TITLE: Under the Dragon's Tail
AUTHOR: lonaj
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: lonaj@nwlink.com
FEEDBACK: Always
CATEGORY: Angsty action-adventure
SUMMARY: Sequel to my story "Bloodlines." This story is set at Christmas time. It's the Christmas-in-July story for which I asked help - makes bow to everyone who contributed. It loosely follows a famous Victorian Christmas story. Free plot bunnies to anyone who can guess which one. (Inspiration came to me at midnight at Chicago's O'Hare Airport - may have something to do with choice.)
RATINGS/WARNINGS: This story is rated PG-13.
MAIN CHARACTERS: This is primarily a RF/PF action/adventure and angsty romance. Many of the characters I created in my previous "Bloodlines" reappear, and there are few new ones. Jules and Passepartout also have some time on stage, but Jules not so much as in "Bloodlines." It's mostly about Phileas. And Moneypenny has a lot more time on stage.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: There are probably a lot of glaring historical/social errors in this. Would love you to comment on that.
THANKS: Bouquets of thanks to my tireless beta readers, Ginny Powell and A Tattered Rose. It's work to beta such a long story, and they read it through three times, right in the middle of returning to school and employment. They did an outstanding job!
DISCLAIMERS: Moneypenny belongs to the James Bonds franchise, Rebecca Fogg, Chatsworth, etc., all belong to Talisman Crest or whatever their name is, but Jules Verne and his characters belong to everyone (sorry but that copyright MUST have run out by now). Everyone else belongs to me and I freely give them to you. Enjoy.
"My father compounded with my mother under the dragon's tail; and my nativity was under ursa major; so that it follows, I am rough and lecherous." -- Edmund, bastard son to the Earl of Gloucester, in William Shakespeare's King Lear
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I expect no one's ever asked BB7 to document search his Nineteenth Century dead storage room, Miss Moneypenny thought. The wizened old blighter was certainly eying her suspiciously. Last week W's brainstorm had required him to delve in said room. That would have been just a grab operation - nab a few containers at random and impartially distribute them to headquarter secretaries for computer entry. W intended to empty the dead storage floor and convert it to an executive gymnasium. Moneypenny wondered if BB7 realized he was working himself out of a job. Probably not.
She knew for a fact BB7 had only delivered a figurative handful of the 19th Century containers. There were hundreds more back there and Moneypenny meant to acquire every one of them labeled "Phileas and Rebecca Fogg." BB7 said to her, a resentful whine colouring his high-pitched voice, "You do understand, MP3, that these reports are 140 years old?" MP3 was Miss Moneypenny's official British Secret Service code designation. She hated it. Come to think of it, she hated BB7 as well. Officious little man, he wouldn't allow her behind his counter so she could sort through the containers herself.
"Yes, of course, BB7. I know it's a terrible imposition, but M has asked me particularly to trace the Fogg family's activities for an historical summary she's to present at Parliament. The containers are labeled, aren't they?" M's report didn't exist, of course. Headquarters secretaries were only to enter the old files into the Service's all-inclusive database in preparation for their eventual dumping. However, Moneypenny's long association with Double-Oh-Seven had loosened her sense of truth and falsehood. And James, when he finally reported in from the field, would be happy to come down here to emphasize her request for the Fogg containers. BB7 knew it, and one did not argue with a man who held a licence to kill.
"Hmmph, well. All of them, eh? No matter the count? This may take some time, MP3."
"Of course, BB7. Take all the time you need. Will tomorrow noon be enough?" The little clerk had turned away and did not seem to hear her half sarcastic question. Clearly Moneypenny would have to wait a few days if not longer for the precious containers. She resisted a desire to drum her fingers on BB7's counter.
Just yesterday morning BB7 had delivered an oak box to Miss Moneypenny's desk. It had contained a 19th Century Secret Service case detailing the complicity of a French family, the Bonanders, with a group called the League of Darkness, a sort of early SPECTRE. The tale enthralled her and she stayed until midnight to complete the entry, vowing after she finished to snag the remaining Fogg report containers.
