Bane of the Nibelings [LoEG]

[Incognitus]

Recently, I happened to be reading some League of Extraordinary Gentlemen fanfiction on the internet, rather dismayed at how disappointing it was that there are no decent (for fanfiction) pieces out there.

After finally posting what some took as overly harsh (and pedantic: Hawley Griffen is the invisible man, not "Rodney Skinner" :P) criticism of their fanfiction I was giving the classic internet riposte: You do better.

Never being one to refuse the challenge of tweenage girls, I have.

Okay. So that's overselling it somewhat - having complained about flat and sterile characters and chronological inaptitude, I have replicated these failings. I've been aiming for the tone of 1930's pulp fiction, but have missed by a mile. Consequently, large parts of the following will be rewritten for tone, style, and substance after I've read more pulp.

Anyway. I'm never any good at spotting my own errors, so I was wondering if someone around here would mind giving it a look over and critique before I post it to a writing forum. :smile:

League of Extraordinary Gentlemen:
Bane of the Nibelings

It is 1941, and the Britain stands alone against the full might of Adenoid Hynkel's German Reich.

After a theft of a ancient and hitherto untranslatable text by Nazis agents takes place in the picturesque University town of Camford, Britain's finest find themselves thrust into the call of duty, and with their new friends and allies, must make their way across mainland Europe and into the heart of Nazi Germany.

Yet their journey will not be an easy one (duh :crazy: ) as they tackle local problems, unwanted friends, the mysteries of the missing text, the full power of the German Reich and come into contact with their Nazi opposite numbers...

Spoiler: Prologue

Ancient beyond measure, the creeping strands of the thick, silky fronds swayed in the breeze; a breeze they had not felt for centuries perhaps, before succumbing to the realities of their old age, persevered, entombed and ensconced so many miles beneath the ground, decaying rapidly and falling into dust.

No light had come unbidden into this place, lost in the depths of the darkest heart of a forgotten Balkanese state since all Europe had been covered by the shadow of the dark age.

It was only fitting that, as darkness descended across the land once more, the rest of this forgotten crypt should be disturbed once more, bringing only a small light for comfort.

The Explorer took another tentative step, fleeing his foot again from the momentary captivity that a life-age of cobwebs and dust can induce upon the foot, and readjusted his flaming torch.

The black around him lay heavy in the air; it did not travel far being instead chocked by the invisible threads of woven darkness. From ahead, deep within this time-rent ruin, a slow rumbling whisper came, consistent, varying neither in pitch or tone.

Turning another corner, he became suddenly aware of space - larger, a cavern or open hole within this morass of tunnels and corridors.

A small shaft or strand of light, battling vainly against the darkness illuminated only a worn mirror wheel set within a bronze revolving holster along it‘s horizontal diameter. Even it turned it’s face downwards away from the ceiling, there but ever invisible, and focused upon the rough uneven nature-ravaged ground.

And yet this chamber, abandoned so relentless to the wild, had been host to people once, and it was for their design that the halls and tunnels came to be, and once, long ago, this disk had a Purpose.

Drawing his gun from his holster, he aimed carefully. The shot came as the sudden storm within a silent night - there was a flash against the disk where the bullet hit, causing it’s revolution and a sudden burst of white light as it spun through it’s alignment with the ray of light, fulfilling it’s intention and illuminating the room.

The dust rose into the air, and for a moment, the long slow sigh that rang through the chamber stopped.

But the moment passed and as it the disk slowed to a halt, night fell again, leaving him with the whisper ringing within his ears and naught but the light of his own waxing torch for guidance.

“Damn”

He shot again. Again, the bullet ricocheted off the mirror; the sudden burst of light dazzled, and this time it did not abate. He stared in the chamber unseen for countless generations, and it started back at him.

Where once the graven images of kings, kings of kings, and of their stewards had been, the slow work of the subterranean elements had decimated all accounts of features, of noses, eyes, ears or helms, instead smoothing and refining them, leaving row upon row of white, mildew-stained pawns surveying the scene with eyes and ears long since lost to time or reason.

Within their midst, a stone rectangular box of unknown design or make and standing tall and proud upon a sloping plinth above the remnants of the statues below.

About the cracked floor pouring through every crook and crevice, and across each of the stepped levels, their forked tongues lashing the air and their eyes blinkered, unaccustomed to the light were hundreds upon hundreds of -

“Snakes. It had to be snakes.”

He yanked upon his fedora, jamming it resolutely upon his blanching white face, before stretching forth all his courage, and legs, and beginning the slow journey of transference from one tiny snake-free isle to the next working his way towards the prize at it‘s centre. The faceless jury watched his progress, marking ever slight stumble or slip upon the cracked, damp snake-infested floor.

He reached the summit, setting his torch against one of the silent spectres.. There was no point in any exclamation: he had long since left his expedition party, and the snakes seemed disinterested in the minor accomplishments of he who dared violate their home.

The large stone box was engraved with runes, many moss-covered or worn, but still miraculously visible: a tomb. Sighing with relief, he produced a small piece of note-paper from within his jacket pocket.

Examining it closely, he began the slow task of matching paper to stone, examining each in turn to ensure their veracity. Eventually, confident in his choices, he retraced his progress, this time pressing resolutely down upon each in their turn. Reaching the last one, he stopped expectantly.

For a moment nothing happened, then, from all around him came the haunting clanging to which he had become accustomed: the noise of ancient mechanisms stirring to life. He tensed himself, preparing the necessary measures he felt would be required to escape whatever devices had been set so many centuries ago for such an occasion. But the noise stopped.

Suddenly, the tomb belched forth a large cloud of black soot and dust which rose into an ominous fog surrounding him and clouding his thinking. With a clang the tombstone broke open, shattering into many shards which fell around and inside that which they were set to protect: had the civilisation that produced these mechanisms intended a solid defence, or had even the long years deceived them with their length encouraging policies and devices which had long since turned to dust?

