Brotherhood of the Strange (Kingship, Tales from the Aether Book 1) (2 page)

Maxfield LeRoy slowly read the telegram brought to him on a polished silver tray by one of the many manservants who attended to the needs of important people such as himself. This one at least had the sense to excuse himself quickly and quietly once his menial errand was completed.

“Damn this print”, Maxfield stated, referring to the very small font that always adorned wireless radio telegrams. The unique form of Morse lay printed across the top of the page with the translation below set in such small a typeface he needed to don a pair of spectacles to read it without squinting and making his headache even worse. A headache that of late had been a near constant companion. Maxfield once had eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, and was always a stickler for the finest of details. His duties, his sacred duties, and obligations had taken their toll over the past few years. That was a matter of little import as he had been chosen to bring about a great and wondrous work, a work far beyond the scope of most mortal men. A work he had often felt ill equipped for, yet at times it seemed he had been lent an almost inhuman endurance. Through it all he had been prompted, motivated, and at times chastised, by the unceasing whisperings of the Box. It was always there on the edge of his consciousness, talking to him, giving him instruction. Informing him that he, Maxfield LeRoy had been chosen by the Gods to be their instrument, their prophet. Like all flesh, his was weak, and he viewed his headaches as a sign of that. One which he would have to endure, and endure it gladly, for the honor of being the holiest of men.

Setting his brass rimmed spectacles into place on his thin nose he began to read. The news was good; both Jupiter and Mars projects were proceeding ahead of schedule, its whereabouts remaining a well guarded secret. This was no small miracle, given the sheer scope and size of the project. Glancing over at the Box, resting as it always did on its marble pedestal, Maxfield could feel approval emanating from its ancient frame. Tiny gears ticked rhythmically away across its ornate surface and arcane symbols from cultures predating known history turned in a near incomprehensible countdown. The Box was one of the innumerable artifacts of antiquity kept in the stewardship of the Brotherhood of the Strange and was by no means the most well known. In fact, it seemed in the fifty years it had been in their possession, it had largely gone unnoticed. While it was ornate, it was no more so than many of the other artifacts. Neither was it overly impressive in stature, being about the size of a large book. Nor could anyone else hear the voices speaking from it which was without a doubt reserved only for the worthy. It was an irony not lost on him as to most the Box had been such an afterthought upon its finding that it had been named ‘Pandora’s Box’ for no other reason than to attribute it a label in the records, records which Maxfield used to so painstakingly manage. Yet he knew it was more important than all of the wealth and resources of the Brotherhood of the Strange and it was up to him to use that same wealth to bring about the desires of the voices, the voices of the Gods.

Maxfield continued to look over the remainder of the telegram. In addition to the progress report there were requisitions for more coal, more cold weather gear, more mining equipment, more plasmatite, more of almost everything needed by the Jupiter project. He would have to meet with the Council of Brothers to acquire the funds but it would not be an issue as the Council was scheduled to meet in less than an hour, their aetherships arriving presently. Eight of the twelve on the Council were believers, like him. It had taken a herculean effort to convert and infiltrate sections of the Brotherhood all the way to the top but as it was Maxfield’s destiny to lead, it only made sense this group which he called the Hand of Paris, (a secret society within the most secret organization on earth) be successful, no matter the obstacles that lie in the way.

A shadow passed, darkening the room. Looking up from his paperwork, Maxfield noticed the source of the shadow; a large aethership was passing his tower office, readying to dock at the mooring station located on the far side of this fifty plus acre upland, which served as the headquarters of the Brotherhood of the Strange. At least it was for the time being. The Jupiter project would bring about notable changes, the least of which would be a new place for those loyal to him to call home. It could not come soon enough as far as he was concerned. This upland, though lavishly adorned with a stately, fully restored castle, well kept grounds, and some of the best chefs around, he found the northern Scottish weather absolutely ghastly, conditions which were only exasperated by the altitude. He far preferred his much more hospitable southern homeland of the French Rivera.

