Rated PG for language
by Jess Nevins
Special thanks to Alicia Germer for an incredible editing job
March 1, 1898
The messenger arrived at dusk, his ship gliding down out of the sky with an uncanny silence. From the porch of his cabin, the old man watched it descend, continuing to whittle away at the hunk of wood in his hand as the ungainly ship, about 30 feet long and similar to a balloon, touched down.
From the cabin of the craft a man stepped out. He was well-bundled against the cold, wearing scarf, overcoat, and a large bowler, and his muscular bulk was visible even from beneath his clothes. He raised his arms and waved once at the old man, who nodded curtly and continued whittling. The man from the ship walked forward and stood on the porch rubbing his hands together against the cold. The old man said nothing, concentrating on the piece of wood which was quickly resolving itself into the shape of a man falling backwards, arms flung into the air. Finally the man from the craft said, "Mr. Jones, might I speak with you a minute?"
The old man grunted and nodded. He cut one last shaving from the wood, looked it over with a critical eye, nodded again and stood up from his chair. He turned and shuffled into the cabin. The other man, getting no response, followed him, reminding himself to keep calm at the other's lack of manners; it wouldn't do to expect more of him.
The inside of the cabin was surprisingly warm and, even more surprisingly, pleasant-smelling. The old man placed his carving on a high shelf next to many other similar carvings and shuffled to the cabinet against the far wall while the other looked around, intrigued at what he saw. He had expected a simple wooden cabin with a dirt or, just possibly, wood floor, simple, hand-hewn furniture, crude furnishings, and an overall rank atmosphere. He had known that the frontier of America held its primitives, and he fully expected the target of his search to be one of them, as filthy and rank as the Red Indians who visited London with the Wild West Revues. The man thought his employer momentarily touched to expect help from one of these types, but he knew that his employer had ridden many a hunch to the winner's circle. So he held his peace even when dispatched on one of the Fast Reaction crafts that he so despised.
Instead the cabin was pleasingly rustic. The wood of the cabin was well-worn but of good quality with chairs and table of a level of workmanship that would not have shamed the better families of London. A large bookshelf held what looked like 40 to 50 heavy volumes including Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Jonson--Jonson in this land forgotten by civilization! Hanging from the walls and ceiling were all manner of instruments and objects, some predictably primitive--here what looked like a genuine hand-made bow and arrow--there a large, white, hide shield of the type the man had seen the Red Indians of Wild Bill's Revue carry. He noticed what might be a rifle except it looked far advanced and of baroque manufacture. Set against the far wall was a yard-wide opaque glass panel set into a metal box. The privy was shielded from the rest of the room by a large, three-panel screen with an inlaid original Chinese triptych. The air of the cabin smelled of sweet cedar.
The old man took a small, thin, glass bottle and two crude clay mugs from the same cabinet and sat down at the table in the center of the cabin. He gestured and the other man pulled up a chair and sat down, removing his bowler. He said, "Sir, I am--"
The old man gestured with his right hand, and the other fell silent. The old man poured a small amount of red liquid from the glass bottle into each mug and pushed one to the other man, who took it with some hesitation. The old man raised his glass to the other saying, "Salud," and drank. The other man sipped from his mug, then set it down, shocked. "Good God, sir - this is Armagnac!"
The old man said, "Yuh. '42."
"But do you know what a bottle of this would fetch in London?"
"Yuh."
"But...how on earth did you come by this?"
"Got me a friend who trucks it down over the mountains."
The other stared at him for a moment, causing the old man to smile briefly. "Just 'cause I'm out here in the ass end of nowhere don't mean I forgot what civilization is."
The other looked at him for a moment and nodded. "I see. Yes. Well. My name is Albert Radley, and I am a representative of Her Majesty's government. I have been dispatched here to ask for your assistance on a matter of great import to The Crown."
