Panic was the only term that could really encapsulate the mood. Anderson looked at the large map pinned to the corkboard - it was a good ten feet by six and depicted the entirety of the British isles. Large coloured swatches had been placed across counties with string leading away to notes pinned to the side. Most of the north had black coverings, which about summed up the state of things. Strangely, they'd actually gotten word from Scotland - Inverness of all places.
Aberdeen held, Edinburgh was experiencing only minor sallies and no sign of these "Walkers" - the messengers on the boat had practically scoffed when they'd been mentioned, thinking the whole thing a military exercise.
The loss of the north presented another issue - loss of coal and steel. Most of the country's industry was situated around the mills of Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Newcastle; a lot of agriculture spanned there too and there was no word from Lincolnshire.
There'd been a rumour of a vast "flying warehouse" made of metal that had, apparently, accosted and made off with a large proportion of Liverpool's townsfolk. That, combined with all the other piffle about the aliens speaking French, being a German plot, or America being their allies was enough to make his head spin.
Right now, he had most of the south overlaid with thin outlines of yellow and red. London itself was, now, solid red. A few hours earlier he would have classified it as "disgruntled". Now, not so much.
He turned and nodded as Hackett and Zhang tromped into the briefing room, "Gentlemen, welcome. I trust you have availed yourself of the ablutions?"
The two men nodded, Hackett saluting smartly, "All the men accounted for and briefing up Doc' Vahlen's scurrying clerks."
"Good. First off, let me commend you both. I understand from the perimeter team that it was a rather rough bout for all concerned. We didn't expect these fellows to go down easy. Also, well done on securing a live Muton. Moi… Doctor Vahlen is practically giddy at the chance. And I imagine Shen will be of use in securing the blessed thing. Good job the Tower was a Prison, eh?"
The men nodded wearily and Anderson gestured for them to sit at the narrow briefing table. Zhang sighed and cricked his neck, "Where would you like us to start?"
"At the part where, to us a local colloquialism, it went 'tits up'," Anderson's face only twitched slightly, a ghost of a grin on his face, betrayed by the tiredness in his eyes.
Zhang massaged his face, still red and stinging from the blastback, "At about the point we found out the enemy employs insects."
Anderson frowned, "The Insectoids?"
Hackett interjected, "No, sir. Big buggers. Taller'n a man. Look like some sort of centaur crossed with a bloody farmers tool shed. And that isn't the worst of it," the man glanced at Zhaojie who gave a shudder.
"They raise the dead. And make more of themselves from them."
"Corpse defilers?" breather the Colonel, shaking his head, "Is that where the disappearing people…?"
"Perhaps… there were eggs. But you mistake my meaning. They make more of themselves in minutes."
Silence fell and Anderson eyed the Chinaman, fingers drumming on the table, "Excuse me?"
"They killed one of the men, placed something into him. He rose and attacked us. Then… burst."
"Burst…"
"And there were three fledgling beasts."
Anderson listened, eyes fixed on the pair as they recounted the retreat. He nodded slowly and exhaled - their account was brief, but raised a lot more questions.
"Gentlemen, I will speak plainly. Whilst your actions have netted us some palpable successes, especially in light of this information, we have been dealt a blow. Your explosive intervention has ruptured several sewer pipes and, by extension, gas mains. One underground line has collapsed in Baker Street, resulting in five deaths and seventeen injuries. We have several fires around Euston and Great Portland street," he held up a hand to forestall any interruption, "I do not wish to take away the good you have done; indeed, with this information we can now prepare areas for the incursion of… insect monstrosities and account for them as potential threats fielded by our foes. But the local populace is now spooked. War was a reality but still somewhat distant. It was unreal. Now it is here."
Zhang frowned, "They will have to face the reality soon, when the Martians are marching down the Mall."
"Indeed. But until it is truly desperate, the population and, by extension, their political masters are a thing I must factor in. Rioting citizens and obstrusive and obstructive politicians will make funding and carrying on our activities harder. Again, I do not wish to take away what you have achieved… but you must be aware of consequence and the impact of larger scale failure set against small scale victory. It matters not if we win every fight, if we then lose the wider war. Now, go get a pint down you. You have earned it. I will smooth ruffled feathers," The men rose and headed for the door. Anderson spoke up again, "Zhaojie. A moment. You displayed courage, I'm told. Not something I or the staff expected of a non-enlisted man. To that end I am making you an honourary Lieutenant, within the bounds of this organisation. For leadership in the field, bravery and commitment to the mission."
