Phileas was pacing, one hand at his hip and a finger of the
other hand pressed against his lips. That she was right
was inarguable, but if Phileas could find any other solution,
save the one that placed her in immediate danger, he would do
so.
There was
a pause as he reached her, his gaze lifting so that his eyes
met her own. She saw his anger and knew that it wasn't
directed at her. He was blaming himself for not finding
another solution to their current dilemma. His lips parted
in a breath, as if he were going to say something . . . then
he tapped his finger against them and turned smartly away, boot
heels clicking on the wooden deck of the Aurora.
"It
would seem," said Phileas, "That we have no other
choice. Rebecca, you will--?"
"Be
careful?" She flashed him a dazzling smile, making
it just rueful enough to let him know that she wasn't gloating.
"Be
sensible." Phileas turned towards her, raised a hand
as if to touch her cheek . . . but his fingers never quite brushed
her skin and he rubbed his thumb against his fingertips as if
he'd simply snatched a mote of dust from the air. "I
know enough not to ask you to be careful."
"I'll
only need to masquerade as a member of the serving staff for
ten minutes. By then, Jules," she glanced over her
shoulder at the young man, who was standing by the navigational
controls, "should have retrieved the prince's letter."
Taking his
cue, Verne stepped forward. "There shouldn't be any
problem; I've been invited as a guest--"
"You've
been invited as a convert," corrected Phileas sharply,
changing his pattern of pacing to face Verne. "If
you appear willing, they'll expect you to stay. Appear
unwilling, and you won't be permitted to leave."
"I'll
take the risk," countered Verne.
Rebecca applauded
inwardly--Verne barely flinched beneath Phileas' hard glare.
"On
your head be it." Defeated, but not unbowed, Phileas
turned to Rebecca, adding softly, "His life is in your
hands. Take better care of it than you do your own."
The words
so startled her that she was speechless. Phileas merely
nodded once, as if to further underscore the point, then stalked
through the Aurora, nearly brushing aside Passepartout, who
had been watching from the lowest steps of the stairway.
"What
was that about?" asked Verne.
"I was
being reminded, quite rightly, that I'm a fool for doing this
and even more of a fool for getting you involved." She
bit her lip, still staring after Phileas. "He's right,
you know--it could be very dangerous."
"There's
more danger in allowing the Condesa continue to draw the top
European scientists into her 'society' to promote racial purity."
"There
is, isn't there?" She smiled at Verne, who smiled
back, then ducked his head shyly. He had the eagerness
of integrity in his stance, knowing that he could change the
world for the better if only he applied his heart, mind, and
soul to the task.
How long
had it been since she'd seen that light in Phileas' eyes? Before
the death of Erasmus, surely . . . .
Passepartout
approached, clearing his throat slightly to bring her attention
to him. "And you would like to be landing where,
Miss Rebecca?"
"A very
good question, Passepartout. Somewhere suitably surreptitious,
I would suppose." She looked down at her morning
dress and sighed. "I can hardly pass as a servant
in this, can I?" A side glance at Verne's dust-covered
leather jacket, torn shirt and muddied trousers gave her pause.
She clucked her tongue disparagingly. "And
I hardly think Jules' attire would get him past the guards at
the front door, even with an invitation."
Verne dusted
off his coat and then his trousers. "What's wrong
with what I'm wearing?"
"Nothing,
if you're content to be seen as a bohemian writer." She
reached out to straighten his shirt collar, but it came away
in her hand as she tugged on it. "Oh, dear. That
won't do. You have a spare suit of clothes aboard, don't
you?"
There was
an awkward moment, as Verne looked away--ah, the matter of money,
again. Unlike her cousin, Verne wasn't a man of means
and probably didn't own all that many shirts, waistcoats and
cravats. Unlike herself, he hadn't been living a life
of adventure where costume was as much a part of the game as
being fleet of foot, sound of wind, and steady of eye.
Passepartout,
bless him, tried to come to the rescue. "There is
an older suit, out of being fashionable, master would not miss--"
Glancing
back at the doorway through which Phileas had disappeared, Rebecca
pondered the notion, then shook her head. "No, we
haven't the time to spare. I'd prefer to have you charting
our course instead of tailoring, Passepartout. Not that
you aren't a very fine tailor."
"Thanking
you, Miss Rebecca." It was Passepartout's turn to
blush slightly.
Verne, however,
was still studying the floor. And worrying his lip with
his teeth, which usually meant that there was something he knew
but would prefer not to say.
"I-uh--"
There it
was.
"What,
Jules?" Rebecca asked, in what she hoped was a comforting
tone. "You have an idea?"
"I have
a . . . suit. On board. Not a good suit," he
added quickly. "But that time we were going to Monaco
and Fogg said I should bring a good suit and I didn't have one.
I borrowed a few francs and--"
"Ah."
Rebecca met his anguished gaze and nodded. "That
cream-colored . . . thing."
Verne nodded
uneasily.
"It
will get you through the door, certainly. And you're not
there to impress the Condesa with your fashion sense, but with
your mind." She poked her finger at his forehead,
then used it to push aside a stray lock of hair. "And
your inimitable boyish charm. So why don't we do the best
we can and then we'll work out our plans?"
A half-hearted
nod was her only answer. Rebecca turned, her skirt swirling
around her and headed for the stairway to the upper deck and
her private room. There was, however, enough of a conversation
going on behind her that she paused on the stairway, just out
of sight, to listen.
"--Miss
Rebecca saying that you are charming--"
"Boyish
charm," corrected Verne. "<Boyish> charm.
Half the time I don't even know why I'm here. I
don't have the money for a decent suit--"
"He's
right, you know," whispered Phileas in her right ear.
Rebecca smiled,
realizing that he'd gone above to grab a private moment of conversation
with her. "I know--he doesn't have a sous. And
he'd be too proud to take anything we'd give him."
"Not
that." When she turned, she found Phileas less angry
than before, but his gaze was still as intently serious. "About
why he's here."
"He's
here because he's clever, astonishingly clever. He has a great
heart and a noble soul . . . and a vision of the future we must
never let be destroyed."