Several more aetherships, both large and small became visible in the distance as they steamed their way towards the upland, black smoke belching from the chimneys of their coal-fired furnaces. The Council would convene shortly. He took the available time to freshen up and place his notes in order, including the recent telegrams. He also took some medication for his headache, a strange mix of opiates that always left a bitter taste in his mouth which he attempted to satiate, unsuccessfully, with a sip of brandy. Ready for the meeting, he walked down the winding stairs from his office.

Having reached the bottom it occurred to him he had removed his spectacles and left them on his desk. He considered going on to the meeting without them, but his headache dictated he would need them while going over his ‘requests’ and also in the endless goings on of the rest of the Brotherhood. Though he had little concern for those comings and goings, it was still a part he had to play for the time being. Though he might be a minute or two late, it wouldn’t matter for no one was as punctual as he and he would most likely find himself still waiting for everyone to arrive. Maxfield climbed the several flights of stairs he had just descended. Placing his key into the oaken door of his study, he was shaken by what sounded to be a steam locomotive crashing through his office accompanied by a rush of wind that caused the heavy door to groan and heave. The whole floor shook and swayed as he pushed his way through the entrance, concerned for his precious Pandora’s Box. There, amid smoke and static filled air, sitting astride a machine Maxfield had only seen in scale, sat Degory Priest.

The sensation of temporal teleportation was not a feeling to which Degory had yet become accustomed and he found himself clutching the instrument panel as waves of vertigo assailed him. The entire process of traveling the roughly six-hundred miles from London to Scotland and two hours into the future passed for Degory in only a matter of seconds. The cacophony of lights, sounds, and sensation was not something easy to stomach and when it was over, it took a few moments for the mundane world to come back into focus. As it did, Degory could see he was exactly where he had planned to be, the tower office of Maxfield LeRoy. What surprised him was the amount of damage he had caused to that office. All of his previous tests had taken place outdoors on both sides of the jumps. Clearly he had underestimated the force of re-entry as chairs, books, and many small curios were lying on the floor, blasted away by his sudden appearance. However, this was nothing compared to the shock of Maxfield himself standing in the open doorway, and the two men exchanged looks of mutual bewilderment. Degory knew he had to think quickly and act quickly. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, the glass on the front case cracked, most likely a casualty of the Temporal Accelerator’s grand entrance. Its face read the exact time Degory had calculated, a time where Maxfield should be in a meeting with the Council.

Before he could think further, Maxfield broke the silence, “Degory! What on earth possessed you to test that contraption in my office?” His voice had an air of annoyance, yet heavily tinged with curiosity. Maxfield had been interested in this project from the beginning, long before Degory had any reason not to trust him. That curiosity might give him enough time to decide upon a new course of action, one that would hopefully allow him to complete his desires.

“I do apologize Maxfield”, Degory started. Degory was of a high enough station within the Brotherhood to address him by his first name. “I wanted you to be the first to see the device in action. I was unaware that it would cause such a commotion, as all of my previous tests took place in the out-of-doors.”

“Yes well, I suppose that mistake can be overlooked,” There was a hunger in his eyes as he gazed at the Accelerator, a hunger Degory found quite disquieting. “It was good of you to bring this to me first. Does anyone else know it has been completed?”

“Only my brother,” Degory lied, leaving Cordelia out of the conversation. “He was most helpful in working out some of the early kinks after the first few test jumps.”

“Ah Edward. That is well.” Maxfield squinted, “I seem to remember him mentioning something about you ending up in a swamp last month?” He said it with a smile on his face and a small chuckle. To Degory any form of mirth coming from this man always seemed like a hastily donned mask, as if it were a role in a play he was forced to act out until he himself could rewrite the script.

Ignoring his indignation and hatred of Maxfield, Degory attempted to match his casual attitude, “Yes, it was quite the adventure, though not the sort of outdoor activity I usually undergo while on holiday. Those first few tests taught me a tremendous amount however regarding the calibration and navigation of the Accelerator.”

“Excellent, most excellent. We should announce this to the Council of Brothers. They are here now, were you aware of that?”

“I was unaware that the meeting was today, or I would not have disturbed you.” Another lie. Degory hoped he could keep them all straight.

“It’s little matter,” Maxfield flatly stated with a wave of his hand. “They can wait a few minutes for news as important as this. Tell me Degory, just how difficult would it be to teleport down to the meeting room? It would be a grand show of the machine’s abilities.” He paused, and then added, “And of the power we now hold.”