So too, had the occupant of this aged crypt, and it was this grey powder that now had to be wiped off the true prize, which he raised now from where it had slept so long and held it within his line of sight, within it both gazing, yet not.

A perfect ball it was, as though the forgotten people it had outlasted had access to the very technology upon which our modern industry relies. It appeared to him in the manner of a ball of crystal, glassy, yet obsidian black. Somewhere untraceable within it’s depths a small light glimmered, a door left half ajar between this world, and some other.

“Very pretty”, he said to no-one in particular, placing it gently amongst layers of cloth, and adding it to his backpack. A single snake rose flinchingly at the sound of his voice.

*

The journey out was far easier than the journey in and mere hours later, he emerged from the tangled obscuring overgrowth into the free air of the backwaters of Taur-Hessia. The tomb itself was located above a cut in a cleft between the mountain range, and one sole mountain that stood out into the centre of the valley.

Although it rose in nine layers upon ruined overgrown steppes of near concentric circles. Upon the far side, a large part of the white, moss covered rock face jutted out into the valley, like the prow of some great old sailing ship. Down in the valley, a river flowed through vales of trees shining in the moonlight.

Night had long since fallen and the milky heavens stretched out endlessly from one horizon to the next, their small candles dimmed by that of the murky half-moon hanging low upon the horizon.

The trees rustled quietly and apathetically, and somewhere away in a deep cleft, a bird of the night cooed out few smooth low notes before falling silent. He was completely alone.

A twig snapped somewhere to his right. Not alone.

“Hande hoch! Hande hoch!”

Out of the shadows of the foliage, matched half a dozen soldiers in dark grey uniforms, their weapons glistening in the pale moonlight. The black on white double crosses marked their origin and allegiance. How could he have walked straight into this? With the barrels of their weaponry pointed resolutely at his face, he edged his hand slowly towards his holster.

“Hande hoch!”

To his left, a gun was discharged, the bullet wrenching the night air. In the distance a flock of birds took flight in panic. He withdrew.

“I vould tink bevore trying some ding like zat again, Herr Doktor.”

Out of the trees to his left limped a small man with a tiny frame. His uniform marked him out as a Sturmbannfuhrer. His pale face was illuminated by the cold moonlight, which reflected in his glasses, made him and his mind hard to perceive, yet his identify was already, to all participating agencies, fully known.

“Otto Flick.”

“Und eine good evening to you, Mister Jones.” There was a momentary pause.
“Vell?” Herr Flick asserted, “Vot are ve vaiting vor? Ve both know vhy ve are here. Hand it over before I feel sie need to discharge meine powerful Gestapo vaygun.” Herr Flick waved it, demonstratively. Jones said nothing in reply, he cast his eye quickly across the scene, surveying: No way out. In response to a gesture from Flick, one soldier advanced cautiously towards him.

“Ve vill have kein auf dein American tricks, danke”

With great reluctance, Jones handed him his backpack.

“Carevull vit it” cautioned Herr Flick, “Ich need nicht to remind-en sie of it’s importance.”

With a great sense of glee, the soldier returned it to Flick, who withdrew that which he had desired from within, unwrapping it from it’s coverings . The light within it’s depths flashed momentarily, creating a suddenly glimmer like the stars overhead. Flick examined it’s exterior cautiously.

“So zis is really it? Ze legendary Shining Trapezoid?” he said rhetorically before muttering under his breath, “Doesn’t look like eine trapezoid. Now, how do-en vir work-en vis?”

Jones edged his hand, towards his holster again, seizing the moment whilst all were preoccupied.

“Hande hoch!”

Jones stopped, stretching his arms fully with a reluctant finality. Now was not the time.

“You could try looking into it”, he offered as helpfully as possible.

“Do you tink me a fool?” Flick said, glancing back at Jones momentarily, his face glowing from the small light within the sphere. “Only ein idioten looken in ein object vich er versteht nicht!”

Herr Flick handed the sphere to a portly underling who had followed him from out of the overgrowth. He received it carefully and looked expectantly at Herr Flick for his orders.

“I vant sie to looken in der Trapezoid. Vhat you see. Vhat you hear, and vhat you know. You vill make deine report” The portly soldier looked back at him reluctantly, before turning his attention to the tiny flicker within the sphere. Herr Flick turned, limping towards Jones with a manic gleam of triumph in his eyes, barely obscured by their moonlit glow.

“Drop deine weapons, Doktor Jones. Ich denke sie know-en, sie ist mitt us ge-come-en, und ve vant keine unpleasant-er suprises”.

Doctor Jones starred at him defiantly. Herr Flick continued to limp towards him, carrying the gleaming length of metallic weaponry to his chest.

“You vill do it, or you vill be feeling der pain auf meine Gestapo vaygun”. With still no way out. Doctor Jones unhooked his holster from his belt and let the gun full to the ground.

“Und sie vip, Herr Doktor”

Glowering, Doctor Jones removed his trusted bullwhip from his inside pocket and threw it to the ground.

“Good”. From the corners of his tight-lipped mouth, Herr Flick smiled. He turned back to his company, and to the chubby underling who had been staring desperately into the sphere, attempting to see or hear something, anything, that would satisfy his taskmaster.

“Vell?” Herr Flick snapped, “Make-en deine report!”

Beads of sweat rolled down his underling’s bloated cheeks until finally his piggy little eyes slacked reluctantly. There was panic there, but when he spoke, his tone was measured, calm and considered.

“I see nothing. I hear nothing. I… I know nothing”.

Flying into a rage, Flick throw himself down the slope, dragging his lame leg behind. Clubbing his colleague on the back of the head firmly with the butt of his raygun. Flick went to retrieve the sphere, and for a moment both men had it within their grips. Whether by coincidence, or in response to the onset of Herr Flick’s virulent rush of emotions, the small bead of light rose to a tremendous flame, engulfing the interior orb within a veil of fire. Both men fell back in shock and the sphere circled violently into the air.

