Phoenix Rising: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

325 Pages·2011·1.26 MB·English

by  Pip Ballantine

PHOENIX RISING
A MINISTRY OF
PECULIAR
OCCURRENCES
NOVEL
PIP BALLANTINE &
TEE MORRIS
Dedication
To Jared Axelrod and J.R. Blackwell, two of the most
creative people we know—thank you for being the
gateway drug into this amazing world called
Steampunk.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Interlude
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Interlude
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Interlude
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Interlude
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Interlude
Chapter Thirty-One
Interlude
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgements

About the Authors
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Wherein Our Intrepid Heroes Meet for the
First Time and Start Off with a Bang!
Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, had never heard an explosion that close
before. Considering the ringing in his ears, he would most likely never hear
another one like it again.
Splinters, both of the wooden and metal variety, pelted his face, but he was far
too distracted to notice anything painful. Perhaps they were from the cell door;
perhaps they were from the contraption which held him fast. Was the engineer
responsible for this torture device still where he was before the explosion? What
of the guards? Time slowed, seeming to creep and flow as in the languid dreams
of a deep sleep.
Two strange pops rang in his ears through the hum the explosion had left in its
wake. He still could see nothing, but was grateful that he had been kidnapped by
a gentleman—one that had seen fit not to strip him of his clothes before
shackling him to the wall. Only a complete cad would practice such
ungentlemanly behaviour. His clothing had served him well as a minimal shield
from the debris, but as his wrists were bound over his head, all he could do was
turn his head, screw his eyes shut, and hope for the best.
Creeping through the hum in his ears was another sound—the undulating
blaring of klaxons alerting the complex to the intrusion. Considering the very
liberal amount of dynamite used on his cell door, he assumed this was a full-on
assault from the Ministry. He felt a swell of pride. It felt good to be so
appreciated.
A lady emerged from the smoke and debris—though her improper fashions
indicated she was unworthy of the title. She was wearing pinstripe breeches
tucked neatly into boots that stopped just above the knee. More disturbing than
the fact this “lady” was wearing trousers were the sticks of dynamite strapped
around her thighs. The boots also had several sheaths for throwing knives. The
bodice she was wearing was a black leather device, which not only served to lift
the petite woman’s bosom up but also provided a secure surface for the baldric
she wore across it. All this was accented with an impressive, fur coat that flowed
around her like a cape.
The stillness she engendered in the moment seemed odd to Wellington. Her
gaze fixed on him, and there was no relief in her expression. She looked to be
sizing him up.
Her pistols finally lowered as she spoke. Wellington’s ears had cleared enough
that her voice was discernable. “You Books?” she asked, sheathing her weapons.
Wellington coughed and spluttered before managing a choked, “Yes.”
“Jolly good then—I’d hate to have come all this way for nothing.” She applied
a queer-looking key to the restraints holding his wrists. Wellington was relieved
to hear the metallic ring of iron snapping open and again as she freed his ankles.
She knocked away from him the array of needles that had almost turned him into
a human pincushion. A few quick, hard blinks, and Wellington observed his
interrogator on his face, the remains of the door protruding from his back. There
was a touch of poetry that, in falling to the ground, his tray of blades, needles,
and other vile instruments had toppled on top of him, decorating his corpse with
the tools of his trade. Close by his tormentor’s body were two guards, freshly
shot.
A deceptively delicate hand grabbed a handful of waistcoat. “Introductions
later. Running now,” she said, yanking him off the wall.
Wellington would have liked a chance to examine this Angel of Destruction
more closely, but she was correct in that they had to get away—and, from the
sound of distant voices adding to the clamor of the klaxons, rather quickly.
While he felt exhilarated to step out of his prison cell, the dim lighting and
smooth stone surfaces enveloping him only served as a reminder that he was
deep within the stronghold of the House of Usher. As he followed his savior into
the torchlit passageways, Wellington still struggled to ascertain how this secret
society of ne’er-do-wells was able to deduce his position within the equally
secretive Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.
Presently unable to write anything down, Wellington made a mental note
nonetheless to inform the Director they had a serious breach of security
somewhere. After the third left into another identical stone corridor, into another
row of prison cells, he wondered if he would live to share his deductions with
anyone.
“Do you know which way you are going?” he asked, his voice cracking
slightly.
“Yes, we’re going”—she paused at a junction, her head whipping to either
side—“this way.” Her hand on his jacket once again jerked him firmly after her.
They came upon another junction, identical to the other four they had already
taken, when she immediately scooted back into the passageway and shoved him
hard into the curve of its stone wall. On feeling the back of his skull kiss rock
again, Wellington realised with horror he was being managed! This would not
stand, he thought, even in such outrageous circumstances.
“Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire,” he blurted, sticking out his hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Agent . . .”
One hand slapped across his mouth as the other one drew one of the earlier-
sheathed pistols. A regiment of foot soldiers ran by them, but her cold, hard gaze
kept him as still as she had been in his cell.
After a few seconds, she tore her palm away and glared at him.