The old man looked at him, then looked down at his glass. His expression, which to this point had been impassive, became troubled. He took another sip from his mug and shook his head. "Shoot, Radley, I'm an old man. What d'you want with me?"
"My employer asked for you specifically," said Radley. "I was not informed of the details of your mission, Mr. Jones. I was simply asked to relay the request to you."
The old man suddenly looked up at Radley with a sharp expression on his face. The whittling knife appeared in his right hand, and it was pointed at Radley's face as the old man said, "Uh-huh. I know your employer, sonny-boy, and he wouldn't send you out with a bug's ass worth of information."
Radley was taken aback. The knife had just suddenly been there before he had had time to react. Radley, who with good reason considered himself a hard man, knew that he would never have been able to clear his Wembley in time, had it come to that. "I...apologize, sir. My employer asked me--"
The old man cackled briefly. "Asked you to see if the old man's wits were still all there, eh? Well, you can tell him that I ain't dead, and I ain't tetched. And I ain't interested. Now, git."
Beginning to grow alarmed, Radley said, "But...sir! You haven't even heard what--"
The old man stood, knife held steady. "I don't care. Whatever Mike wants from me, I ain't interested in. I'm old and long past that nonsense. Let Mike find some other rannie to use. I came out here for a reason, and, by God, I'm staying here."
Radley stood and reached into his greatcoat. From an inner pocket, he drew a large, ivory-colored envelope stuffed with papers. He proffered it to the old man saying, "As you can see, sir, the seal has not been broken. My employer told me that you would decline his offer initially and that when you did so, I was to give you this."
The old man looked at the envelope and took it feeling a tremor of premonition. He cracked the seal with a thumbnail and began reading the top page. Fifteen seconds later he looked up at Radley, eyes blazing, and he spat in the clear voice of a man half his age, "God damn you to Hell, sir, you and your employer."
His self-satisfaction restored at the sight of the other's loss of composure, Radley said, "I take it you will agree to our terms, then?"
His hands beginning to tremble, the old man set down the papers and lurched toward another cabinet. He took a metal jug from it and poured its clear liquid, which smelled of aniseed, into his mug. He drained the mug in a few seconds, then refilled it. After he had emptied it halfway he refilled the mug again and then put it away.
He sat down at the table, gesturing for the other to sit. He said, "I...I apologize, Mr. Radley. Ain't your fault Mike's doin' this to me. I don't suppose you had no hand in it."
Bemused at the change in topic, Radley said, "Indeed not, Mr. Jones. If I might speak frankly, I was against your involvement."
The old man nodded slowly. He looked at the knife in his hand as if he were surprised to see it there and slid it back into the sheath at his belt. He passed his hands through his thinning silver hair and said, "You know how old I am?"
"No, sir, I do not. I was not acquainted with you before today."
The old man shook his head and said, "You're one of Mike's mushrooms, then."
Radley, eyebrows arching skyward, said stiffly, "I beg your pardon?"
The old man snorted and took another swig from his mug, "He keeps you in the dark and shovels crap on you."
Radley scowled. "Sir, I resent that implication! What I do, what my employer does, is for the good of the Empire! We--"
"Spare me the recruiting lecture, boy, I done heard it all before, and from a feller with a more silvery tongue than you got. Anyhow, keep your hat on, I didn't mean to get under your chaps like that. Tell me, how old do you think I am?"
Radley's amour propre was wounded. "I would hazard to say you are in your late 70s, perhaps more."
The old man shook his head. "I saw 59 last month."
Radley could not keep the shock from his face. "But...how in God's name could..."
"You best sit a spell, Radley."
Radley sat down and took the offered jug and poured himself a few mouthfuls of the liquid but swallowed too much with his first mouthful and began coughing. The old man grinned mischievously. "I brew that m'self, out back. It's a bit strong, but it'll get you there."
Radley wiped his mouth and said hoarsely, "Indeed, sir. I can feel its effect already." But the old man was already staring off into the distance, his grin gone. After a few seconds, "Radley, you're, what, in your late 30s or so—38, 39?"