The Chinaman frowned, then glanced at Hackett. The man grinned and shrugged, "Don't look at me. I work for a ruddy living… present company excluded, o' course, Colonel sir…"
Zhang looked back and gave a crooked smile, then saluted, "Thank you, sir.Shaowei Zhang has a ring to it. I will do well by you and… the Exalted Society?"
Anderson shrugged, "I expect no less… and yes, we need a spiffier name. Dismissed gentlemen. Go get some rest."
Shen smiled as the steam cannon was dumped, heavily, onto his workbench. He looked at the two men who had hauled it back in, one of whom looked like he'd been on the losing end of a fight with a dragon. Shen indicated the man's face.
"Not my machine, I trust?"
"Nay sir, just a wee altercation with an exploding sewer and a recalcitrant bastard of a Muton."
"Good, good. And the weapon, did it perform well?"
"Aye, knocked a few buggers about and fair cored one of the tall green jimmies wi oot much of a care. Reloading is a bit of an arse, and dragging two of you about, wi' one cracking awah at it, makes it a wee bit luggy."
"No worse than a Maxim?"
"Maxim feels dangerous… rattattat and all that gubbins, aye? This hits hard… and disnae need to hit on bull tae really hit. Maybe more shots 'afore a reload? Doable, ya ken?
Shen nodded slowly, "I may be able to do something. Thank you, gentlemen. I will see what I can do about.. Portability. We work with the tools we have."
"Aye, a grand venture tae be sure. Thank'ee grandad."
The two men limped away, heading for beer, a medic or possibly both. Shen slotted his hands into his sleeves and frowned at the machine - a problem for a later time. He nodded to a pair of engineers, who set about dismantling the makeshift weapon, to clean and maintain it. He decided to take a walk through his various foundries and workshops. An empire practically gifted to him by these fine Western gentlemen. Of course, he had a feeling several of the society may have included a Mountain Master from back home, if their connections were as wide ranging as he expected.
He observed the testing on a new set of interlaced armour - ceramic and a form of hardened steel. So far it had resisted heat and turned away some direct ballistics as well - the weight was an issue, as the thing looked like a suit of medieval armour done up in military parade red and olive green. A good 80 pounds of weight alone, without loading up on the arms or legs much.
The next workshop had more grenades being made. Pitards as some of the soldiers referred to them as. These ones he'd had loaded with phosphorus, but the men were creating some shrapnel variants as well. They needed a way to whittle numbers without exposing the men to direct fire where possible. Maximise one's advantages in the field - so far, these aliens had a limited and unprotected infantry. Their… armoured units would require more thought as there was only so high a calibre a man could carry before the rifle tore his own arm off.
Hence why his steam cannon had anchors and a tripod.
Shen came to another room where a pair of engineers, both young women from his dockyards, were busy wiring together what looked like a truncheon. It was covered with needles and wrapped in copper wires. He frowned as one of the "Insectoids" was dragged in - one of the few live ones captured by a random patrol. He made a mental note to join Doctor Vahlen in the next interrogation - though these things were difficult to converse with.
He watched as the Engineers hooked the truncheon to a large vat of liquid. One then stepped forward and slammed the truncheon onto the side of the alien's head. There was a flash of light and the smell of ozone filled the air, mingling with burnt flesh. The creature was limp on the floor. Shen tutted and the two engineers spun, then bowed, the guard near the door just nodding in response.
"Lower the Wattage… adjust for the shift in Voltage in the wiring. Some form of breaker to limited the electro-shock. We cannot be bringing in grilled captives - we can't be sure how to treat injury to preserve them, yes?"
The engineers nodded and set back to work. The guards dragged the wounded alien away. Shen heard a gunshot and nodded, satisfied - better safe than sorry.
He was still carrying his shard of alien metal - light to the touch, apparently a good conductor and heat dissipator. He tossed it in the air as he moved back through the workshops and glanced at the armour set again, just as the shard landed in his hand. He froze, looked down, then looked back at the suit.
"I wonder…. You there, get me more of the sky-samples. And a report on the smelting potentials, temperature tests. Has anyone tried moulding it yet?"
He stalked away, gathering a trail of engineers and technicians in his wake, like an intellectual comet. As he walked, he looked down at the shard in his hand. Sharp. Like a spear tip?
"Two birds… one stone, perhaps?"
The carriage ride to Covent Garden was twenty minutes. It gave him Anderson chance to think. Night had fallen and he'd changed into a less military set; black tie and tails, with white gloves and a top hat. Hastily assembled from what was in the mess, it just about fit after some very rapid alterations.