“Mein Gott! Die Hande! Die brennenden HANDE!”

For a moment, time seemed to halt. All could see the path that the sphere was taken would leave it dashed against the abundant rocks, yet none could move, riveted in horror. Doctor Jones began slowly crouching: third time’s the charm. At the last moment, Herr Flick attempted to launch himself in a vain attempt to knock or deflect the sphere from it’s fateful trajectory, his lame leg proving itself a hindrance, causing Flick himself to fall short against the rocks, dashing both his forehead and his glasses.

The sphere landed above him, but, the unknown craft that had made it had made it strong and resilient. This was no ordinary glass orb, and rather than the resultant crash, and subsequent deliverance into a thousand silver shards left to glint forever in the moonlight in this lost and forgotten corner of the world never happened. The solid stone rock itself chipped, and the sphere leaving small dents bounced off the rock and rolled away into the grassy verges before slowing to a halt.

The small dog sniffed it cautiously.

“Eine hund?” muttered Herr Flick from the ground, dazed and confused.

The white wire fox terrier barked appreciatively.

“Getten-sie deine hund!” roared Herr Flick to his men. Had Herr Flick had taken the moment to ensure that his chosen crack team of soldiers, deployed upon these secret missions requiring the uttermost skill and concentration where indeed selected from the best Germany had to offer, and not selected from Germany’s Schwachkopfe, Herr Flick would in no doubt, not have found himself lying in the ground whilst every member of his platoon took off into the woods, following the cheerful barking of a young puppy-dog. He groaned, and got to his feet, he noted that behind him, now unfettered by the score of guns, Doctor Jones rose too, with his pistol in one hand and his unsheathed bullwhip in the other. Quickly, Herr Flick raised his weapon.

“Ich habe meine Gestapo vaygun!” he cried aloud.

Doctor Jones flicked his wrist and there was a suddenly crack in the air. A moment later, Herr Flick’s hands were empty, his weapon disappearing into the rushes.

Giving Doctor Jones one last, terrified look, Herr Flick turned and ran into the foliage. Jones holster his gun. He couldn’t shot an unarmed man in the back, even if he was a servant of Hynkel’s regime.

“Indy! Mister Indy!” A voice whispered out of the foliage to his left in accented English.

“Chang! Boy, am I glad to see you. Where’s -?”

“This way Mister Indy, we must hurry!”

The voice belonged to a young tanned Chinese boy, garbed in green and with a mess of black hair crowning his wide beaming face. He had hid in the bushes about, now leaping to his feet. Doktor Jones made to dart down the landscape towards the orb which simmered softly in the grass below.

“No time! Wrong direction! This way, Mister Indy!”, Chang raced off deeper into the woods. Taking one last look at the treasure he had retrieved, Jones followed him.

“Wa- Kid! Slow down! The dog, what about the dog?”

“He knows where to go. We must hurry whilst this opportunity presents itself.”

The woods were, as far as woodland goes, not as dark as once might expect, but dense in their foliage. the ground smooth though in places it delved suddenly into dips and holes that made a smooth over ground escape challenging. Here and there, their path was strewn with the husks of dead trunks, their rotting hulk impeding their path necessitating they change direction, yet always Jones followed Chang, who homed in like a hawk on his destination. Away in the distance, they could hear shouting, always in German, carrying across the valley.

Eventually, they came at last to the river, a few short metres down from where they needed to be: a seaplane, a Grumman Goose, bobbing tentatively in the river’s rapid current. A moving figure could be seen moving in the cockpit, checking readings and beckoning them hither. Boarding, they turned suddenly to hear the sound of gunfire. Out of the foliage came tearing, barking, the little white fox terrier, and behind a score of soldiers firing wildly dogwards.

Withdrawing his pistol, Jones fired a few token shots, hitting one, generating a momentary confusion whilst the small snow-coloured dog swam the short distance from the riverbank to the seaplane. Caught within a storm of bullets, the propellers begin their cyclic revolutions, and giving his final two shots, Doctor Jones shut the door. He ensured it’s secure locking from the inside before falling backwards, tongue lolled out. He looked briefly at the dog whose position was no different. The lights in the interior flickered off, token of a lucky parting shot from the rabble below firing blindly towards them in the night. The moon drew long shadows across the seaplane’s interior.

“Heck of a smart dog” he said to Chang, who nodded in reply.

“Is Milou okay?” called the young man from the front of the craft. His voice rang with the trace of a French accent, albeit one which was very consciously under the process of modification seeming to favour a more universalistic European tone. In the back of the plane, they stumbled slightly as the plane jerked upwards lifting itself bodily out of the water and into the high aethers.

“Sure. We’re fine too - thanks for asking”, Doctor Jones called back. Milou barked appreciatively.

“Did you get it then?”

“I did. But I don’t have it no more. According to Mister Chang here, we couldn’t spare even a moment to collect one of the rarest and goddamn shiniest things I’ve ever seen. Now those creeps have their hands on it.”

“But it didn’t work.” Chang reminded him quietly.

“It had sentimental value, kid. If you ever spend several months trying to find something like that, you’d know what I mean”

“But Chang was right” called the young man in the front of the vehicle, “We were lax. They had followed us and we didn’t even know and… oh… uh…” He broke off.

“What?” There was no response. The shadows outside broke the silver light of the moon leaving the vehicle in a cold shadow, “What?”

“I… think you had best come and see for yourself”

Doctor Jones pulled himself the length of the aircraft, and instantly saw the spectacle which had rendered the blond-quiffed pilot mute.

To their aft approached a Zeppelin... or was it? It seemed too big and heavy to be a mere Zeppelin, and across it’s iron hull he could spy various batteries of propellers arranged either side of a large multi-storey conning tower, windows glinting on the side. The prow came forward like that of a great ship, and aboard the forward deck a great crane stood towering ominously into the sky overlooked by a unit of large windows about which many men could be seen scuttling illuminated their vessel‘s gaulish light.