When she arrived this morning, a quick email check with her fellow Secret Service secretaries turned up two Fogg containers among those already distributed. Thankfully, both were still unopened and their custodians only too delighted to relinquish them, even promising to deliver them to her desk ASAP.
After her set-to with BB7, Miss Moneypenny returned to her office in a foul mood. It didn't help that the air conditioning had chosen today for its annual hiccup of malfunction. Without the A.C., even in cool London a July day rapidly heated a large office building, and of course none of headquarters' windows opened; security precaution, you know. The thermostat in the corridor outside Moneypenny's office showed an unpleasant 26 degrees Celsius, and the Big Ben recording had only just struck ten o'clock. Today would not repeat yesterday's cool and fog.
Moneypenny saw resting on her desk two containers, a time-dulled tin and an oak box similar to the one that held the Bonander case. Minor discomforts were forgotten as she tenderly ran her fingers over them. Which one first? Which? Finally she decided on the tin. Hmm, seemed to be an older case, before the Bonanders, something involving spiders and Egyptian artifacts. An odd combination, she'd always associated scarab beetles with Egypt.
Miss Moneypenny, however, had hoped for a particular report. She replaced the tin's lid and opened the oak box. On top rested another of evil Doctor Leo Garridan's League of Darkness journals. She quickly scanned through. Yes, there it was! Garridan's report on the birth of Baroness Cynara Bonander and Phileas Fogg's love child. Moneypenny had indeed lucked out. Moneypenny cocked her head back, closed her eyes and allowed herself a smile of triumph.
Well, she thought, it wouldn't do to enter this story out of order. The birth record wasn't dated until December, almost on Christmas day. There were several entries to be made before then, the earliest a rather disgusting one in the Garridan journal. Excited and smiling, Moneypenny opened a new database file.
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From Doctor Leo Garridan's private journals.
Nine months ago the Count demanded a special two-way stud so he might experience the gestation and birth of the Fogg bastard. I am convinced that through it Baroness Bonander contaminates him with the emotionality of a breeding woman. He has not roared in days and his mind dwells on sentimental recollections. Cruel efficiency degenerates to pettiness and when Walmond and Stanwood bungled the Serbian capture, he but had them horsewhipped, saying, "Good help is hard to find."
This fed back emotionality weakens his hold on our enstudded slaves and poisons their captive minds. Already among the freemen, pretenders to the throne yap treason behind closed doors. I know, as they have offered the crown to me, but I have no interest in mundane matters of administration. Count Gregory in his customary state provides excellent control.
Yesterday I performed his regular maintenance, polishing his ancient armour and the power buses of his chair, then washing his pieces and trimming excess flesh. As I worked, he began a maudlin account of his early years. Fortunately I alone heard this sadly self-indulgent story.
"You had a father, did you not, Leo? Of course, you did. Probably a cold, efficient bastard such as yourself. I've a fancy to tell you of my own. I haven't spoken of him for five hundred years."
"As you desire, sir. I am your servant."
"You are my slave, Garridan, a mind I have temporarily left its freedom. Don't forget who holds your leash."
As I scraped and cut, he began. "My greedy, conniving father sought finance to war upon a neighbor, hoping to enlarge his estates - for his sons, he said. Not for me, as the youngest of three brothers I had no hope of succession and was cursed with pious humility besides. In those long ago days I wasted my wonderful inventiveness on edifices that praised God with every line and curve. Father, Chesne and Calvinus offered my building skills to the Knights Templar, and my contemplative life with wife and child evaporated into clouds of endless war. I took up sword and Templar orders, and my father received his gold."