Startled, Radley said, "I am at that. How did--"
"You get to be my age, livin' the life I lived, you pick up a few tricks like tellin' a man's age. I 'spect you been workin' for Mike a while now?"
Radley cautiously said, "I have been in the employ of The Crown for several years."
The old man smiled. "That's good, Radley, you don't wanna give away too much. Don't worry, I was around Mike afore he started your little group. You all done got much bigger than I ever thought you would, and I'm certain you all got your hands in more pies than I ever dreamed of, but I was there before you were, and I might outlive you." Seeing the darkening expression of the other, the old man raised his hands in a peace-making gesture. "I'm sorry, Radley, I let my tongue wander sometimes, I end up sayin' things I shouldn't. No offense meant, alright?"
Radley nodded, beginning to see that the old man was similar to some that Radley had dealt with professionally, especially among the House of Lords. Such men were not not intentionally malicious but their words could be hurtful anyhow. The old man said, "What I meant to ask was, you've got some experience in The Life?"
Radley, hearing the capitals in the final words, said, "I'm...not sure what you mean, sir."
"Unless Mike done changed his ways and his aim, he's got you takin' care of people and things that threaten or endanger Queen Vicky or other Brits, right?"
As Radley bridled at hearing Her Royal Majesty referred to so informally, the old man said, "Sorry, sorry--you have to forgive me, Radley, I ain't used to speakin' around normal folk."
Radley nodded stiffly. "It is my brief to ensure that threats to the security of the Crown, Her subjects, and Her national interests are dealt with, yes."
"And you ain't never had no doubts about what you do?"
The other, not comprehending, shook his head.
"You ain't never had to do anything you felt bad about later?"
The other began to shake his head, stopped, and looked at the old man with a curious expression. He sipped from his clay mug and said, "Yes, actually, I..."
The old man waited, but, seeing the other was not going to continue, said, "You ain't gonna shock me none, if that's what you're thinking. And I won't think the less of you for it."
Looking into the mug to avoid the gaze of the old man, Radley said, "I...some months back I was forced to...to gun down a number of...of children. It was...it was required, and their deaths ensured the safety of...of a number of British citizens, but...I sometimes see them. In my dreams."
The old man nodded slowly. "Weighs on your conscience, doesn't it?"
Radley looked up, a hostile retort on his lips, but, seeing the old man's expression was kindly and understanding, he let it die."Yes."
"And you can't have been doin' this for more than ten years. Me, I've been riding the range for over 40 years. You know how many times I've done things I'm ashamed of? You have any idea how much blood is on my hands?"
Hearing the self-loathing and disgust in the old man's voice, Radley finally looked at him, really looked at him. What he saw did not inspire him.
The old man looked old and frail, like a stiff wind would carry him away. His body was thin, and the clothes--beaten blue jeans, a worn flannel shirt, and a tired and aged leather vest over it--hung loose on his frame. He was slumped over at the table, his shoulders low. Although his eyes gleamed, the leathery skin was drawn tightly across his face. Radley wondered at the many scars: some large from knives or something worse and some small from where flecks of gunpowder had burned themselves into his flesh. The old man's large, callused hands fluttered and trembled slightly, and in his breath was a faint rattle of rheum.
The old man laid both hands flat on the table, looked down at them and then up at Radley. "I quit The Life 'cause I was tired. I'm 59, and I look 80. I looked like this when I quit, five years ago. I have dreams..."
After a few seconds he continued. "I have dreams about the things I had to do, Radley. They were the right things at the time, and they saved lives, but...I got tired of it. I got tired of the blood and the deaths. I got tired of everyone being afraid of me whenever I rode into town. I wore a mask, sure, and I could walk around in the daytime without it, no one knowin' who I was, but after a while it got to where I could almost smell the blood on me, and I wondered why no one else seemed to smell it, either.