Upon either side lay two vast vertical-propellers, augmented by burning forward motion-rockets. Beneath it’s vast bulk existing three large and aligned cannons, that in the rear being larger than the forward two, a final large propeller which broke the glowing greenish light that hailed from the well above it stretching upwards towards the conning tower.

Further in the rear, two launch bays thrust downwards, visibly arrayed with the weapons which could be used to bombard the target below. The gastro burners lit at the back illuminated the twin crosses of The New Reich emblazoned upon it’s tail. The hulking behemoth advanced upon the scatter broil of it’s own making, released from many vents giving it a black mane of smoke as it roared through the sky.

“A Drachenflieger!” cried Chang in alarm, “What are we to do?!”

“I…haven’t a clue. How can this be? The Drachenflieger were destroyed after the Great War. How can Germany have kept one secret all this time?”

“Something’s not right.” Doctor Jones scanned it carefully, “Apergy. Rocketry. This isn’t some dusted-down -and-dressed-up relic of the Air Wars, this is something new. One of Merkwürdigeliebe‘s new toys.”

“How can they have built something so… so vast in secret? In defiance of all the treaties -”

“ -You’re supposed to be the investigative reporter: you tell me!” Doctor Jones sighed, and then gesturing to the young blonde, bid him surrender the cockpit as he took control of the plane.

“Fortunately there’s only one and I think we can outrun it”. He flicked several switches, checked a few dials. Chang glanced back towards the dashboard and then froze starring firmly out of the cockpit dead ahead.

“There’s another” he said softly. A tear silently falling down his face. Chang had grown up on tales of family members drafted and lost during the Air Wars.

There was a moment in which the three occupants of the cabin took stock of the small speck on the horizon that floated out from behind the towering heights of the Balkans Range. It was only small, but getting bigger with an ever increasing rapidity, formed a cordon to cut off their escape. The young blond grabbed Chang’s hand and held it gently but firmly.

Caught in a pincer, they had only moments before they were accessible to the marauding vessels, agents of Adenoid Hynkel’s Nazi regime.

The young blonde-hair teen kept his gaze with that which approached at their rear, gaining all the time. Across the hull he could see, swarming like dark spiders against the hull, the Nazis: Nazis setting up guns, Nazis manning existent defences and Nazis making preparation for midair boarding, a dozen rocketeering Nazis with jetpacks.

Doctor Jones sighed a long deep sigh.

“Oh… I have a very bad feeling about this…”

Spoiler: Chapter: the First - Summertime, 1941

The River Cam parted vast estates of green, it’s banks a glimmering collection of weeds and rushes as it wove it’s way through the East Anglian countryside. Everywhere, fields of corn swayed tentatively in the fresh morning sunshine, giving the countryside a warm golden glow, rippling with the wind’s every breath. Here and there little brick lined country lanes drove through the landscape, skirting the Bedigraine Forest, splitting into various streams before finally dividing wholesale into two roads; the junction marked by a large clear and finely detailed sign; To the east, “Camford“, or alternatively “The North“.

Next to this sign and on top a ladder, stood a small blue-rinsed and tweed-clad lady waved at the passing taxi before producing from her held paint pot a small brush, raising it carefully, and with a single stroke darkened the text to a thick matt black.

As the taxi climbed the small rise overlooking the world-famed university town, it resolved itself slowly from a small blur on the horizon bringing many of it’s noted sites into focus. Raised in the centre where the city met the river upon a great rise was the remains of grand Fergus Castle, it’s ancient glory only dimmed by the surrounding college buildings; amongst them, the magnificence of pious Brakespeare, the dominant St Brendan’s, and the unmistakable Pelby College dotting the skyline, colouring the hue of the surrounding town which held some design of all architecture from the fifth century right through to the most-up-to-date of 30’s design chique.

Out of the open window, a small fox terrier poked it’s white little face, tongue lolling in the breeze as it survey the countryside which passed so quickly before it’s small bright eyes.

“ - and it turns out, it was supposed to be some sort of youth serum and it were the Professor himself who was going all ape-like!” the driver rambled on in his thick South London accent, to his less than interested, but none the less fully attentive passenger, “How are you doing? He’s very quiet, isn’t he?” he added, before giving his passenger a chance to respond in the affirmative to the first enquiry.

“Yes. He usually is on short journeys”

The taxi passed through a small village, it’s thatched roofed cottages peopled by small, ruddy faces who beamed at the vehicle as it passed through.

“What did you say ‘is name was again?”

“Milou”.

Milou barked affirmatively.

“Pretty funny name” the taxi driver pondered, “Is it foreign, like? Come to think of it, you said you had one of those funny foreign name’s too, dincha? Cuff-key-gee?”

“Kuifje. Augustin van Kuifje”

“Yeah, knew it was something like that. You’re a frog then? You have a bit of an accent. Come across with the Little Ships, didya?”

“No. And I’m from Belgium actually.” There was a beat before the taxi driver spoke again.

“Ah well. Nobody’s perfect, like. Eh?”. he laughed.

As the driver leapt into his next spiel about the various ongoing on Camford University Campus, seeming to be very well informed of all unusual and illegal occurrences through to the great and grand, to the minor foibles of overzealous academics, Augustin turned his attention back to the passing English countryside as it whipped it’s way slowly passed the window, we was scratching Milou’s ear as they passed through the winding cobbled streets and as the vehicle pulled up outside the sprawling St Cedd’s College, it’s great gate peering out over the ground, the taxi driver concluded relating the events of a murder in the previous decade at nearby St Bernard's College by commenting upon the morals (both medicinal and homicidal) of college dons.

“Trust me,” he concluded, “A stolen book ain’t the most riveting story the University has produced for the press. Frankly, if you want to find a story, you’re better off camping out in Oxford and waiting; it seems like someone is murdered there every-bloody-week.”

“Thank you for the advice, kind sir” young Augustin said smilingly to his driver, “I trust you will be able to stay in the area for a while? I have no other way of returning to London once I am finished here.”