"I had revenge, and a private joke. In the few remaining years I breathed, I saw more riches than my voracious family could ever apprehend. The Grand Master first sent me to Jerusalem and I helped De Payen dig up Solomon's treasure from the Temple Mount, a half million pieces of the purest gold. We brought that back to France and began a cathedral at Chartres, not a hundred miles from my wife and infant son. The Order would not let me tarry near my heart's desire and sent me away to build yet more cathedrals. I built well. Many of them still stand today. Cursed prayers in stone. I blow them up when e'er I can." He paused and his head turned to where I worked a few feet away. "My father lost his war, you know. All these centuries, and he lost that bloody war."
Familial relations bring no joy. My experiences agree with that. Of my own father I recall only the hard hands and sour breath that woke me every night in the smallest hours. He'd push a shovel and pick into my hands and bid me to "look lively there, you ugly hunch-backed twit." One morning he failed to return from a fee collection. Mother and I never learned if constabulary overtook him or he'd left for an easier life.
I am told grave robbing no longer profits. 'Tis a shame. Mother and I did right well and when she passed I sold her cadaver for 50 pence. I might have got more for her but she died a messy, coughing death from some unnamed fever. Although nearly every doctor in London patronized our services, most preferred perfect specimens. For example Doctor Meredith paid double for infant carcasses and half again more if cause of death was known. My anonymously expired Mother fetched little. I offered her to three clients before I found a young practitioner desperate for fresh cutting material.
Enough of this. The Count's sorry state begins to infect even me. If Cynara is not soon delivered of the Fogg bastard, it could ruin the League.
**********
Whenever Miss Moneypenny typed from Doctor Garridan's journals, she felt in need of a bath. One could almost feel the slime on the page.
A bit tired from the lateness of last night's data entry, Miss Moneypenny paused to sort through the box's contents. It was much the same as the Bonander box, another Jules Verne journal with a fancifully decorated "J.V." monogram on its cover, and other journals and correspondence primarily in the now familiar copperplate of Phileas and Rebecca Fogg, as well as a few sheets in an unfamiliar block-lettered hand.
Yesterday's box had contained tintypes of the hunchbacked Doctor Garridan and a scornful-eyed Phileas Fogg. At the bottom of this one rested an object shaped rather like an inflated pancake, perhaps 28 centimeters in diameter. Whether manufactured of metal or a synthetic Moneypenny could not tell. Two different shades of bronze entwined its surface and it felt faintly warm in her hand. Strange, very strange. QR5 in Scientific Analysis had a not-so-secret crush on her. At luncheon she would recruit his help.
But that was two hours away. Miss Moneypenny took a sip of tepid water from her bottle. Really, this heat!
She decided to spend some time selecting and organizing passages for entry before proceeding. With a packet of Post-Its and a red pen she carefully flipped through each old journal, reading headings and skimming the various reports. With the Post-Its she marked a suggested order of entry. Some accounts over-lapped. Moneypenny was OK with that. She picked those that best described events (or that she most enjoyed!).
It didn't take long for Moneypenny to realize the very personal nature of this box's contents, even more private than yesterday's. Both boxes had been logged into the archives together, she thought, perhaps long after these events. The Garridan journal had been captured years later when the League of Darkness fell. And as far as she could tell, no other transcription had been made. Perhaps the Fogg personal journals had been placed in Service archives for a particular purpose, for example, to protect Fogg family history from the prying public eye. Moneypenny shrugged. She didn't need to reason why, only give complete transcription. And Service honchos were notorious sticklers for every detail, right down to the brand of toilet paper. Why, she remembered countless times when Double-Oh-Seven's official reports described . . . well, best not to think of that.
What to type next? She'd marked an entry from Rebecca Fogg's private journal. Miss Moneypenny really began to wish for a likeness of this bold Victorian woman.
**********
From Rebecca Fogg's private journal, dated a week before Christmas.
Damn. It's three in the morning. I lie in bed with eyes wide open and my hands tightly clasping sweat damp sheets . . . or did so until I lit a candle and resolved to write away my disturbance.