"And, y'know, lookin' back I gotta wonder what good I did. I mean, sure, there were a whole bunch of fellers who, but for me, woulda made things a lot worse, for a lot of people. But life woulda gone on. The West woulda still been won. What difference did I make really? I mean, in the end?
"And you know what this did to my life? 'Cept for whores, no woman wants to be with a man who made his living with six-shooters. Only friends I got are other masks mostly, and some of them I ended up killing 'cause I drawn on them too quick or they got in my way during a set-to.
"I moved here, five years back, to get away from all I done. I thought, hellfire, it was that or swallow a barrel myself. And, y'know, I stopped having the dreams two years back. I stopped twitchin' and goin' for my gun whenever I heard a branch snap. I stopped wakin' up at 3 a.m. and checkin 'my traps. Shit, I stopped layin' man-traps. When I get visitors, I don't worry about some damn bounty-hunter lookin' for me. The Kutenai, the Paiute, the Shoshoni--they started seein' me as just a man again, and not some damn ghost or spirit..."
He fell silent. When he looked up at Radley, his eyes were pleading. "And you want me to go back to the way I used to be?"
Radley looked at him with an expression that was a mixture of pity and contempt. "I cannot, sir. And I must have your answer. Now."
The old man gave a quiet, soul-weary sigh and slowly got up from the table to shuffle over to a low, flat oak trunk, its wood so weathered as to be almost slick. He opened it and took several items from it. Seeming to forget that the other man was there, he stripped and put on a new set of clothes: black jeans, black boots, black shirt, black vest, black hat, and a black half-mask with a silver hawk embroidered on it. (Radley noticed that the old man suddenly stood straighter, and somehow his breathing was stronger, and his hands no longer trembled). He picked up two strange-looking guns too large for simple pistols and with barrels far too short to be rifles, briefly examined the guns' workings and tucked them into his belt. He picked up a long duffel bag already packed and turned to Radley. The old man said in a loud, assured voice with no trace of the cracking or tremor that it had previously held, "Well, Mr. Radley, I can't say as I care for the method in which you done it, but you done hired yourself the Gunhawk. Let's ride."
He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed–the word is passed to the professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defence. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught–never so much as suspected."
The voice stopped reading aloud for a moment, then said, "Dear, dear Mister Watson. If you only knew...!" The voice chuckled for many seconds.
Inside the craft the Gunhawk looked around as Radley manipulated the controls and the ship smoothly rose into the air heading east. Gunhawk inspected the control panel and the accouterments of the ship, quickly locating the cabinet in which Radley had secured his belongings. Before Radley could object the Gunhawk had opened a medium-sized, opaque bottle, sniffed it, nodded with approval and had poured (into one of the clay mugs Radley had not noticed him grab as they left the cabin) a sizable draught of the purplish liquid. The Gunhawk took a mouthful, swallowed and said, "Ahhhhh...nothing like a Veuve-Cliquot to remind a man what's worth livin' for." In response to Radley's astonished stare, the Gunhawk said, "Well, shoot, Radley, I may look pretty rough, what you city folk would call `uncouth,' but it ain't like I never been exposed to civilization afore."
Radley closed his mouth and looked at the Gunhawk now sitting on the cabin's couch, feet up, gazing with obvious contentment out the window. "You...ah...you are taking the flight with much more equanimity than most, Mr. Jones."
The Gunhawk took another mouthful of the wine and said, "Best to call me the Gunhawk now, Radley."
"Yes, of course."
"As to flight, well, this ain't the first time I been up in the air, although I have to say this is a mite more comfortable than what I'm used to. What's powerin' this thing, anyhow? Last time I was around Mike, he was usin' steam to power his balloons. They got around okay, but they were slow--not like this thing."
Radley said nothing for a moment, and the Gunhawk said, "Might as well tell me now, Radley; I'll find out later from Mike himself."