It was statements such as this which chilled Degory’s blood, having heard them with increasing frequency over the past several months. Maxfield craved power. He was somehow in charge of the Brotherhood of the Strange. How he had been able to wrest that position from men far greater than he was a mystery to Degory. While Maxfield trusted him, and relied on his scientific genius, he had certainly not let him into his inner circle, his ‘Hand of Paris’. It had taken Degory months of inconspicuously asking the right questions, of doing research in the archives, and some old fashioned sneaking around to learn as much as he had. And as much as that was, he knew there were plots and schemes to which he was still unaware, though through the hints and whispers he had gleaned thus far, he knew corruption on a global scale was afoot. He also knew the source of this corruption lay somehow in the mysterious artifact he had come here to steal in secret. A mission which now seemed impossible.

“It would take several hours of calculations,” he stated truthfully. He was not yet so confident in his knowledge of the device as to cut corners when planning a jump. “It would probably be best to plan a demonstration for tomorrow or the next day. I imagine the Council will be here for at least that long.”

“Indeed,” Maxfield conceded, though clearly disappointed. Degory knew he would like nothing more than to dazzle the entire Council with an entrance the likes of which bore no precedence. “Still, it is quite an achievement, one worthy of a drink, wouldn’t you say?” Maxfield stated motioning towards the antique globe that contained a small liquor cabinet, the map of which showed Earth as it was before the Great Calamity. It, like so much else in the room, had been pushed back from the Temporal Accelerator’s entrance, though the globe itself seemed undamaged.

“Yes, please,” came Degory’s reply. In truth Degory cared nothing about the drink, much less about sharing it with the lunatic who was pouring it for him. Degory was running out of time. His plan was to be in this office for no more than two minutes. He had planned his jump back to his study accordingly. As each minute passed, those painstakingly generated calculations were becoming less and less accurate, and he was no longer certain where he might end up. He was also almost positive his arrival would not go undetected. This floating upland isle that headquartered the Brotherhood of the Strange had all sorts of measures in place to keep intruders out and secrets in. As these measures were often products of arcane or occult knowledge, Degory was sure that the Accelerator had disrupted the ley line energies alerting Charles, the impossibly complex differential engine which practically ran the whole complex, that something was awry. It would only be a matter of minutes before armed guards, many of which he would probably know, would be making their way into the room. Further, Maxfield was never supposed to know the device was fully operational. All of his bluffing, his delays, his outright lies were now for naught. Maxfield would now find insidious reasons to use it, and would become a force Degory would not be in a position to undermine. If he was to rekindle a hope of exposing Maxfield and the Hand of Paris to the Brotherhood, he needed time, and Degory was about the only person in the world who could actually make it. It was necessary to act though Degory was not sure what to do. With his back turned as he poured a pair of drinks it would be a simple enough matter to run Maxfield through with his sword cane. However, Degory had never killed a man before and the goal was to discredit this madman, not martyr him. The blunt pommel of his cane would have to do.

How Maxfield had anticipated Degory’s attack at the very last moment was bewildering to say the least, though in hindsight Degory suspected the will of whatever evil emanated from Pandora’s Box had a goal to preserve its foothold in the world, and that foothold was Maxfield. As Degory had attempted to knock him out with the pommel of his stick, Maxfield had turned flinging the alcoholic contents of his glass into Degory’s face. His eyes burned and snapped shut on reflex. He then felt Maxfield’s fist connect with his ribs, knocking much of the wind from him, unprepared as he was for the blow.

“Degory, Degory, Degory,” came the chastening voice of Maxfield like a wounded father disappointed in a wayward child. “I thought you were one to be trusted. I see now that pride has claimed your heart. A pride that I’m sorry to say, makes you unfit to rule with your betters.”