The driver nodded in the affirmative, and in the brief moments Augustin had before he pulled away from the cobbled curb he examined his reflection flattening his blond quiff to his round, smiling face and adjusting the collar of his blue pullover.

A moment later, his quiff had sprung back upwards. With Milou at his side he began making his way towards the vast wooden door.

The campus was quiet for the time of year. Since the war started, applicants for universities had dropped, so that even a renowned institution such as Camford had trouble reaching a full quota. The lawns were trimmed neatly and here and there the remnants of spring of spring growth could be seen, vainly competing with the luscious blooms of early summertime.

Upon reaching and entering the reception hall and taking a moment to adjust to the musty, olde worlde scent of academia, van Kuifja glanced around for some guidance. A small inoffensive man speaking to an older woman looked up as he entered.

“No dogs”.

Augustin made to gesture Milou outside, and for a moment it looked as though the man would reassume his conversation with his colleague, but he continued his ocular examination before finally speaking again.

“Were you sent from London?”

Augustin traded a look with Milou before responding slowly and concisely.

“Yes. Are you expecting me?”

“I was told that there would be at least two. Where is your partner”.

Augustin shared a look with Milou.

“I am a journalist from The Interceptor: I’m here to cover the theft.”

The man’s face sank.

“Oh dear. You are obviously not then. I have been told to meet two agents of the crown: I would love to show you to the site - if you want to take pictures perhaps? If you want the address of the doctor, I‘d be more than happy to give it to you. Unfortunately I cannot accompany you in person. I am Professor Brian Roberts of the German Studies department, by the way.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Augustin van Kuifja.”

“Hmm.” Professor Roberts bade his colleague adieu, “I suppose you’ll be wanting some background information?”

Augustin and Milou both nodded.

“Indeed. Well, as I am sure you are no doubt aware, early this morning, parties unknown broke into our Department of Anglo-Saxon and absconded with an item of significant historical importance: that is, an 8th or 9th century collection of bound writings up-to-now believed to be untranslatable.”

“Untranslatable?!” gasped Augustin with shock.

“Yes. They match no known historical script. The manuscript’s history is very interesting, and I’m sure, when you meet the Professor, he will take great delight in filling you in at length. He is very… dedicated to his work.”

“Then I look forward to being filled in.” ejaculated Augustin. “My editor said that the Germans were suspected to be behind it?”

“Ssssh!” Roberts hissed, “I’m surprised you know this. A telegram was sent to London early this morning, and we heard that agents of the crown were to be dispatched immediately.”

“I have some very good contacts” Augustin replied reassuringly. “But how is it you have come to suspect the Germans of involvement? Surely an ordinary burglary might explain these unfortunate events?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I do not know the full details, although a rather zealous medical student, a Miss Quys has spent the day making enquiries. Apparently some people have seen suspiciously German-looking figures have been seen watching St Cedds for the last couple of days. I’m sure if you speak to the local constable, he may be able to give you a few lines for your article about the situation.”

Augustin had not noticed that, whilst Professor Roberts had been talking, he had also been writing directions on a piece of paper, which Augustin now received eagerly from him.

“Good luck - although I doubt you’ll be able to get your article published with the current Home Office wartime censorship regulations. Not even in a paper like The Interceptor”

“Thank you, sir,” Augustin responded, “My attention is thoroughly captivated now, and, regardless, I must pursue this story until it’s conclusion.”

Waving, Augustin examined his received directions thoroughly, and began to follow them deeper away from the reception and into the heart of St Cedds.

Professor Brian Roberts appeared to have forgotten the dictum that no dogs should be allowed passageway through it’s ancient halls, and whether it was Milou’s exceptionally good behaviour or the quirk of academics enamoured with their texts which meant he passed unnoticed through the old halls.

Eventually, they reached the open, yet police-cordoned doorway that marked his destination. It was guarded by one of the faculty staff who, after Augustin explained his identify and from whence he had come (name dropping, of course, Brian Roberts of the the German Studies department) Augustin was granted access to the college room.

It was clearly that of an elder, fastidious don with a clear interest in the documented and linguistic history of the first millennium. Lining his shelves were dozens of history books written in the both the original tongue and modern English translations on Camelot, or Gawain the so-called “Green Knight“. A thick bound book on the life and times of Dutch hero Beowulf was left open upon the broad wooden desk, next to a handwritten essay coversheet “The Critics and the Monsters”.

Milou sniffed a tin toy dog cautiously. Delighted at the pair, Augustin took a picture and contemplated the name of “Roverandom” upon the collar around it’s cold tin neck.

It did not take much further examination to uncover the mood of theft, the door had clearly been forced open. Augustin began taking stock of his next destination marked very clearly for him on his improvised map whilst taking a mental stock of the name on the door, who was, no doubt, the very man he was being sent to meet: Professor of Anglo-Saxon, Dr A. A. L. Ransom.

As Augustin made his way out from the sprawling maze of corridors and rooms, Milou at his heel, a door sprung open to his right and a diminutive man with white hair and a white beard with small glasses stepped out.

“I’ve been expected you.” he said.

Augustin and Milou exchanged a glance.

“Good afternoon Mister….?”

“Please, call me Reg. Just Reg.”

“Good afternoon Mr Reg.” Augustin said warmly, shaking his hand, “How have you come to be expecting us?”

“Hmm. Oh right. Yes. Well… No. But I had seen this all happen before, and that what would have transpired has transpired, and that… um… yes… well anyway. I thought there was something I ought to warn you. Can I offer you some tea?”

Augustin and Milou exchanged another glance. It was unclear to them who this man was, or what relevance he had to the dealings at hand. Augustin noticed that as he spoke, he fiddled with a small pocket watch he had produced from his pocket.

“No thank you, sir. I would love to stop and talk with you, but I’m in a bit of a hurray at the moment and don‘t have the time.”

“THAT,” thundered Reg, a sudden light in his eyes, “is what I needed to tell you. It is in a state of flux.”