"Agreed.
Although that's not a task we're likely to accomplish
alone. It's not a matter of what Verne <is>, but
what he <isn't>." He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"It's a dirty, thoughtless, hideous game. He's
not meant for the job. He's not your protégé,
Rebecca."
"And
he's not your--"
Rebecca stopped
herself from saying the word 'brother' because she knew what
it would cost them both. Closing her eyes, she looked
inward and tried not to recall what Erasmus looked like, racing
beside her in the cleared meadow, both of them chasing to catch
up with Phileas. ". . . Family . . . ." she
finished weakly.
She'd half-expected
his hand to leave her shoulder. Instead, his fingers squeezed
lightly and she opened her eyes and turned her head toward him.
"Let
Verne find his own place in all this."
"And
until then?" Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "We
do . . . what?"
"We
protect him. From himself. And from us." Phileas
swung his leg over the iron frame of the stair, standing on
the outer edge of it to allow her to pass. It was the
gentlemanly, chivalrous thing to do.
It was also
a signal that their conversation was at an end. There
was no point in pursuing it; there was still a disguise to be
arranged. She swept pass him up the stairs, giving a nod
to acknowledge his courteous gesture, the whisper of her skirts
being drowned out by the ring of his heels on the iron as he
headed in the opposite direction.
***
It should
have been easy.
Which meant,
of course, that it had all gone horribly wrong.
"The
proper response to 'duck,'" said Rebecca, as she twisted
the hairpin in her fingers, attempting to undo the lock of the
iron bracelets holding her hands above her head, "is not
'what?'"
"I'm
sorry." Verne tilted his head back against the wall
to look upward, then winced. "Trust me, I'm <very>
sorry."
"Um."
Knowing that her fingers were far better left on their
own to feel the whimsies and contours of the lock, Rebecca narrowed
her eyes, watching him. His face was pale, but not unnaturally
so, considering that he'd taken a poker to the back of the head.
"Is your vision blurry?"
Verne smiled
ruefully. "There's only two of you right now. There
used to be three."
"That's
a good sign. There--" The lock clicked open
and the metal clasp swung from her left wrist. Rebecca
grinned at Verne then snaked her other hand from the manacles
and rubbed her wrists to bring back the circulation. "Not
among my best times for picking locks."
"Good
enough. No sign of Count Gregory yet."
"We'd
best hurry, then." Moving beside him, she reached
up and began to work the hatpin into the narrow keyhole of the
lock. The blood on the back of Verne's head was still
wet and she ended up with a fair bit of it on her sleeve.
"Someday
you'll have to teach me how to pick locks," said Verne,
with a sigh. He turned his head, and she shot him a brief
smile, aware of the intensity of his gaze as he watched her
work. "I <am> sorry."
"Whatever
for?"
"For
letting Van Geiden bait me into losing my temper. For
getting knocked unconscious--"
"Looks
like you'll have good reason to be sorry for that later, when
that bump rises. You're just lucky the Condesa doesn't
have much of a forehand when it comes to pokers . . . and that
your skull is particularly thick."
"It
must be. To think I was going to make a difference this
time . . . ."
Another click
and the manacle fell away. Verne's freed hand moved immediately
to the bump on the back of his skull, but Rebecca caught his
fingers before he could touch the wound. "Let me."
There was
blood, a bit of torn flesh, but the skull seemed intact. "Lucky,"
she murmured beneath her breath. As he raised his head,
she gave him another smile. "It's not as bad as it
might be."
"You
can say that--it's not your head."
This time
she let him find the bloody bump with the palm of his hand.
His wince reassured her, he'd be fine. And then
Verne sobered, watching her replace the pin in her tresses.
"Crookes, Fechner, Mort, Noble--some of the greatest
men of our time are gathered at the foot of this mountain."
"Well,
let's see what we can do about stopping Count Gregory, hm? Assuming,
of course, that you can keep from being knocked unconscious
again."
"I'll
do my best."
A flippant
answer died on her tongue when she heard the hesitancy in his
tone. "I wouldn't expect any less of you," Rebecca
assured him. The doubt in his eyes made her turn toward
the door and test it--better to do that than tell him she had
as little idea as he of how they could accomplish their mission.
No, <her>
mission. Phileas was right; she'd been a fool to have
gotten Verne into this.
"Locked
from the outside," she announced. The door was solid,
a good inch of metal thick, and the hinges were on the exterior.
"Then
we go up." Verne tilted back his head to indicate the wooden
rafters and small, oval window just below the line of the roof.
He nearly fell, but caught the wall with his hand. "Or
down," he amended, gesturing toward the large, circular
hole in the center of the stone floor. Rebecca moved forward
as Verne dropped to his knees, but stopped herself when she
realized he hadn't fallen, but was looking down through the
murder hole.
"Ludicrous,"
he said, "this whole Gothic revival." He looked
up at Rebecca. "Why would anyone put murder holes
in a mountain cottage?"
"Someone
who didn't want company, one would suppose," answered Rebecca.
She eyed the circumference of the hole, then undid the
skirt of her dress, revealing the leather hoop/ladder and trousers
she'd decided to wear beneath her domestic costume. She
brushed her hand along the leather at her hip.
"You'll
fit through," Verne said.
She raised
an eyebrow. "Thank you for noticing."
"That's
not what I--"
Planting
one end of the rope ladder firmly in his fist, Rebecca fought
back the urge to comment on his blush and walked to the manacles
where he'd been held. She secured a metal hook into one
of the iron rings, then pulled on it. "That should
do. Ladies first, I think."
Verne rose
to his feet unsteadily, obviously mustering his dignity with
as much effort as he could manage. He wiped his hands
on those hideous trousers and announced, "We have no idea
what's down there. I should go first."
"Precisely
why I--"
"I can
afford to get hit on the head again," he said quickly.
"But if you're captured . . . those scientists are
dead. I can't do this by myself. You'd at least
have a chance of stopping Count Gregory on your own."