“Introductions?” she whispered sharply, “Are you mad?”
Wellington stared at her, and repeated, “Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire
and Chief Archivist at the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. And you are?”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Eliza D. Braun, Field Agent.” Her eyes
darted behind him, and the gunshot echoed through the crypt. Wellington turned
to see the foot soldier crumple to the ground, still clutching his rifle. She smiled
slightly. “Currently saving your arse for the Ministry. Come on!”
Wellington tried to will his heart to pump faster, his lungs to take more air so
that he could run a little bit longer. The world began to dissolve, picked apart by
a fatal rainstorm that fell around them both.
Agent Braun reached behind her to remove a small cannon strapped on her
back. “Just stay on this path, Books. I’ll be right behind you!”
The gunfire managed to strike only rock and earth. Then came three heavy
detonations. They were hardly enough to cause a cave-in, but the cave did an
ample service in amplifying and containing their individual shocks. Wellington,
through the next volley of heavy fire, kept running forward. Had the bullets
stopped? He could no longer hear the soldiers or their rifle fire. Darkness
enveloped him for an instant, and then he saw a light ahead of them, pouring in
an open peephole set in a cast-iron door. It was blinding white, more brilliant
than anything he had seen before in his life. His hands pressed against the hatch,
and he felt its chill. This was it: the way out!
The sound of something heavy dragging across the dirt snapped him back to
the reality colder and harder than the outside world. They were still trapped
inside the fortress, and Field Agent Eliza D. Braun was making a barricade for
each of them; placing barrels right in front of the locked door.
They settled in between these, resting their backs against the wall. Wellington
looked across the corridor at her.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked, the klaxons still distant but the
sounds of soldiers growing louder.
“Thinking.” She began loading bullets into her pistols, the imposing cannon
she was wielding earlier now lying by her feet. Satisfied she had enough, she
snapped them shut and gripped the pistols firmly, framing her rather sweet face
with the two weapons.
Wellington crooked an eyebrow. “Thinking?”
A bullet ricocheted not two inches from her head. “Yes,” she replied calmly, “I
always think better when I am being shot at.”
Agent Braun leaned out, spraying the space before them with bullets that
either found their mark or served to keep Usher’s henchmen at bay. Wellington’s
eyes darted from one side to theother, catching only a shadow of a helmet or a
rifle barrel.
“Wouldn’t you think better if you used that?” he asked, motioning to the
cannon.
“Katherina there is an experimental model from the Armory,” Agent Braun
said, considering the impressive gun. “I’ll have to tell them three shots just isn’t
enough!”
Blasted clankertons. Wellington managed not to let the swear escape him.
She came from the top of their barricade on this volley, finishing off what was
left in both pistols. Braun leaned back against the wall, her satisfied grin fading
the longer she looked at him.
“Books,” she snapped, “where’s the bloody rifle?”
“What rifle?”
Through her gritted teeth she replied, “The rifle the soldier I shot in the
corridor was carrying!”
“Oh, was I supposed to pick it up?”
Her deep breath was interrupted by more bullets tearing into the earth. She
snapped both pistols open and reloaded them. Agent Braun considered
Wellington for a moment. One of the pistols twirled in her grip, and then she
tossed it to him, handle first.
The weapon bounced in Wellington’s hands like it was fresh from the forge.
He immediately cast it back to her. Barrel first.
“Bloody hell,” she gasped, making certain it was pointed away from her.
“Madam, I am an Archivist for a reason!”
“I need another gun, Books! What bloody good is a librarian down here at
present?”
“Archivist!” he retorted.
The howl from outside made Eliza’s head snap up, as she leaned to the left to
let out another volley of gunfire. He peered into the blinding white of the world
outside. Freedom. It was theirs, merely a single turn of a handle and they were—
“Don’t!” Agent Braun snapped, causing Wellington to start. “Just keep away
from the door, Books.”
“Whatever are you on about?” Why weren’t they having this conversation
elsewhere, say, the other side of this door? “We’re almost—”
“Dead, that’s what we are,” she stated, so final and certain that Wellington
furrowed his brow. “The door is a deathtrap. Look at the lock.”
The mechanism appeared as a thick metal box the size of a man’s fist, a large
man’s fist. Two cast iron coils came from the door frame and ran into the dial-
decorated cube with four metallic tentacles reaching upward and disappearing
into the stone ceiling above them.
He adjusted his spectacles on the tip of his nose to get a closer look at the
numbers within the dials. He knew there were bullets still biting at the rock
walls, and even a few struck above his head, the sparks lighting their little alcove
for a moment. These bullets, though, were far less important than this puzzle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Braun extending her leg.
His throat grew dry. “What are you doing?”
“The door’s armed to blow, right?” She grasped a stick of dynamite. “I’m
going to help it along.”
The woman was quite mad, and he was going to have to treat her as such. “But
the rest of your team is on their way,” Wellington said as calmly as the situation
allowed.
“The Ministry remains rather underfunded by the Crown, Books, and I was
given the choice of either backup or more dynamite.” She held up the stick. “I
went with what I could trust.”
Bullets ate away at the barrels shielding them. One or two planks buckled.
Their makeshift barricade would not last much longer.
“Throw it,” he shouted over the gunfire.
“What?”
“Throw it!” he insisted. “I can solve this lock.”
She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing just before another spray of bullets
danced along the walls—one even ripped through her chemise sleeve.
“Trust me. I can do this, I just need a moment to—”