Again, Augustin and Milou exchanged a confused glance.

“I’m sorry. What is?”

“Time.” Reg replied, “Time is in a state of flux.” There was a momentary pause.

“Well, I have passed on your message like you asked,” he said suddenly, “And caught you exactly where and when you were supposed to be. I’m afraid if you don’t want a cup of tea I shall have to ask you to leave. I’m in the middle of something at the moment and I‘m not fond of unwarranted disturbances” And with that, he shut his door, his plaque glimmered in the light.

“What on earth is ‘Chronology‘” thought Augustin, as he continued his search for the exit, “And what kind of madman would create a Professorship of it anyway?”

*
They exited the musty halls of St Cedd’s and took stock of England’s sweet, fresh air. The town of Camford spread all about them, and the bustle of people and of their cars and carts, all grinding on the cobbled streets.

Passing the morose cafe “Misery's” at the junction between one stony street to another where all the students appeared to be wearing fancy dress or Halloween outfits, Augustin began his swift trek through the suburbs until finally he found the house for which he was looking.

He rapped firmly upon the green door which was subsequently opened.

“Good morning” Augustin started. The middle-aged tweed clad man looked back out at him, a small wooden pipe between his teeth.

"What do you mean?" he said. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

“Er?” began Augustin, exchanging a thoughtful yet confused glance with Milou.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist” the man laughed, “How may I help you?”

“Hello sir” responded Augustin, “I’m looking for Doctor Alwin Ransom from the Anglo-Saxon department of Camford.”

Doctor Ransom nodded. He was indeed Alwin Ransom.

“I am a journalist from the London Interceptor. I heard that you have a bit of a story to tell.”

“Then I suppose,” said Alwin Ransom, opening the door further, “that you had better come in”

Augustin and Milou entered, and the green door shut behind them.

“Can I get you some tea?” called Doctor Ransom from the kitchen, “Or maybe something a little stronger?”

“No thank you,” responded Augustin, “Although I wouldn’t mind a drink of water.”

The sitting room into which Augustin found the hall steering him towards reminded him in many ways of St Cedd’s. Presently, Dr Ransom returned, carrying a tray on which was his own cup of tea, a glass of water for Augustin, and a small biscuit treat for Milou, who received it thankfully.

Taking his seat in a large moth-eaten chair, Dr Ransom closed his eyes momentarily, deep in thought.

“They’ve given me the day off, due to the trauma” he began, “Although what trauma that could be, I have no idea. It’s not as though as I was in the room at the time.”

Dr Ransom petted Milou softly behind his small white ears, and Milou grinned appreciatively.

“Well, I suppose you’d want me to start at the beginning.”

Augustin produced his notebook and paper and nodded in agreement.

“I am,” Dr Ransom began, “as you no doubt know by now, Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Camford University. I’ll spare you the grotesque and burdensome biographic details if you don’t mind: I prefer privacy, and thusly think only the essentials need suffice. I joined the faculty several years ago, having been offered tenure after having completed my studies there and having returned from service from the Great War.”

Ransom removed his glasses and polished them carefully as he spoke. Augustin noticed the tone in his voice had changed - quite understandably so - when he mentioned the Great War.

“I… I was, I think, a decent teacher,” Ransom noted with a wry smile, “Yet it was not the teaching that interested me: I have always been interested in language. Most especially the overlay between the linguistic and phonological and the culture itself. Since I was a young boy, I have… I have had… hmm”

There was a gap again whilst Dr Ransom adjusted his glasses and stroked his nose thoughtfully. He seemed to be considering the implications of his thoughts. When he spoke again, it came out in a quick onslaught of words.

“Since the age of six, I have had recurring dreams or visions in which I have received or have been transmitted words.”

Augustin raised an eyebrow.

“I am telling you this,” Dr Ransom said quietly, “because this forms the backdrop to how I came to have been recruited. You see, whilst I originally considered these words or fragments to have been the product of my overactive imagination, further research in my field brought me in contact with an old, ancient, and previously unreadable book.”

“Unreadable?”

“Yes. All that we know about it is that it was copied by a Mercian man named Aelfwine sometime during the 8th or 9th Century from a text that no longer exists. It was deemed a valuable artefact, a book of lost tales, and kept safe by the Mercians for a long time. Eventually it passed into the keeping of Camford University where it has lain for several generations safe in the secure sections of Camford University Libraries.”

“And this is presumably the thing that was stolen?”

“Yes. Nothing else was taken. My room was left exactly as I had found it. The inspector is , quite naturally from his point of view, looking for another motive. After all, who would steal an unreadable book?” Ransom asked rhetorically.

“I suppose that would depend one what it was about?”

“Indeed it would. But then again, as far as I know, only I, aided by God-granted understanding have been able to crack it’s secret and thus have some conception of the content contained within: it had been written in an phonemic script, not an orthographic script, you see.”

Augustin stopped transcribing notes for a moment, and seeing the confused look upon his face, Dr Ransom smiled.

“The difference is in the semiotics,” he explained, “In an orthographic script such as English, French and so forth, the letters may have little to no relation to meaning. A phonemic script, on the other hand, does. Indeed, in this script, it seemed that each letter corresponded with it’s arcs and bows to showing specific places of articulation! The sheer elegance! Here was a language that could be savoured!
“Once I began to transcribe the sounds and make sense of what I was seeing, I began to realise that those make-believe words I had been dismissing as the remains of a childhood novelty from my youth were here - on the page before me - yes, a lot of it I still didn’t understand, but I found that I had, from those sporadic notebooks I had kept from my youth and in the trenches, my Rosetta’s Stone.
“Many people have taken copies of pages, and some have spent their lives tried to decipher it. I had crossed the brink and came closer to a translated copy since the great Johannes Suttle in the Glorianian Age. This is why I was granted the book in full. I am a fool to have lost it!”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was stolen,” Augustin added reassuringly, “Your door was sealed securely. I saw the lock. It would have taken… a… an… well.. a gorilla of a man to knock it down.”