It's Phileas again. Sometimes I wish I could hate him. I would suffer less. It doesn't help that he sleeps here at Shillingworth Magna tonight. He's only three doors down the hall, in the room he has had since childhood as he refuses to take the master's suite.
Too close. I could be knocking on his door in half a minute. And then what? Would I say, "Phileas, I just dreamed of you between my legs, your mouth on mine. I'd like to try the reality"? He'd be scandalized -- revolted. In his heart I am his sister.
I wish it were still so with me, but since I saw him pleasuring with Baroness Bonander last spring I'm visited by midnight phantasies, most especially after our recent foray in Serbia, when, my contact compromised, Phileas and I fled cross-country, a squad of Prussians nipping at our heels, our lives dependent on each other's courage and fighting instincts. For three nights we slept together in chill barns and hidey-holes, his arms tightly wrapping me to share our bodies' heat. Of mornings I woke with his warm breath blowing in my ear. I almost regretted our rescue by Passepartout and the Aurora. I've never been so happy, so at peace with life.
This obsession with my cousin is ridiculous. It poisons my life. I can no more find my pleasure with Lieutenant Price. He will not attend my bed as he swears I've called him "Phileas" in my passion. And Phileas and I, we've disputed constantly since our return from Serbia, primarily about the Tenants' Christmas Ball, which we hold next week. Even if it would restore peace between us, I cannot yield on this. It's been three years since a Fogg celebrated the Noël feast at Shillingworth Magna. We mourned Erasmus the first year and Sir Boniface the second. Last Christmas Phileas still could not bring himself to return home and properly celebrate an English holiday. He fled to Italy and the sun.
I allow Shillingworth holds too many ghosts for him to rejoice in ownership. However, this year he resided here but three weeks and that only because his father's body disappeared, an incident that greatly upset the countryside hereabout. He's seen too little in this county, and older folk vividly remember his wild and troubled youth. I've told him he must make a bow to his stewardship responsibilities and demonstrate to his tenants that all fares well with Foggs. He must acknowledge himself Shillingworth's master.
He will not listen. Phileas fancies himself the carefree bachelor with no ties to land or people, but such linen won't wash clean. We had a particularly vehement scrap of an evening about three weeks ago when he briefly stopped here to announce a departure for warmer climes. He told me, "I never expected to play Lord of the Manor. I always thought you and Erasmus would marry and do that. It always seemed so to me. Why don't you host a party, Rebecca? You love it here. I don't." He tugged at his lapels as he spoke, stretched his neck, wagged his head back and forth, and indeed performed all his nervous twitches, without once looking directly at me.
How pitiless of him to allude to his brother and that long ago failed romance. He can be so cruel. "Erasmus is gone, Phileas. And I'm just a woman and not the heir. Your tenants have heard how you won the Aurora. They're afraid you'll gamble Shillingworth away. Reassurance must come from you."
"What matters who owns the land? I'd never permit an eviction."
"And how would you prevent it if you forfeit title?" I had his eye now, and it full of raging temper. He did not much favor this revelation of the truth. "Phileas, they care a great deal about the Foggs. People -- servants, neighbors - they all ask me when you'll marry and establish your heir. They're frightened, love. They like their lives to be stable, unchanging!"
His ears stayed closed. We exchanged some rather acrimonious epithets, then Phileas departed Shillingworth Magna in a storm, quite literally as a tempest blew that night, and he refused to wait 'til morning. Within a week he brought Aurora back unannounced, delivering the crates of Spanish lemons I had requested for Christmas punch. Tomorrow he leaves to gather Christmas Day fireworks from France and, we hope, to fetch Jules Verne.
Apparently I have triumphed on this Christmas issue. Still he admits it not and we have no peace. I burn to hold him in my arms and feel his taunt body take mine. Instead we circle each other, stiff and snarling like two wolves.
It's safer that way.