Degory struggled to regain his breath as he wiped away the fluid from his burning eyes. He saw Maxfield, now standing behind his desk, with a double barreled pistol trained upon him. His eyes showed a genuine sadness knowing that Degory was unwilling to be a part of his mad scheme. Somehow still clutching his sword cane, Degory tried to think of a way out of his present circumstance. While he was an expert fencer, Degory Priest was not often a man of martial action. He could think of no pithy quip to insult Maxfield, nor keep him guessing as to his next move. Instead, he quickly leaned over the control panel of the Temporal Accelerator and threw the switch that began the power up sequence. The nine concentric rings, which had almost stopped spinning during their conversation, surged anew. As he did Maxfield fired his weapon. Fortunately for Degory the machine sat between the two former colleagues and the first shot ricocheted off the brass and steel of the nine rings. Without pause, the now irritated Maxfield fired his second shot as Degory dove behind the seat of the device. This shot also struck the machine and Degory heard a loud crack followed by what sounded like marbles being thrown at the ceiling. “The levitite,” Degory groaned to himself looking up to confirm that which he already knew; Maxfield’s second shot had struck the anti gravity levitite crystals mounted in the center of the nine rings imbedding the shattered purple fragments in the wooden ceiling of the office, each straining to break through to the aether above. The machine was powering up quickly, the multi-hued energies again swirled around the rings while the generated wind scattered the black powder smoke from Maxfield’s wasted shots. He ejected the two shells and reached in his desk for more. Taking this opportunity Degory emerged from behind the Accelerator, sword brandished high, hoping to reach his foe before he could reload. He slashed at the hand holding the pistol, forcing Maxfield to drop it as blood erupted from the clean, though superficial, slice Degory had made. Taking advantage of his reaction, Degory then brought the pommel of the sword into contact with Maxfield’s temple, stunning him into unconsciousness.

Knowing he might only have seconds, Degory quickly crossed the room and secured the door with a chair. It would not stop someone determined enough, but may buy him the precious moments he needed. The fact that Maxfield was a man of small stature, and combined with the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body, Degory was able to force the slack body into the device’s seat, a device which was now practically straining against its own reality bending energies. He then attended to his original purpose, Pandora’s Box. He looked at the intricate surface, its ticking gears concealing a locking device so complex even the best minds in the Brotherhood, his own included, could not begin to conceive of a way to open its contradicting mechanisms. The best they were able to achieve was a deciphering of the symbols, which led to a realization it was counting down. This countdown coincided with many of the machinations of Maxfield which Degory had been able to uncover. Although he did not yet know the full implications of that countdown, he knew he had to stop it, that the secret to discrediting Maxfield lay with the Box. And to stop it he needed more time to learn more about it. If he read the Box correctly, he had a mere eight months until the ancient clock reached zero, much less than he had first guessed.

What Degory did not expect was the sheer feeling of hate and long endured despair which seemed to flow through his hands and into his very soul when he grasped it. It was cold, colder than it had any right to be and it was only by his adrenaline fueled will that Degory was able to place it into the Temporal Accelerator, in the lap of the very man he had come here to wrest it from.

He heard banging and shouting at the door. He was out of time. Degory quickly changed the destination from one hour to one year into the future. He then reached into his frock coat pocket and started the countdown watch Cordelia had built. He hoped one year would give him enough time to save the Brotherhood and possibly, the world. As for the exact exit coordinates, he would have to figure that out later, a prospect all the more daunting due to the damage inflicted by Maxfield’s shot. Degory himself had planned to leave with the machine, how would he now convince anyone he was still to be trusted? With no other option, he turned the knob to again focus the energy into the perfect glowing sphere which encapsulated the machine. He then threw the switch and jumped out of the range of that sphere lest he travel to the future as well. The machine gave a shutter as it began to leave reality. What he had not counted on was the vacuum created by its departure. Pulled off balance he pitched forward, his right arm piercing the blue energy as the Temporal Accelerator vanished.

The cut was so quick and so clean it took a full two seconds for the pain to hit and longer for the full implication of what that pain represented. Degory Priest fell to his knees, grasping for an arm which was no longer there, an arm he had trained in the gentlemanly art of fencing since he was a boy, an arm that was now on its way to the future. Blood soaked his suit and spilled onto the floor as both the chair and door gave way allowing guards entry into the room. His vision blurring, Degory saw familiar faces, some he could trust, others he could not. He heard the cry go out to fetch a doctor, of which the Brotherhood had more than a few. As his mind faded into the oblivion of shock, Degory realized he at least had his alibi.