“And such a man has been seen loitering around the town. A huge, bulking man, with blond hair, blue eyes and a firm demeanour. He apparently had been joined on several occasions by a slim Indian lady. Both had been seen watching St Cedd’s. From what I have heard from my last visit from the local inspector, they are now nowhere to be found. They are the obvious suspects.”

“Indeed,” agreed Augustin, “But how do you know that they would be working for a foreign power? Germany, of course seems the logical conclusion. But why exclude the Russians -”

“Because I had been granted access to The Book.” Dr Ransom said calmly, “Whilst pages of it have always remained in Camford, the original book had, after Suttle’s partial work, and on his recommendation, been entrusted by Queen Gloriana herself into some of the most secure facilities British Intelligence Services have had to offer. Suttle apparently drawn the conclusion that the occultic information he suspected lay within, should be kept from the general public viewing until such time as a full and complete account of what lay within could be ascertained.
“In answer to your second question, how would we come to the conclusion that it is Germany? Well… I ask you… who else has been showing such an obsession to obscure historical artefacts?”

Augustin agreed. He had seen this first hand.

“When British Military Intelligence were informed, we received back an immediate reply stating that they would be dispatching two of their finest operatives. I met them when they arrived earlier today, and they should be reporting back to me soon. You are welcome to stay until such time as they arrive. I’m sure I could find you something to eat if you’d like.”

Milou rolled onto his back and barked in the affirmative.

*
The clackering of typewriters could be deafening, if one stumbled upon it unawares. Being used to the hustle and bustle of an active newsroom, Augustin was not perturbed.

“For Goodness sake!” cried his editor , Bernard Goldman, slamming his door shut, “There’s never a moment’s peace around here.” Augustin stopped vainly attempting flattened his fringe as Goldman turned to him again, holding in his hand a copy of Augustin’s finished article. He scanned it through again.

“Hmm” he said finally, scratching his short curly hair, “It’s a fairly written. It’s a shame we probably won’t get a follow-up. I suppose we could run it as a bigger story if we place emphasis the German-spy angle - but then I suppose that would make us no better than the Cane Media Conglomerate.

“We need something big tomorrow, Augustin; the Daily Mail are running a story on Lord Darlington - some nonsense about how the fellow is being used as a scapegoat for the previous government.” Goldman smiled, “It won’t last. They‘ll tear him to shreds eventually - and they’ll enjoy it too.”

“What am I to do with you then?” Goldman asked Augustin, who had remained silent throughout, “You’re a talented journalist, no doubt. I read the material you did for Le Vingtième Siècle before the war. Very good. Nice, simple. Lot’s of pictures.”

“Thank you, sir.” Augustin responded.

“None of that “sir” stuff,” Goldman said, placing his hand on Augustin’s back and steering him towards a seat.

“I just wish, since I employed you, that I can find something better to occupy our time and pages than the street fighting between CumReds and Everard Webley‘s WhiteShirts: this story is the best thing that has happened in a long time - well, not from a national security perspective, eh? - and it would appear to be a dead end. Oh, Judith! Bubeleh!”

Judith Goldman, Bernard’s older sister entered in her flowing blue dress with patched white stars. She smiled at Augustin and handed him a collection of typed articles.

“We’ve just had a lead on that Black Sapper story,” she said, “We’ve some eyewitness to the event.

Goldman looked over them thoughtfully.

“Judith, be dear would you, and fetch me that Brinkley Court article. You know, the one from 1930? The Wooster business”

“Occultic dealings, and the lay-about classes?” she checked.

“That’s the one!,” he acknowledged, as Judith swept out of the room turning back to Augustin, “Everyone loves a scandal, eh?”

Augustin nodded.

“Tell me,” began Bernard slowly, stroking his chin thoughtfully rereading the articles his sister had just handed to him, “You mentioned government Special Ops?”

“Yes, sir--- er… Bernard?”

“How many where there?”

“Just two. A man and a women."

“Hmm. How was he?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Tall, blondish. Deep eyes.”

“He didn’t… seem fond of the musical theatre?” Bernard asked casually.

“No. No not at all. If anything, he seemed to me to be very much to be a er… hunter-gather type.”

“Hmm. And you said this women, she was wearing a scarf, right? In the middle of the day?”

“Yes. I thought it was rather odd. It was very warm by the time they had arrived at Doctor Ransom’s home.”

“Hmmm,” Bernard Goldman stroked his chin again. Judith swept back into the room, again with a few pieces of paper in her hand. She handed them to her brother who examined them thoughtfully. He looked out of his window over the evening bustle of Fleet Street. Away to the west, the setting sun illuminated the peaks of the House of Commons and Westminster Clock Tower began to chime six.

“ There might be more to this than we thought…” he said.

Spoiler: Chapter: the Second - Blood and Toil

“This is the BBC 6’Oclock news and this is Alvar Lidell reading it.

From America, we learn that their national crisis has deepened since the United States President mysteriously vanished earlier this week. Vice-President Andrew Harrison has declined to comment directly, although a reprehensive of the Edith Keeler Foundation for Social Justice sent a message to the BBC noting their continuing gratitude towards ‘a man wholly sympathetic to our cause,’ and wishing the United States Special Operatives the best of luck in returning the President to his rightful post sometime in the near future. A sentiment shared by us here at the BBC.

The Prime Minister issued a statement today from the undisclosed secure location where he has been since news of the President vanishing was announced, offering continued support to the American people at this time, with hopes that they will not forget England’s current plight when the President is returned to office.

Additionally, the Prime Minister responded to calls from members of the opposition to server connections with mainline Europe by reaffirming his intention to keep the Channel Causeway open at this time.

“I cannot stress,” he has said, “The importance this link to Europe may still serve us in the war, and shall not risk breaking it, unless at the utmost end of needs.”