"You
shouldn't be so certain." Rebecca hesitated a moment,
considering his serious expression, then nodded. "Have
I mentioned I find your pragmatism charming?"
"Boyishly
charming," corrected Verne, dropping to his haunches to
survey the hole, the leather ladder in his hands.
Rebecca placed
a hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her. At that
moment, she wanted very much to tell him that he was anything
but boyish--that he had more than any man's share of courage.
But that would have taken time.
"Be
sensible," she said softly.
His eyes
narrowed, but then he smiled--yes, he'd remembered what Phileas
had said to her earlier. Then he dropped the leather ladder
down the hole. After a second's pause, he swung himself
into the darkness and scurried down the ladder.
Dusk had
fallen as they'd spoken, and the last rays of light from the
ornamental window near the roof timbers finally faded away.
Rebecca stood for a moment in utter, absolute silence.
Her heartbeat sounded in her ears as she waited to hear
. . . anything.
A minute
passed. Sometime between sixty more seconds and eternity,
something touched her shoe. Rebecca jumped back, then
knelt immediately when she realized it was Verne's hand as he
came up out of the hole.
He held himself
on the ladder, arms braced against the edges of the hole--she
couldn't make out his features in the darkness. "It's
not much of a drop."
"Guards?"
"Two.
Well, there <were> two," he admitted. "It's
a corridor carved just inside the mountain."
"Let's
go before Count Gregory decides he wants an audience with us."
Verne gripped
the edges of the hole again, as if preparing to head down the
ladder, but paused. "Have we got a plan?"
"We've
always got a plan," said Rebecca. "We just don't
know what it is yet."
He disappeared
through the hole and she followed, at one point swinging to
the opposite side of the ladder to hurry her descent. The
drop was only a matter of feet, if that. She nearly stumbled
when she landed on something soft, which turned out to be one
of the two guards Verne had dispatched.
Lighting
the oil lamp that had been extinguished during the struggle
provided a wealth of information--one guard had speared the
other with a bayonet. Face pale, Verne stood staring down
at the bodies.
"Think
of the greater good," said Rebecca softly.
He nodded
slightly, swallowed, then nodded again as if trying to convince
himself. She was just as pleased that he no longer looked
as if he were going to be sick. Touching his arm, she
lifted the lamp, then gestured toward the left. "This
way?"
"There's
a draft," he informed her, gesturing toward the flame of
the oil lamp. "That probably leads to a trail outside
the mountain."
"And
Count Gregory likes to hide in the dark, doesn't he?" Rebecca
turned toward the right passage. "Let's see if we
can shed a little light on his plans."
Traveling
the pathway carved within the mountain was precarious enough--she
didn't want to think of what it would have been like if they
hadn't a lamp to guide them, or if they'd been forced to fight
more of Count Gregory's mentally-altered warriors. The
echo of voices led them to the entrance of a large chamber.
Verne moved as if to slip inside, but Rebecca touched
his arm and gestured upward--a natural fissure in the rock appeared
large enough for a clandestine view of the events in the chamber.
Verne clambered
up the rock quickly, but by the time he had leaned down to offer
her a hand, Rebecca was already at the entrance to the fissure.
Giving him a slight shove to hurry his progress, she crawled
through the claustrophobic section of the natural tunnel, only
to find that it opened about fifteen feet above the floor of
the rough-hewn chamber.
The hard
scents of machine oil and hot metal hit them immediately. Rebecca
crept to the edge and peered downward, Verne beside her.
The glow
of lamps hanging at intervals throughout the chamber provided
more than enough illumination. At first count, Rebecca
determined there were ten drones and at least an equal number
of willing, uniformed members of Count Gregory's private army.
The Count was also there, his throne-like life support
apparatus rumbling carefully over the uneven floor, the Condesa
de Seinol keeping pace beside him.
It was difficult
to determine exactly what was happening. Sparks were flying
and a number of Count Gregory's automatons were wearing metals
masks with glass faceplates, as well as metal suits--they looked
like some sort of demented medieval armor. Withdrawing
the spyglass from a pouch on her leather jumpsuit, Rebecca found
that she could make little sense out of the procedure.
"May
I?" asked Verne quietly.
She handed
him the spyglasses immediately, then leaned low and concentrated
her attention on covered crates in a shadowed corner. They
were partially opened, the contents spilling out--small paper-wrapped
packets. She couldn't make out the markings on the boxes
or the packets, though . . . .
"May
I?" she asked, holding out her hand for the spyglasses.
After a second's pause, she turned and nudged Verne, who
was still peering through the glasses. "Jules--"
"They're
welding," he said softly, as if amazed. He dropped
the glasses from his eyes and stared at her. "Rebecca,
he's developed a transportable arc welding device. They're
welding together iron wedges. I wouldn't believe it if
I hadn't seen it with--"
She whisked
the spyglasses from his hands and pointed them at the boxes
in the corner. Swallowing, Rebecca read the words on the
side of the box, lowered the spyglasses, then thrust them at
Verne. "Look there."
He stared
at her, still lost in his discovery, and then raised the glasses
to his eyes.
"Read
the words," she instructed.
"Nit--it's
too dark."
"Nitroglycerine."
After supplying the missing word, she glanced from the
boxes of explosives to the area where the long metal rods were
being assembled. "They seem far enough away for safety's
sake, but I don't think we should overstay our welcome. I
can't think how they were able to get that much nitroglycerine
into a place like this without blowing the top off the mountain."
"Nobel's
been working on making it safer to use, converting the liquid
into paste. I think he's at the chateau, now, with the other
scientists." Verne allowed the spyglasses to drop
to the ledge. "I met Nobel last night--he doesn't
seem the type to throw his lot in with League of Darkness. He
seems too . . . humane."
"Well,
he'll be dead unless we can figure out what the Count has planned
and managed to stop it."
Picking up
the spyglasses again, Rebecca scanned the chamber. Count
Gregory seemed agitated, turning his head this way and that.
"--Blowing
the top off the mountain--" murmured Verne.