The carriage rattled to a halt outside of the Opera House. Large, gaudy posters advertised The Mikado as the production currently touring.
He alighted and nodded to the coachman, "Joseph, park up. I think I'll be some time. And need to be able to head back on the double should anything arise."
"Yessir," grunted his driver. A pair of soldiers stood on the footplate to the rear and hopped off. They carried Winchester rifles, rather than normal British weaponry and had the strange leather-overlay on their uniform. The crest on the arm was a red crescent within a six sided shield, above a stylised star.
His bodyguard fell into step behind him, drawing some small glances from the thin crowd gathered. It was fascinating how the world clung to normalcy with such weirdness scant miles way. But perhaps that was how humanity pushed itself on - routine, familiarity, a sheer stubbornness to bow before whatever horror leapt across the void.
"Let us drink our tea, dammit," chuckled Anderson to himself. He entered the Opera House foyer and was met by an usher, who led him to the private members bar at the top of the stairs. His troops hung back and took station outside the door.
Within was a familiar crowd - the masked Spokesman - he had to ask about that one day - along with several ambassadors, MPs and the familiar face of General Marter. Anderson made polite small talk, accosted by a few luminary individuals, as he made his way over to his superior. Or was he? The actual relationship was an opaque situation.
The General turned and smiled, "William, glad you could make it. I'm told this is a fantastic performance."
"I'll take your word for it, Richie. More of a classics man, myself. Plot I can understand at a tempo I can follow."
His friend slapped his shoulder and chuckled, "Jolly good! Well, it's the music you're really here for. Just laugh when everyone else does."
"And our auspicious company?"
"Well, a chance to check in. I know we rode you hard last meeting, but things are afoot. To let you know, I've got your back over the whole Baker Street affair. If what those reports you had couriered over are true, then the loss may be worthwhile. But I think these gentlemen want to see some forward momentum."
"I have a hundred men, Richard. Hardly a chance at death or glory with that. This isn't Roarke's drift, I hope."
"Well, it shouldn't come to that. We've got a number of Regiments and some… revamped artillery moving into place near Horsell Common, as well as some reserves. Chaps out there assure me we can overwhelm their defences and put pay to that little beach head of theirs."
Something nagged at Anderson about that. He eyed the General, "And you believe they'll succeed?"
The man had the good grace to look uncertain, "Well if they don't, not sure what else we can do. We have no equal to that walking armour of theirs, save sustained barrage. But they are flesh and blood, have flesh and blood needs and limits. That much seems apparent, despite the demonic element of course. And I need to do something to stop the bloody Regimental commanders just sending forays that whittle away at our reserves in needless, wasteful charges. A full thrust, en masse… rumour is it had some impact in Russia. And we know that's where the buggers are congregating in our fair land."
Anderson nodded, and plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, "Well, let us hope it buys us some time at the very least," he noticed a tall young man watching them, hair slicked back and oiled, "Who's the fellow there? Looking at me like I'm the last bit of ham on the breakfast buffet?"
"Ah. Smytheson. Representative of The East India Company."
"Oh, joy,"
"Yes, well, he's the other reason we need to talk today. Sub contracts, various things… he has an offer."
"An offer?"
"Well, a mix between an offer and a demand. And considering the Army is currently in a bit of a bind, we're reliant on the EIC to bolster us. 800,000 men, Anderson, globally, under their command. Can't waste potential like that."
Anderson shuddered. He knew the reality. The bastards wore uniforms and had ranks but they didn't really have loyalty to anyone but the men who ran their balance sheets; nor were they constrained by a concept of morality or behaviour expected. Of course, he knew the British army was hardly a nest of raving patriots, but he still saw them as a better class of soldier. But necessity made strange bedfellows.
He and Richard made more small talk, then Anderson circulated - being seen at soirees like this mattered. Keeping everyone on side. He exchanged pleasantries with the blustery Russian Ambassador who was full of tales of their latest apparent victory. The French and German representatives were polite but curt, clearly expecting more from the British. The small collection of African representatives, a mix of white Colonial administrators and, of all things, three tribal representatives, were fairly neutral, even cautious. Some private enterprise beyond the EIC were also present, asking about… purchasing options. Investment? Returns on said investment? He brushed them off with a non committal smile.
A few Naval officers spoke with him briefly and thanked him, again, for the Defence of Portsmouth.
The EIC fellow ignored him. Strange.
The ushers then called them forward and their little groups were split and led to various boxes and the show began.
