in the morning.

Abraham rose stiffly on his piston-powered legs, straightening his back. He left his tools where they lay—he'd need them again in the morning—and quit the belly of
Goliath
, hopping down the loading ramp and out into the hangar beyond.

Outside, the city was freezing, glossing over with a layer of sparkling ice. He could see it reflecting in the moonlight on the top of the nearby buildings. He hurried across the concourse to the neighboring hangar, anxious to get out of the cold. Even though he was now more machine than flesh, Abraham still felt the chill.

He'd locked the door to the other hangar behind him when he'd left earlier that evening, knowing that the raptors would find their way in through the hatch in the roof. He fished in his pocket for the key, now, smiling at the sounds he could hear coming from the other side of the door. The raptors had returned, and with them, they had brought their prey.

Abraham turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, slipping quietly inside. The scene that greeted him was one of utter pandemonium. The raptors were playing, toying with the ragtag assortment of waifs and strays they had plucked from the streets. There were at least eight or nine people running around, screaming and wailing, as the raptors tormented them, slashing at them with their talons, hissing and shrieking, shrilling and chattering in delight.

The raptors seemed to get some measure of enjoyment out of this torture, making the humans rush about in blind panic, herding them like animals. They were like cats toying with captured rodents, always stopping short of dealing the killing blow.

Occasionally, after a particularly good haul like tonight, Abraham would toss a few of the rejected donors to the raptors instead of throwing them in the pit. The creature had a ready supply of warm bodies—much to his frustration—and it gave his pets pleasure to actually be allowed to shred one of the captives for a change. He would do that for them tonight. First, though, he needed to run his tests.

“That's enough, children!” he called, and the raptors immediately ceased their antics and turned, as one, to regard him. They had only a rudimentary intelligence, but it was enough to recognize a handful of commands, and to recognize their master. “Tie them up with the others,” he said, and the raptors did as he commanded, shepherding their protesting flock to the shackles that awaited them at the rear of the hangar.

Abraham waited until the raptors had finished securing the prisoners and had taken once more to the rafters, where they sat on their haunches, chattering and hissing at one another. He counted them off quickly and realized that two of them were missing. Had they simply not returned yet? Or had something happened to them? He felt a slight twinge of panic at the thought that they might have come to harm. He'd
told
the senator it wasn't safe to send them all out at once. After one of them had returned with a damaged wing the previous day…

Still, it would have to wait. There was still a chance they could return. In the meantime, Abraham thought, rolling his sleeves up, he had work to do.