"Pardon?"
she asked, still concentrating on Count Gregory and the odious
Condesa, who was leaning closer to the Count--he seemed to be
speaking to her.
"You
were right." When Rebecca lowered the spyglasses,
he swallowed and nodded, barely able to keep his voice quiet.
"But he doesn't need to blow the <top> off
the mountain, just the side. Those iron bars, there--"
Verne gestured toward the long, wedge-shaped pieces of
metal. "He's probably drilled holes or used natural
fissures on the side of the mountain closest to the chateau.
They place the explosives around the iron bars. When
they set off the explosives, the bars drive deep into the side
of the mountain--"
"Breaking
the mountain apart?" Rebecca nodded thoughtfully.
"What a clever idea--the disaster looks entirely
natural, an unfortunate geologic instability leading to the
deaths of the cream of the European scientific community."
"Thank
you for the compliment, Miss Fogg," boomed Count Gregory's
voice, as it echoed off the stone walls.
Rebecca dropped
flat to the ledge and scuttled back against the rock wall, grabbing
a handful of Verne's jacket and dragging him with her. They
sat panting for a moment, waiting for an attack--but none came.
Nor was there any sign of his armed men in the small tunnel
through which they'd crawled.
Verne was
holding his breath.
"It's
all right," she whispered softly. "He doesn't
know where we are."
"I may
not know <exactly> where you are," announced Count
Gregory. "But it's only a matter of time. Who
accompanied you on this foolhardy mission? Mr. Fogg, perhaps?
Or another equally deluded member of the secret service?"
Slapping
her hand against her face, Rebecca leaned as far back into the
rock as she could go. Already, the lamps were being lifted
on hooks, to spread more light and discover their hiding place.
The Count had no doubt augmented his auditory abilities.
Or perhaps because he controlled so many automatons, he
now could access their ears, as well as his own?
Verne's eyes
were wide. Rebecca hesitated for a moment, then ran her
hand over the surface on which they rested--there was sufficient
dust there to make writing an option. The raised lanterns
now made it possible to see one another clearly. Her finger
whipped through the dust, first drawing a brief overview of
their position, Count Gregory, and the Count's men. She
pointed to herself, gestured toward the concealing edge of overhang,
then crooked her fingers and made a motion to indicate that
she leap over the edge, thereafter pointing to Verne and back
down the tunnel.
As she expected,
he shook his head violently. The young fool still had
chivalric ideals, bless his heart. Although she wouldn't
have envied him the choice--face Count Gregory now or face Phileas
later without her.
Verne gestured
toward the 'G' indicating Count Gregory on her crude map, then
tilted his hand and straightened it--they'd be at an advantage
if they could get Count Gregory to use his fusion power, the
energy it required usually disturbing the control he held over
his underlings.
Nodding,
Rebecca took a breath and stared at the drawing. They
had two advantages--height and the fact that Count Gregory didn't
quite know where they were . . . and how long could that last?
They needed to incapacitate him, to foil his plan by setting
off the explosives stored in the corner of the chamber. This
did, of course, assume they meant to exit with their skins intact.
Verne tapped
on her hand, then gestured toward the 'G' again. Using
his palm, he covered the 'G.' Rebecca stared at him blankly
until he frantically pointed to the concealing edge of their
overhang, then allowed his palm to drop down over the 'G' again.
Cover Count
Gregory with something from above. Brilliant! With
Count Gregory in the dark, his many eyes and ears might be incapacitated
as well.
She grinned
at him and he returned the grin in kind, until they looked around--there
was nothing they could use. Rebecca pointed to his jacket
and mimicked removing it; Verne shed the previously cream-colored
garment in a heartbeat. As she took the jacket from him,
Rebecca caught the vest and the collar of his shirt between
two fingers and tugged on them.
Verne eyed
her dubiously, but she reached up and tugged again. Hesitantly,
his fingers reached for the vest fastenings as she attended
to the jacket. The buttonholes on one side of the vest,
which he handed her, fit the buttons of the jacket quite easily.
Two hairpins were sufficient to attach the shirt to the
top of the jacket, creating a fairly large section of covering.
Unfortunately,
it wasn't quite large enough.
Bemoaning
the lack of her skirt, which was still in the chamber in which
they'd been manacled, Rebecca took a breath. Verne was
now naked from the neck to the waist, his skin white in the
freakish light cast by the oil lamps. He was desperately
trying <not> to be nervous. He was also, obviously,
cold.
It was with
some reluctance that Rebecca gestured toward his trousers.
Verne shook
his head. Vehemently.
Placing the
flat of her hand against the leather fastening of her bodice,
she looked at him, one eyebrow arched.
He shook
his head again. The vehemence seemed to have dissipated
to reluctance.
When she
began to undo one of the shoulder fastenings for her leather
bodice, Verne's hand shot out and caught her own. He looked
at if he were about to clear his throat, then thought better
of it at the last moment, knowing the sound might give away
their location. He firmly placed his hand on the back
of Rebecca's right shoulder, indicating that she should turn
around.
Rebecca desperately
wanted to laugh, but knew that she couldn't--not only would
it give away their position, but it would break Verne's heart,
as well as demolish the shreds of dignity which he was desperately
trying to maintain. She would have to tell Phileas later.
Or . . .
perhaps <not>.
It was pure
torture not to peek. Or to smile. Or even smirk.
A little.
After a few
very-well muffled epithets, Verne reached around her to slap
the trousers into her hands. She nodded her thanks and
then, pulling a concealed stiletto from the heel of her boot,
shredded the seams of the outside of each pantleg. It
was difficult to ignore the knowing sigh from Verne, who, watching
the two interior panels being pinned together to form a continuous
sheet, suddenly realized that his escape would be made in his
underclothes.
Which were,
not unexpectedly, the fashionable long-legged drawers, which
reached the middle of his calves. They were also that
color of white that borders on the gray, a tint common to those
who rely on their own occasional exertions to clean their clothing,
not having the funds to settle on a capable and conscientious
laundress.