It was typical comedy - farce to music. He remembered this was usually staged at the Savoy, but was tonight being shown here. Typical of Gilbert and Sullivan of course. There was an undercurrent of satire here, which Anderson did appreciate - the pomposity of the nobility, the ebb and flow of social standing - ironic it was being watched by such a "powdered crowd" in his view.
"Are you a follower, Colonel?"
Anderson glanced to his right and noticed his neighbour in the box was Smytheson. He gave the man a tight smile, "As I said to our mutual friend, General Marter, I'm more a fan of the spoken arts."
"Indeed. I won't try to woo you with a verse. If this is not your fancy, shall we retire to the smoking room? I feel it a more appropriate venue."
Anderson eyed the man, tempted to say no. But likely he would have to deal with whatever shenanigans would be forthcoming. He nodded and stood, gathering his walking cane, hat and gloves, "Lead on, MacDuff…."
The smoking room was adjacent to the bar and had a small balcony affording a view of the Market below. Smytheson settled himself into a wingback chair and Anderson sat opposite. The man was clearly his junior, but had an air of cold arrogance that he recognised in the more ambitious of his officer cohort. This man had clearly taken that in a more mercantile direction. Anderson leaned back and fixed the man with a steady gaze of his own.
Smytheson frowned and coughed, "Well, I suppose you would like to know why I wished to speak with you?"
"And so urgently it could not wait, too," mused Anderson. He twitched a grin - the man was eager. Had he played his hand? Or was this a longer game."
"Well, I am a man who dislikes frippery. So, I will not dance about things. First, the East India Company lays claim to any and all artefacts recovered by any agents within the Empire; this is included within our establishing contract and commercials, signed in 1600, emended 1763 to cover artefacts of a value beyond the bounds of the country and not covered by Royal ownership as a Treasure Trove."
Anderson kept his face passive, mind reeling at what the man was saying. Smytheson didn't seem to notice or care.
"As such, we will be looking to render a levy on your continued use and also any possible damages inflicted upon recovered artefacts. This will be deducted from the bounty of retrieval, also covered in the Treasure Trove act. Second, we own the patent, via a rather complex system of subcontractors and subsidiaries, of various British military armaments and property. I won't bother a rigid military mind with such minutiae as I don't have the time to explain. However, it has come to our attention that you have unlicensed armourers and… unsavoury types working on modifying clearly licensed weaponry. Again, we will be looking at compensation, subject to potential litigious action, against the British Army for damages to owned property or infringement of patent."
Anderson watched as the man leaned back, "Is that all then?"
"Oh no. We will, of course, offer decent recompense for recovered items. But, as I'm sure you understand, we can't allow such items to remain in the hands of hoi polloi or even soldiers, regardless of their remit."
The Colonel steepled his fingers and nodded sagely, "I quite understand. I would be interested in seeing the documentation justifying the seizure of the… artefacts."
"Well I think…"
"And I assume you will also be issuing said documentation to the invaders?"
The man blinked, "Excuse me?"
The Colonel spread his arms and smiled, "Well, who's to say they aren't also… appropriating items, hmm? After all, did you see them bring them with them? Or could they too, have happened upon a hidden cache?"
Smytheson smiled thinly, "You're trying to be clever, sir. It doesn't become you. You have your orders, now be a good tin soldier and…"
Anderson stood suddenly and loomed over the man. He placed his hands behind his back and inclined his head, "Mr Smytheson. I understand you have some of my colleagues over a barrel - I do not care to be placed in a similar situation by a gentleman who has not demonstrated his capacity to back his words. Whilst I'm sure you have quill-clerks and various investors quaking in their boots, I have been stabbed, shot, harassed and watched men burn to death in the same afternoon. Lawyers do not peterb me. In fact, I'd welcome them, assuming there's a standing court left in the country by the end of the year."
Smytheson glared up at Anderson, "Are you threatening me, sir?"
"Do not be so crass, Mr Smytheson. I wouldn't dream of it. But I would remind you of certain realities - we have an enemy at the gates, An enemy who has access to various people and is distributing weaponry to collaborators within our fair city. We have a limited means of combating them. Tensions are running high and the rule of law is tenuous. Indeed, martial law is in effect I believe."
Anderson approached the bar and poured himself a drink, then one for Smytheson. He returned and handed the amber glass to the man, then returned to his seat. The EIC man frowned and sipped, "Are you implying…"
"Secondly, I must act in accordance with the defence of the isles. The EIC has no mandate for an armed presence here so… I must therefore ask why a man with no army is asking the only armed presence within these isles to disarm."