With a nod Radley said, "Apergy, Mister...Gunhawk."
Behind his mask the Gunhawk's eyebrows came together. "Ap...ergy?"
"One of my employer's operatives discovered it several years ago. It is an anti-gravity device which uses the magnetic fields of the Earth as a means of propulsion."
The Gunhawk shook his head. "`pears I been out of touch a mite too long."
After a few minutes of silence, the Gunhawk said, "How soon you say this thing'll get us to London?"
"Four hours, Mister Gunhawk. 7 a.m., London-time. Just in time for breakfast."
Gunhawk tipped his hat over his eyes and said, "Think I'll get some shut-eye, then, Radley. Wake me when we're there."
Radley muttered, "Damn messenger boy, I shouldn't think," but kept the aircraft gliding smoothly through the night sky.
The ship touched down, and Radley exited it followed by a yawning Gunhawk. Radley walked ahead and turned, waiting for the Gunhawk, who was examining his surroundings with obvious interest.
The pair stood in a large courtyard almost two hundred yards in length and about half that in width. On every side stood buildings soaring up three or four stories, their walls and windows thoroughly coated with black soot. The floor of the courtyard was cobblestone worn smooth by centuries of feet. Despite the early hour, the skies over London were sodden with thick, black clouds, and the air was full of small, black particles. Above the low-level hum of everyday city life, they could hear the raucous cawing of gulls.
The Gunhawk sniffed and inhaled deeply, coughed and said, "Can't say as I exactly approve of what you're lettin' happen to London. I was here fifteen years ago, and damn if the air ain't gotten worse."
Radley said stiffly, "Sir, any scientifically-minded gentlemen is well-aware of the necessity for sacrifices in the face of progress. As any Englishman knows, the Empire requires its industries to produce at full strength. What you see is an unfortunate by-product."
The Gunhawk slowly shook his head. "This is why I never wanted to go back to New York City--a man can't breath in this muck."
"Several million Englishmen would disagree with you, sir. Now, if you would, please follow me. We are awaited."
With that Radley turned and opened a nearby, small, nondescript wooden door with no markings. The Gunhawk followed but before he could close the door he heard a quiet noise. He turned and saw the floor of the courtyard tip down, the far end shifting below the earth's surface as if on a hinge. Various figures were running up to the craft in which he and Radley had traveled and beginning to push it underground.
The Gunhawk turned back to Radley. "Y'all gonna explain that, or am I--"
Radley said with obvious impatience, "Your questions will be answered in turn, sir. Now, please follow me. I am unaware of your American habits, sir, but in the Empire punctuality is seen as a virtue, not a sin."
The Gunhawk shrugged and lit up a cheroot and began following Radley, who walked down the hall inside the building. Three doors down he paused, opened the door and entered, walking down the staircase just inside. The Gunhawk followed him.
The staircase was winding and long, and the air inside was cool and pleasant. The dim lighting in the stairwell forced the Gunhawk to concentrate on his footing. After five minutes of walking the Gunhawk said, "We goin' all the way to China, or are we just followin' that Arne Saknussen fella and stoppin' halfway down?"
Radley's voice echoed up the well from below. "Not far now, Mr. Gunhawk."
Thirty seconds later the Gunhawk reached the bottom of the stairwell, which opened on to a 20-foot wide, circular tunnel through which a cool wind blew. The walls of the tunnel seemed unnaturally smooth, the bedrock having been worn or hewn almost to a slickness. The floor of the tunnel was flat and similarly smooth. The tunnel stretched endlessly in both directions with faint lights coming from both ends. A flickering lantern hung above the doorway the two had entered from. They were standing next to a yellow line that separated the majority of the tunnel floor from the space in front of the doorway. The tunnel was silent apart from a quiet hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
The Gunhawk took off a glove and ran his hand across the wall nearest to him. He put the glove back on and said to Radley, "Nice subway stop you got here. No tracks, though--this case you want me for, it's got somethin' to do with the subway?"