Rebecca couldn't
look at his face, of course. Then it would be all over
and they'd be captured and dead. Whereas at the moment,
they were alive and only Verne was suffering the non-terminal
torments of the damned that come with embarrasing situations.
It was a
situation both he--and she--could very well live with.
The 'cover'
being finished, she weighted it by pinning a few coins along
the edges and corners, then tossed it behind her to Verne. Only
after he'd had a moment to cover himself decently with it did
she actually turn and face him again.
Carefully
re-drawing their position in the disturbed dust beneath them,
she gestured where she would jump from hiding--further along
the tunnel ahead of them. When Verne started to shake
his head in disagreement, she placed her right hand flat on
his chest. He froze like a statue and she felt him take
in a slow breath. His skin
was chilled.
It was difficult
to keep her hand still and she removed it quickly, pointing
back to the drawing. She drew a line from Count Gregory's
position to where she planned to maneuver him--beneath the outcropping.
Then she followed the same motion Verne had used earlier,
lowering her hand to indicate the dropping of the cloth over
the chair in which Count Gregory was seated.
She only
then realized that as he was watched her, he was pulling on
his shoes. Of course, he'd needed to remove them to remove
his trousers. And there was dirt smeared across his cheek.
It took an
effort not to wet her thumb and wipe away the dirt. His
eyes held a momentary flicker of fear--for her?--and his lips
were drawn tight in a line of resignation. The expression
was yet another version of the same look she'd seen on Phileas
time and again just before battle, just before he gave his soul
over to not caring whether he lived or died.
That was
the only way it would work, after all . . . if you didn't care.
Because if you cared, you'd slip. You'd look backward
instead of forward. You'd make a mistake. And then
you'd both be dead.
Please God,
let him learn to stay alive, let him learn the skills he would
need to survive if he was going to become a part of their adventures.
But don't let the innocent dreamer, the soul that believed
in the innate goodness of man and the great, glorious possibility
of the future grow cold
and still inside to protect himself and his friends.
Don't let it be like it was with Phileas.
Rebecca knew
she would do anything, even die, to prevent that.
And she knew,
too, from the look in Verne's eyes, that her sacrifice would
only be the beginning of the downward spiral into the waking
madness that constantly threatened to engulf her cousin.
There were
no words, could be no words. But she touched his cheek
first with her fingers, then with her lips, a reassuring touch.
As she drew back, he mouthed two words at her, "Be
sensible."
She nearly
kissed him again. Instead, she pressed the handle of the
stiletto into his fingers, then dropped to her hands and knees
and crawled as quickly and silently up the length of the crevice
as she could. Before she could lose her nerve, she peered
over the edge, judged the distance, and dropped.
Not so much
of a fall, just over ten feet, and in the shadows. But
the lights swung toward her within a half minute's time. Count
Gregory rolled toward her, the Condesa at his side as if tethered
like a prized falcon.
"I had
almost thought we'd lost you, Miss Fogg."
"Leave
without so much as a calling card? You must think me rude.
Or as rude as your companion."
The Condesa
sniffed; Rebecca smiled prettily, picturing the falcon fighting
the tether, anxious for the hunt. "Let me kill her,"
hissed the Condesa, as she leaned close to Count Gregory. "This
is my operation--it's my right." She drew a less-than-ceremonial
sword, a saber, from the scabbard at her side and faced Rebecca.
"Give me this, after all I've done for you."
Count Gregory's
eyes flickered between them. Rebecca bowed slightly at
the waist and smiled at him again. One of his arms shook
imperiously in the straps that held it. "Take her
then, and quickly. We've yet to lay the charges. I
want no more delays!"
"Gladly."
The Condesa turned, saluted him with her sword, then stalked
toward Rebecca. "<This> I will enjoy."
"Surely
you wouldn't be ill-bred enough to fight an unarmed opponent?"
asked Rebecca, her hands away from her sides.
The Condesa
closed on her, slashing the air between them with the blade
as Rebecca jumped backward.
"I can
see you are."
"Ill-bred?"
The Condesa laughed, pressing the advantage, forcing Rebecca
back into the shadows and against the stone wall. "Look
at you! <You> call my breeding into question? Arrogant,
penniless guttersnipe!"
The blade
of the sword clanged against the stone wall, Rebecca sliding
under it and away before it could strike her. The Condesa
wasn't skilled with the weapon, but being armed gave her the
advantage and only a fool would underestimate that.
Scooping
up a handful of rocks as she slipped away, Rebecca placed herself
between Count Gregory and the Condesa. The smaller ones
she shot at the Condesa's face in an underhand throw, just enough
to stop her relentless attack. The larger she hurled at
Count Gregory, whipping around to put some spin on it.
The rock
did no real damage, but set up sparks on the frame of the chair.
He growled angrily and the chair jerked backward, toward
the wall of the chamber. If she could get the Condesa
down, hold her there or wound her, she might give the Count
a reason to pull himself together. Then Verne--
Her hair
was jerked backward and she saw the edge of the sword moving
toward her throat. Dropping to her knees, Rebecca used
her weight to pull the Condesa off balance and ducked beneath
the blade again. If she'd had steady ground, she might
have completed the roll and come out the other side with the
blade in her own hand. Unfortunately, there'd been no
attempt made to sweep the floor of the chamber--her boots slipped
on rocks and she flailed for balance.
On the upside,
the Condesa fell with her.
On the downside,
the Condesa still held the sword, the edge of the blade at Rebecca's
throat.
"Hold!"
called Count Gregory.
The Condesa
had one hand entwined in Rebecca's hair, a knee on her chest,
and the other knee on her left hand. The blade had been
lifted for a death-blow at Count Gregory's call. The halt
gave Rebecca a moment to plan a move that might save her life.
"She's
mine! You promised!"
"I promised
that you could <fight> her," said the Count sharply.
"But not <kill> her. That honor belongs
to me. The next time I face Phileas Fogg, I want the satisfaction
of knowing that two of the women in his life died at my hands."
The Condesa
glared down at Rebecca and the blade moved upward again.
"<Don't>
defy me," warned Count Gregory.