"We are not. We are simply enforcing our rights, under charter and law."
"To, no doubt, reinforce your holdings overseas, yes?"
"Mr Anderso-"
"Colonel, you jumped up likspittle." Smytheson blinked and frowned. The Colonel took a sip of his whisky, "Do continue, Smytheson."
"Ahem. Of course. And we are better positioned to facilitate an understanding of the technology contained. Colonel. You may not be aware, but this little secret society functions because of the EIC. It is facilitated by us. By our network of telegraph stations, our various couriers and transports, our connections into government. So, in the interest of polite discourse, do consider your next words carefully."
Anderson smiled and patted his pockets, then produced a revolver. He levelled it at Smytheson who blanched, "Indeed. So, I will say again. I must ask why a man such as myself, charged with defence of these isles is being asked to disarm, by a man who I do not know who claims powers beyond my ken. As we are at war, I am within my rights to shoot you for attempting to obstruct an officer in the execution of his duty. Perhaps even treason. Oh, I'm sure that I'd be court martialled eventually. After the whole messy business with mass murdering aliens is dealt with first. And before you claim you're important, think on this - the EIC survives deaths every day. There'll be another fellow in here tomorrow, hair parted the other way, doing your job. And the society, my role, will continue. The relationship may change, lines of dialogue will shift. But think on that."
Smytheson was fixed on the pistol, "You're going to kill me? For asking for what is legal-"
"No. I am reminding you of the current balance of power, Mr Smytheson. We are at war. War costs money, yes. Paying soldiers, buying bullets. But this war is different, Mr Smytheson. It is here. In London. The EIC will feel the heat as it can't move material into the country. Loans may be called in from home. Investors will panic. I've seen it before. I can see you're thinking of taking some trinkets and running and thought we were, perhaps, an easy mark of readily available material. London EIC collapses, Indian office may still be standing and you can start fresh. Or maybe sell the material on and make a few pounds and shillings in the process."
"How dare…"
Anderson cocked the pistol and the man clamped his jaw shut, "Quick study I see. Well done. Now, what is going to happen is this - you can get your army of lawyers to sue me as they like, maybe when they can find a law court that has a judge who hasn't fled the city or is hunkering down at home. You may even be able to bully a few soldiers and regimental types to try and seize items directly. But try that and I will have you found and dragged to me kicking and screaming. And I will hang you like a common deserter. As for your licenses, we will work out an equitable arrangement for the duration of the emergency. I imagine government bonds will be issued at some point, perhaps we can finagle a good arrangement of those."
Anderson slipped the hammer back off of the revolver and put it back into his jacket. Smytheson relaxed and glared at him, "My superiors will hear about this. I'll have your job, as you'll find I am not a man to be trifled with. I'll have you…"
"Is it wise to rant at a man who just had a pistol levelled at you? No, Mr Smytheson… you will help us. No retaliation. Save it for the monsters at the door. Tell you what, come down to the Tower tomorrow. We'll let you have a poke around, look at these… artefacts you think are yours. Bring a lawyer as well. We'll have ours. Heck, if you want to try that, bring some bailiffs. As I said, the war is here, and your rules only matter if people follow them or enforce them. Right now we have riots in the street and an impressionable mob. People catch wind they think you're trying to profit or cut and run?" Anderson gave a shrug.
Smytheson squirmed and glared, "You're just a soldier…."
"A man of strategy, Mr Smytheson. I have no doubt you're just the first who'll try to chip away. Maybe you'll try again. But I may need your help down the line, so, as I said, come by the tower. Let's discuss a more reasonable arrangement."
"You think I'll negotiate after you threatened me?"
"Maybe not. But do you want to wait until those Tripods are walking down Pall mall? Or when a Muton has pulled your arms off? Or maybe one of the new fellows we met today makes you a walking womb for its young. Don't believe me… as I said, we'll let you have a look. And then talk to you about licensing fees."
He watched the man stagger away and chuckled. A tough negotiator when people played by his rules, he reckoned. Had this been peacetime and a normal evening, he probably would've been arse over tit. Of course, now he'd have to talk to the speaker about funding ramifications. But it was that or hand over a tonne of strategic material for… what?
If the chap was sensible, then he'd talk. If he was just interested in being a vulture then maybe not,
Anderson sipped the whisky and sighed. For now, it was a problem for the morning. And right now he had a good Scotch and a fine cigar. A moment to reflect, at least. He let the tremble in his hand subside and took another sip. What was this war turning them into?