Radley smiled condescendingly and shook his head. "Not at all, Mr. Gunhawk. And, although the hoi polloi of London use the Tube, we of the Special Branch have entirely superior resources."
Amid a growing wind and screeching noise, Radley's smile widened, and he gestured theatrically. "This among them."
The wind and noise rose to a crescendo and then suddenly stopped as a teardrop-shaped vehicle shuddered to a halt in front of them. It was made of a white material that the Gunhawk had never seen before and was wide enough to comfortably fit several men. The side of the vehicle slid open, and Radley stepped in, turned and impatiently looked back at the Gunhawk.
The Gunhawk slowly stepped inside, carefully examining the vehicle. As with the airship that had carried him to London, the inside of the vehicle was lined with plush, comfortable couches and chairs. The Gunhawk seated himself in one, enjoying the feel of the velvet cushions against his back.
Radley sat down and said in a loud voice, "Laboratories." A second later the vehicle took off down the tunnel at a terrifying speed, what was, to the Gunhawk, an unimaginable velocity. He kept the nervousness from his voice as he drawled, "Y'all ain't had no accidents with this thing, I take it?"
Radley smiled and said, "Indeed not, sir. Our transportation system was designed by the Edisons and is accident-proof." The Gunhawk took in the name without reacting while examining the walls of the windowless vehicle.
The vehicle swerved to the left and seconds later began decelerating. After it soon halted, the door of the vehicle slid open. Radley was first from the car and turned an impatient glance on the Gunhawk as he was slowly exiting. Radley again led the way down a poorly-lit hallway and up another long, twisting circular staircase. Halfway up the Gunhawk tossed the stub of his cigar, watching it bounce down the stairs, the sparks from its dying ashes flaring briefly. He patted himself as if searching for something he had forgotten, shrugged and continued up the stairs following a fuming Radley.
At the top of the stairs Radley waited in front of a closed door. "After you, Mister Gunhawk." The Gunhawk shrugged and opened the door.
Facing him were two tall, burly men in plain clothes pointing odd-looking, cylindrical guns at him. "Step into the room, Mister Gunhawk," Radley said and gently prodded him in the small of the back with what felt like the end of a gun barrel.
The Gunhawk stepped into the room. It was extraordinarily vast and airy, easily three hundred yards long and almost as wide with a soaring roof far overhead. The room was quite brightly lit and filled with a large number of men and an even larger number of strange objects whose tops reached up to the ceiling. The two men Radley had spoken to reached forward, yanked the two guns from his belt, and gave him a brisk, professional pat-down. "I would check his boots, as well, gentlemen," Radley said. "I'm reliably informed that certain of his class are given to hiding guns there."
The Gunhawk smiled as Radley spoke, neither Radley nor the guards noticing the peculiarly feral quality of his grin. One of the men stood back and pointed his strange gun at the Gunhawk while the other tucked his own gun into his belt and bent over to search his boots.
The Gunhawk's hands blurred into action. With his right hand he yanked the bent over guard's gun out of his belt, and with his left hand he grabbed the guard by the shirt and hurled him at the first guard. He spun around, pointing the gun in his right hand at the first guard, who had dodged the other guard's body a second too late. The Gunhawk reached behind his own neck with his left hand and drew a small stubby gun which he pointed at Radley. Like the other guard, Radley had brought his gun up, but too slowly, to bear on the Gunhawk.
The Gunhawk drawled, "Y'know, ain't but one man in ten thousand that can shoot in two separate directions at the same time with any degree of accuracy." His grin widened. "Lucky for me, I'm one of them."