The Condesa's
lower lip trembled. "After all I've done for the
League--"
"<I>
am the League of Darkness," roared the Count. "Never
forget it."
His voice
sent shivers through Rebecca. The hand in her air tightened
and she fought against grimacing in pain, matching the Condesa
glare for glare.
"I want
her head for my wall."
"Done,"
he agreed. "After <I> strike the blow."
"I'm
honored," said Rebecca cheerily. "All this fuss
over me?"
Another twist
of the Condesa's hand in her hair and the knee grinding her
hand into the stone floor was enough to quiet her. Bolts
of light started to fly throughout the room from Count Gregory's
chair after he shouted, "Fusion power!"
Hoping the
she could be heard, Rebecca shouted, "Now, Verne! Now!"
She was too
busy gut-punching the Condesa with her right fist, flipping
the woman onto her back, then hitting her on the head with the
pommel of the sword to see exactly what happened. The
beams of light shooting out from the chair seemed to disappear
and she heard Count Gregory's howl of outrage. It was
only as she clawed her way back to her feet--giving the Condesa
a good, solid kick in the ribs when the woman dared to move--that
she turned and saw what transpired.
The suit--jacket,
shirt, vest, and trousers--appeared to melt over Count Gregory
and his chair like the cheese covering of a shepherd's pie.
It clung to everything it touched, bubbling into brown
spots and yet maintaining its elasticity. Count Gregory
couldn't claw his way out of it.
Verne came
dashing toward her, sidestepping to avoid one of the Count's
automatons--they were running around, scrabbling at their faces
with their fingernails. He gestured toward one of the
abandoned metal tubes, the red-hot arc skittering sparks across
the hard floor of the chamber. "If they're still
planting the fuses--"
A blast sounded
from somewhere and bits of rock rained down, creating a cloud
of dust.
"It's
time to leave," agreed Rebecca.
"No!"
Verne grabbed her arm and pointed toward the crates of
explosive paste in the corner. "We don't know how
many fuses they've set. It could still cause part of the
mountainside to fall. We've got to turn the explosion
inside out, make the mountain fall in on itself."
"We
need a fuse--" Kicking aside one of the automatons,
Rebecca lifted a loop of fuse-cord over her shoulder. "Let's
go."
Verne arranged
the blasting caps in the packages of nitroglycerin paste, as
she stood a cautious distance away and used the Condesa' sword
to cut fuses.
"Five
minutes?" she asked.
He looked
up --there was a moment of mutual understanding, they had no
idea how to get out of here, other than go back the way they
had come. "Two minutes."
She wasn't
about to let them die. "Four minutes."
"Three."
"Three-and-a-half
it is, then," she said, as if the matter had been settled,
counting off what she considered the appropriate length of fuse
and then hacking it off with the sword edge. By the time
she was done, Verne had the fuse caps set and was waiting with
an oil lamp. They only needed to light the first fuse--the others
would light quickly enough once the wooden crates were on fire.
Rebecca hefted
each fuse in her hand before attaching it to a blasting cap,
then stepped back and wiped her hands against her leather bodice.
"Three-and-a-half?" she asked doubtfully.
Verne opened
the lamp and touched the flame to the longest of the fuses.
"Four."
"Four."
She grinned at him. "Run."
He had the
presence of mind to hold onto the lamp; she gave him credit
for that. They left the unconscious Condesa, the shrieking
and roaring suit-covered Count Gregory, his writhing automatons,
and his personal guard behind them. A few of the bravest
tried to follow as they fled, but after Verne brained one with
the lamp, knocking him into a crevasse, there seemed to be less
real pursuit. Their greatest danger was keeping to the
rough-hewn corridors they'd followed into the interior of the
mountain.
Rebecca wasn't
certain that she was breathing--running took up too much effort.
If Verne slipped, she pulled him to his feet. If
she slipped, his hand was on her arm immediately. The
four-minute explosion seemed very distant. It was the
subsequent explosions that seemed to shake the mountain around
them.
It was only
after they squeezed through a crevice and found themselves staring
at her hoopskirt ladder --and the bodies of the two guards they
had left there during their initial escape--did they seem to
falter. They stared at one another, panting and exhausted,
covered with a fine powder of rock dust that their sweat had
turned into healthy streaks of grime.
There were
small streaks of blood on Verne's unprotected chest and back
from their many falls and scrapes. He limped to the leather
ladder and held it steady, nodding upward. "After
you."
Another blast
shook the rock around them, as Rebecca's fingers closed on one
of the rungs of the ladder. One hand over the other, sweaty,
grit-covered palms sliding from the leather, she mustered every
bit of energy she could. It wasn't done yet. It
wouldn't be done until she returned Verne safely to the Aurora.
If it was
where it was supposed to be.
The floor
shook with the next blast--she struggled to regain her balance,
nearly falling down the hole. As Verne's head and shoulder
appeared, she reached down to take his hand, pulling him into
the room . . . and the ladder with him.
"Free
the hook from the wall," she ordered, and he moved to obey
instantly, without question, even as she dragged the rest of
the ladder up from the hole in the floor.
He held the
hook in his hand, waiting for her. She clipped the rappelling
hook into the holster on her forearm, then aimed upward, at
the small, ornamental window in the ceiling. An explosion
from below nearly through off her aim, but Verne was suddenly
beside her, bracing her, and himself, against the wall. The
hook sailed up, soared over the timber at which she'd aimed,
wrapped twice, and then held fast as she tugged on the line.
"The
Aurora will be there," said Verne quietly, as she untwisted
the ladder and began to climb upward.
"I hope
so. Otherwise, we'll be riding the top of the mountain
all the way down."
Seconds now,
rather than minutes--they could hear the creak of the cottage
around them, the plaster cracking and falling from the walls.
If the timber creaking above them cracked, if the window
was too small, if the Aurora wasn't there--
The timber
held.
The window
was wide enough.
And, as Verne
took her hand and hauled himself through the window frame, they
saw the platform of the Aurora lowering to them from above.
"I told
you," said Verne cheerfully, turning toward her. Then
his arms began to pinwheel as his shoe slipped on the tile.
Reaching forward, Rebecca grabbed his wrist instantly,
pulling him close.
Oh, such
an awkward moment--that sudden rush of adrenaline, a moment
of fear brought to instant safety. She hugged him tightly,
her fingers stoking though his hair . . . until she unfortunately
brushed that knot on the back of his head.
His entire
body winced; she could feel it, although he didn't pull away.
And his bare shoulder--"You're half-frozen. Sit
close to me. They'll take a few minutes to get to us and
I'm not going to have you succumb to frostbite on the eve of
rescue."
Seating herself
on the peak of the roof line, Rebecca carefully helped him down
beside her. She placed an arm around his shoulder, as
much to keep him from slipping again as to warm him and protect
him from the wind. Were they not trapped on top of a mountain
cottage that was about to cave inward upon itself, it would
have been a glorious night, if a bit chill.
"I knew
they'd come for us," Verne repeated.
"So
you said," Rebecca answered, squeezing his shoulder slightly.
She turned her head to smile at him thoughtfully.
"What?"
asked Verne, suddenly self-conscious.
"If
I had even an eighth of the knowledge scurrying around in your
brain--" she tapped his forehead with her index finger.
"A lot
of good it does me." He hung his head. "Rebecca--the
letter we were supposed to retrieve . . . I left it in the pocket
of my jacket."
"Ah."
Biting back a smile, she turned her face away from him
and nodded. "There's no harm done. I can't
see there would be anything left of it to blackmail anyone.
Wouldn't you say?"
"I guess."
Verne seemed more at ease, his shoulders straightening a bit.
"But I'm not--"
There was
a low rumble and the roof tiles beneath them dropped at least
a half-foot. They stared at one another, then at the platform,
which was still a good three feet away.
"Time
to go," announced Rebecca. She struggled to her feet,
carefully maintaining her balance, but also keeping a tight
grip on Verne's wrist--the soles of his shoes were so badly
worn, he was in constant danger of slipping from the roof. "We
have to jump."
"We
won't make it!"
"We'll
make it! On the count of three."
The roof
began to buckle beneath their feet, tiles flying like leaves
from a tree caught in a windstorm.
"Three!"
shouted Rebecca.
There was
an instant, just as they launched themselves into the air, that
she was certain Verne had been right. They were too far
away, the platform swinging from the Aurora was on the far side
of its arc. They weren't going to make it.
The echo
of her shout was still ringing in her ears when the wind seemed
to shift. Before gravity could take its awful hold, she
felt the fingers of her left hand close around one of the support
cables, as the fingers on her right desperately gripped the
base of the platform. Swinging her right leg up around
another cable, Rebecca hung suspended from the platform for
a long moment, knowing that she was secure and safe.
Where was
Verne?
"Jules?!"
"Here!"
he called. His arms were tightly wrapped around the third
cable supporting the platform--she could see his head and shoulders
as he hung from the far edge. "I'm here."
"Good."
Letting her feet swing free, Rebecca used the momentum
to fling herself back on the platform. She landed in a
kneeling position and grabbed the cable beside her--the platform
was swaying as it rose toward the Aurora. "Let me
give you a hand."
"NO!"
Verne nearly took his arm from the cable and slipped downward
as he raised his hand to ward her away. "I'm fine.
Why don't you go up first. I'll follow."
"Don't
be silly, Jules. Here--"
"No!"
he said again, shaking his head. "No."
"But--"
She stared at him. Denying a helping hand out of pride
when he truly needed help wasn't like Verne. Unless .
. . there might be another reason he didn't want her to help
him onto the platform?
Rebecca glanced
down at the cottage roof, which was rapidly falling back into
the mountain, taking a fair amount of the surrounding area with
it. Even through the darkness and without her spyglasses,
she spotted a bit of gray-white cloth disappearing underground.
The cloth looked suspiciously familiar, not very unlike
the drawers that he'd been wearing--
"Oh,
Jules."
"My
shoe got caught in the tiles when I jumped, and my drawers tore
. . . ."
"Are
you wearing <anything>?" she asked, trying desperately
not to laugh.
"I've
still got . . . one . . . shoe . . . ."
At first
she thought Verne was trying not to cry, but then he started
to giggle.
"Don't
laugh," cautioned Rebecca, "you'll fall! Hold
on!" Still, it was an effort not to chuckle as she
tucked the toe of her boot through the triangular fastening
of a cable to the platform, then lay flat across the platform.
She wrapped one arm around his to take some of the strain
from his death-grip on the cable. Once she was certain
he wouldn't fall, she dropped her forehead down to the platform,
just inches from his face and began to laugh so hard that tears
fell.
At one point
she rolled onto her back. Looking up at the gondola above
them, she swore she could see an astonished Passepartout gesturing
wildly. She couldn't see Phileas yet, but she could well
imagine . . . which only seemed to make it worse.
"Rebecca?"
She turned
her head--they were face to face, only a few inches apart.
"I'm
sorry," he said, in that very sincere and honest way that
he had.
"Oh,
Jules." With her free hand, she touched a finger
to his lips. "Never apologize for being you. Because
you're absolutely wonderful."
When she
started laughing uncontrollably again, he joined in.
***
Having known
her cousin for most of her life, and appreciating Passepartout's
unique sense of humor, Rebecca expected neither of the men awaiting
their arrival would have so much as a spare handkerchief ready
to address Verne's discomfort. She'd prepared for that
outcome, over Verne's protests, and had donated her leather
bodice temporarily to the cause.
Verne did,
however, tend to wear it a bit further down the waist than was
her custom.
"Don't
let them annoy you," she whispered, as the platform was
locked into the undercarriage of the Aurora and they waited
for the trap door to open above them. She caught a glimpse
of his face in the stray bits of light that filtered in from
above--he was grinning. "Don't start laughing again!"
she ordered sternly, shaking her finger at him. "Because
if you laugh, then I'll laugh and then--"
The door
opened above them and Verne began to climb the ladder. Rebecca
automatically moved to follow him and he stopped instantly,
a sudden flush of red infusing his face as he turned toward
her. "Rebecca!"