Radley's face began to purple over with anger, and he opened his mouth only to have the Gunhawk say, "I heard enough from you, Radley. Y'all haul me from my quiet little life and threaten me, and now you're treatin' me like some damn convict just arrived in prison. Well, screw that, bucko. I'm the Gunhawk, and I've killed better men than the three of you put together. I done killed just about everything that walks or swims or crawls or flies, at one time or 'nother, and you best show me the top man around here, right goddamned now, or I'm a'gonna start somethin' that'll make Chinese Gordon's last stand look tame."
A resonant voice that he instantly recognized boomed from deeper into the room. "Really, Mr. Jones, that is far from necessary. A simple 'please' would have sufficed."
The Gunhawk eased his grip on the guns and let them swing on his trigger fingers. He offered them to the two guards, who sullenly took them, and he turned and smiled. "Your boys ain't bad, Mike, but they don't strike me as the polite type. And Radley here, well, I've had mules that were brighter than him."
Mycroft Holmes smiled, waddled forward and shook the Gunhawk's hand. "You must not be hard on Mr. Radley, Mr. Jones. He was merely following orders."
The Gunhawk lit another cheroot, "Ayuh. 'Sat mean I can have m'guns back?"
Mycroft Holmes nodded, his jowls shaking. One of the guards handed the Gunhawk's guns to him. With raised eyebrows, Mycroft looked at the larger of the two guns and said, "May I?"
The Gunhawk nodded. "Sure, go ahead."
Mycroft gave the gun a thorough inspection, judging its weight and examining the outsized handle. He handed it back to the Gunhawk. "Quite interesting, Mr. Jones. I will confess that I've not seen the like of that weapon. May I ask where you acquired it?"
The Gunhawk nodded. "You may."
Mycroft waited, then broke into a smile. "I have forgotten your sense of humor. Where did you acquire the gun?"
The Gunhawk inhaled on his cheroot. "Me and the other Travelers got into a barney back in the summer of '83. Some Keewazi, a Chinaman, and a bunch of...frog-men, I guess they were, were trying to take over the Territory by jacking up the heat so as to fry everyone. They planned on walkin' in once everyone else was dead. We took care of them, 'course. But, no, I told you about this back then, didn't I? The frog-men were carrying these here guns, a whole passel of them. The Sheriff let me take two of them. I'm afraid I can't tell you much about how they work, though. All I know is that they don't run out of ammunition."
Mycroft said, "How interesting. I may ask you to allow the guns to be examined by some of my scientists, Mr. Jones. I had thought we were far ahead of the curve in weapons creation, but perhaps we yet have things to learn. In any case, if you'll follow me...." He took the Gunhawk by the elbow and began to lead him into the room, but the Gunhawk quickly halted.
"I ain't goin' nowhere until you tell me what this is about, Mike. I don't cotton to bein' threatened, and what Radley there showed me--" and with that he jerked his head in the direction of Radley, who continued to glower at him, "--done put a pepper up my butt."
Mycroft said, "Would you have come were I to have said simply, 'I require your assistance?'"
The Gunhawk thought that one over and shook his head. "Nope."
"Then it was sufficient for the task. I have no intention of using that information, Mr. Jones; it was simply a ploy to draw you out of your isolation."
"So I'm free to go?"
"Of course, but now that you're here, I do ask that you sit to breakfast with me, and then allow me to explain why I've brought you here."
The Gunhawk slowly nodded and said, "Sure, I suppose I can do that. One thing, though."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
The Gunhawk spun on his heel, lashing out with a right hook that flung Radley completely off his feet. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. The Gunhawk muttered, "Punctuality might be a virtue in these parts, but from where I come from a polite tongue is considered a better one."
Mycroft Holmes slowly led the Gunhawk halfway across the room past large numbers of men and women running across the room's floor and performing tasks on various machines and vehicles beyond the Gunhawk's comprehension. Mycroft walked through a door in the side of the building, down a carpeted hallway and into a large, well-appointed dining room. He sat down in an enormous, overstuffed chair in front of a long table with a white tablecloth and place-settings for twelve and rang a bell. The Gunhawk sat at the table opposite him and watched as four other figures and several servants entered. The figures seated themselves, and the servants placed large platters of eggs, sausage, bacon, kidney, and toast on the table, along with large silver pots of tea and coffee.
Mycroft immediately served himself, scooping large helpings of everything onto his plate. The Gunhawk smiled. "I told you before, back in'83, that you keep feedin' yourself like that, you ain't gonna last long. Appears I was wrong."
"Our doctors are quite the best, Mr. Jones," said Mycroft. "They were able to clear my heart of blockages, some years ago. I am free to eat as I wish now without fear of a cardiac interruption."
To the Gunhawk, the time was just past midnight, his time, so he helped himself to small servings of toast and coffee. He looked around at the others launching themselves hungrily at the food.
On the surface, one seemed to be an ordinary man, an Englishman in his early 30s, slightly shorter than the Gunhawk and wearing a police inspector's uniform. He had intelligent eyes and a cynical cast to his face. He was laying to with a will, sloppily gobbling his food.
The second also looked to be in his 30s. He was tall, at least 6 feet 5 inches, and wore an expensive suit and jacket. His black hair set off a handsome face, but his expression and the lines around his eyes betrayed a hint of wariness and a haunted quality. The Gunhawk thought that he looked like a veteran who had just come out of a three-day battle. He was taking his time with his breakfast, carefully chewing every bit and alternating mouthfuls with sips of black coffee. The Gunhawk noted two large gold rings with odd designs on engraved on their sides, one ring on each index finger.
The third man somehow drew the Gunhawk's eyes to him and held them there. He was even taller than the second man, easily seven feet tall, and so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. His blond hair was of a shining yellow that the Gunhawk had never seen before, and his eyes matched the color his hair. He seemed to be in obscenely good shape, muscular and still lithe. The more the Gunhawk looked at him, the more he felt something amiss about the man--that there was a basic wrongness to him as if he knew or had done something inexpressibly horrible. Within seconds the Gunhawk was looking away, suppressing a shudder of revulsion and horror.
It was with relief that the Gunhawk looked at the fourth figure. She was a woman, only an inch or two shorter than the third man and matching his physique. She had shoulder-length black hair, striking purple eyes and a beautiful face, and her figure combined muscularity with a slim beauty. The Gunhawk found himself physically stirred by her, a sensation that had not happened to him for nearly ten years. She coolly returned his look, her expression carefully neutral, and he smiled and bowed his head and went back to his coffee.
The meal passed quickly and without any words. Mycroft discouraged with a grunt any attempt to say anything.
When the dirty dishes and the remnants of the food were cleared away, Mycroft sipped his tea and said, "And now, Mr. Jones, your questions?"
The Gunhawk swallowed his coffee and said, "Well, for starters, what the hell am I doin' here?"
Mycroft smiled and said, "We want you to apprehend Jack the Ripper."
"Come again?"
Author's Notes:
This story is a sort of prequel to Fin de Siècle, a forthcoming series, by me, which will make use of these characters and more. Fin de Siècle, in turn, will be a sort of sequel to the "Old Guns" story that appeared in All-Winners Squad #12-14. Fin de Siècle will have two main stories, one set in 1883/1884 and one set in 1898. The earlier one will start out in the Old West, with the same cast of characters that appeared in "Old Guns," and will eventually move to a global setting (some of the events referenced here will appear in this storyline). The 1898 story will be located primarily in London, using a few of the cowboy heroes from "Old Guns" but with mostly a new cast. I hope you'll take a look at them, since I'm quite looking forward to writing them & I think they'll be pretty good.
And, yes, I drew the obvious inspiration from Alan Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, but I'd like to think that I'm taking this in a different direction than he will.
The quote - "He is the Napoleon of crime" - is from A. Conan Doyle's "The Final Problem."
"Apergy" was first discovered in the 1880 stories of Percy Greg.
Next issue: Whitechapel, Part Two