"Oh!
Sorry." Shading her eyes, Rebecca turned away
and gave him a moment to get clear of the ladder, then scurried
up, prepared to run interference if Verne had any difficulty
escaping the taunts of their friends.
Passepartout's
eyes were as wide as Rebecca had ever seen them as he took in
the sight of Verne, clad only in her leather bodice and one
shoe. "Master Jules--you are underdressed!"
"That,
Passepartout, is an understatement," noted Phileas, a drink
in hand--which he passed along to Verne--and a smile flickering
behind the mock-severity of his expression. "What
on earth happened to you, man?"
Verne took
the drink, swallowed it in one shot--to Rebecca's horror--and
fixed Phileas with a steady, slightly outraged glare. "I'm
surprised at you, Fogg. You know very well that a gentleman
never discusses such things."
Phileas
raised an eyebrow, glared at Rebecca, then snatched the empty
glass from Verne's hand and stalked off to the sideboard.
Rebecca covered
her eyes with her hands, parted them long enough to see Verne
flash her a grin--no wonder he'd been smiling, he'd probably
been working on that comeback for the past ten minutes, the
rat--and then sighed. "Passepartout, why don't you
help Jules find something to wear. Oh--" she dropped
her hands, "if you could also plaster the bump on the back
of his skull?"
Glancing
first at Phileas and then back at her, Passepartout casually
looped his elbow through Verne's and steered him toward the
kitchen, saying "First we will be putting ice on your bump-ped
and then you will be telling me how you lost your shoe. And
your pantses. And your shirts. And your jackets--"
"I wish
I'd kept a piece of that suit, Passepartout," sighed Verne.
"We should have done a chemical analysis of the material.
When it melted over Count Gregory--"
Passepartout
turned to shoot Rebecca an eyes-wide glance over his shoulder,
answering, "Count Gregory was melted?"
Phileas remained
at the sideboard until the door closed behind the two. Rebecca
sat on the lounge and waited. He had the courtesy to pour
two drinks and handed one to her. He sipped for a moment,
then noted, "You seem to have had an exciting adventure.
Or at least Verne did, from the look of him."
"You
have a complaint?"
"I should
say so."
Rebecca twined
her fingers around the glass, crossed her legs, and rested it
on her knee. "I brought him back with his skin intact."
"For
most people that's a figure of speech," countered Phileas.
"And
when have <we> ever been considered 'most people.'"
"Yes,
well . . . ." He walked away from her, then turned
around to face her, rubbing his finger across his lower lip
thoughtfully. "Touché."
Rebecca acknowledged
the comment with a nod. Then she sighed and looked up
at him sadly. "You were right, you know."
"Was
I?"
"You
needn't look so smug," she chided, as he sipped his drink.
"I was grooming him for the service. I didn't
realize I was doing it . . . but I was doing it. It's
not entirely my fault," she continued. "He's
just so--there's so much <potential> there. I've
seen it."
"You
and a good percentage of the mountain fauna we flew over, yes."
She slapped
his pantleg and then made a face at him when he assumed a hurt
look. "You know what I mean. Phileas, you're
right. We absolutely have to protect him from himself.
And from us. Especially from <us>."
"Well,
from you, at any rate, judging from your most recent adventure--"
Rebecca brushed
him aside roughly as she rose and walked to the observation
window. "I do believe you're enjoying this."
He followed,
pausing behind her. "But not for the reason you think."
"Oh?"
She turned on him, arms crossed. "Why <are>
you enjoying this, pray tell?"
"Because
you, dear cousin, are so very rarely wrong about things like
this." He placed a hand on either of her forearms
and touched his forehead to hers. "I think you're
beginning to understand the weight of unadulterated hero worship."
"I was
just as bad as Jules in my time, wasn't I?" She leaned
her forehead on his shoulder and his arms moved around her--for
the first time she felt the weight of responsibility for someone
else's life slough off her shoulders. "He <would>
follow me to hell, wouldn't he?"
"He'd
follow you a damned site farther than that," Phileas whispered
in her ear. "I don't really understand the gift Verne
has, but I know that we don't dare waste it. Or him."
He touched her chin with his finger and stepped back from
her. "Although it would be worth it to see what Chatsworth
would make of him."
Rebecca bit
her lip, trying not to laugh. "That <would>
be something, wouldn't it?"
"Thoroughly
unsuited for the job," said Phileas, mimicking Chatsworth's
nasal intonation.
Holding her
hand over her mouth, Rebecca barely managed not to snort. "Oh,
that's very good," she complimented him. "Very
good." She leaned her elbows on the rail at the observation
window and stared out at the darkness that surrounded them.
"The pity is, he'd be right. Verne would be
completely and utterly unsuited for serving only king and country."
"Um,"
noted Phileas. "He's got a conscience."
She swatted
him in the shoulder with her hand, then turned and leaned her
back on the railing with a sigh. "It's just as well,
because he's already got a job for which he's highly suited."
Phileas turned
toward her after a moment, an eyebrow raised. "Which
<is>?"
"Being
Jules Verne, of course." She smiled coyly at Phileas.
"I don't think there's another man who could fill
his shoes . . . or should I say 'shoe.' After all, I should
know."
Turning on
her heel, Rebecca stalked through the cabin of the Aurora, directly
to the circular iron stairway. She was halfway up it before
Phileas caught up with her. "Rebecca?" He
stood at the bottom of the stairway, looking up at her. "Precisely
what did you mean by that remark?"
"You
know perfectly well what I meant." She touched her
fingertips to the base of her throat, just above the neckline
of her jumper. "After all, you said it yourself--<I>
got to see his potential."
There hadn't
been many occasions in Rebecca's life in which she'd been able
to leave her cousin stunned and open-mouthed like a fish out
of water. She hurried up the stairs without another word,
locked the door of her room behind her, and then slid down against
it to the floor, collapsing into giggles at the memory of the
utter look of astonishment on his face.
********
The End.