Reports also indicate that raids last night were less severe than they have been in the last few weeks, leading some top government experts on the German mind to declare that Germany may be changing tactics. Furthermore, some site the recent raid in places as far west as Blackbury and Slate as evidence that Germany’s bombing campaign is not due to come to an end any time in the near future -

A silence fell upon the room, as it was swiftly turned off as the empty room became occupied once again. The only noise now, in the residential quarters of the secret wing of the British museum, was the voices of those known to some in jest, as The Three Musketeers. The tallest, a thin, beautiful and fey man was speaking,

“- and giant cockroaches and bats amongst other things. Oh, and then there was that giant simian that scaled the Empire Tower building back in ‘33. G-8 claims he fired the crippling shot. Well, I told him if he wanted to fight giant simians, he should had seen Gogmagog!”

“’Lando,” sighed Mina, the lady in the scarf, “Please, we’ve had a long day and I’m too exhausted for this at the moment.”

“We’ll we’ve come to the right place. Look here, earlier some civil service goons dragged this old bed into here and just left it. Right in the middle!“

And indeed, left alone, awkwardly and cumbersomely within the centre of the room was an old bed, it’s metallic curves and wrought iron bednobs glimmering in the pales light.

“Tried to ask them what it was all about but none of them seemed especially responsive. It’s probably some hair-brained scheme of Sir Henry’s… trying to make his mark on this place…I suppose” replied Orlando.

“Yes, from what I’ve heard, he’s taking great pains so that he won’t be seen as purely an imitation of Mycroft. Although what he has in mind with this bed… I mean, it’s hideous!” added Allan.

“Yes. It is rather… challenging, isn’t it?”

“Speaking of beds, how is our little linguist friend?”

“We put him up in the spare room. He’d better rest up. We have a lot of work to do.”

*

Outside, the bombs were falling.

Inside Hobb’s Lane tube station, the atmosphere was cold, dead and quiet. Chang was huddled closely to Augustin, his brown eyes shut, his head resting upon Augustin’s shoulder. He snored slightly, a sound that echoed through the brick tunnel. It would have been conspicuous, were it not for the breathing, the coughing, and the snorting of dozens of other individuals, all seeking shelter from Hynkel’s bombs underground; Families, friends; Colleagues and neighbours; All came together as the darkness fell.

Augustin stroked Milou behind his ear reassuringly. The little dog, although calm in many situations, and reassuring was tense, his hackles raised. He was staring down the tunnel.

Chang murmured in his sleep, and turned slightly upon Augustin’s shoulder. Looking at him so peacefully, Augustin couldn’t help but remember the last time he had seen Chang look so carefree - but then Japan had invaded Manchuria and so much had happened. When they had last parted, he remembered the sadness he had felt, not knowing whether, in these uncertain times, he would see his friend again.

Yet Chang had attracted the attention of many people in his native China, having been a principal participant in the downfall of a major Western-run opium smuggling cartel. In consequence Chang had received a generous offer: he could receive the best education London had to offer, with all of his expenses paid for, in exchanged for his future employment, from a Chinese national based out of London’s Limehouse: a wealthy Doctor, with a reputation for philanthropy.

And thus, Augustin and Chang had, against the odds, been reunited. Maybe there was something fateful in it, Augustin mused, and with one hand flicked Chang’s black hair out from his sleeping eyes.

Milou winced as Augustin’s strokes became suddenly more broad and decisive.

“Sorry.” he apologised, “I was away with the faeries for a moment there.”

Suddenly, Milou dashed off down the tunnel.

“Wait a moment!” Augustin called after him in a raised whisper, “It wasn’t *that* hard.”

Milou made no sign of returning. Augustin sighed. He covertly kissed Chang on his forehead, before reluctantly getting to his feet and beginning to follow Milou down the tunnel. A few heads were raised, but nobody called out to him, and nobody tried to stop him.

There was no light in the tunnel to judge by, and every now and then Augustin stumbled upon the rails. He hissed his faithful companion’s name, and the tunnel took his works, and sent them echoing down the vast hole that opened before him.

He didn’t like this. He had often heard the rumours that this place was haunted. People would speak about Hobb’s Lane and they would say that it had been ever since the abortive Martian Invasion forty-three years earlier, although some claimed it went back even further.

Presently, he heard Milou’s barking coming from ahead from a curve in the tunnel from where a small light shone. He was not alone.

A tall man in a top hat and waistcoat, wearing a yellow cummerbund and leaning upon a gentleman’s cane. He had a large bushy beard. He was leaning down to Milou, who had placed his forelegs upon the man’s knee, and was receiving a scratch under the chin very gratefully. As Augustin approached, the man looked up.

“Good evening.” he said.

Augustin walked slowly towards Milou, who did not move. The man continued to pet him beneath the chin.

“Good evening, sir. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m very well, thank you. This is a very friendly dog you have here. I should thank him better sometime in the future. He was able to answer all of my questions.”

“Oh. Well, he is a very loyal fellow of mine,” Augustin agreed, “Although what he may have told you, I can’t imagine! He doesn’t tend to be very talkative” Augustin began to laugh, but it failed as he noticed both the strange man and Milou staring pointedly at him.

“I see what you mean.” the man said to Milou, who barked in response, “Milou here has just been giving me the details of some aspects of your life, Augustin.” The man paused, and somehow, Augustin knew he was waiting to be asked the obvious question.

“I shall have to take him aside then, and impress upon him the seriousness of not imparting private details to strange men he meets in underground tube stations.” he said instead, defiantly.

The man roared with laughter.

“Quite right, my boy! Quiet right! It goes without saying that there are many people, many powers, in this world to whom such openness would be a catastrophic mistake. Fortunately for you, I am not one of those people.”

In the pale light, Augustin could see him beaming at him. There was something about his cerulean blue eyes. In only his left could he see a sparkling twinkle, the other was passive, and staring.

“Who are you?” Augustin asked him curiously.

“My name, such as it is, is not important. You may call me Mister Am.”

“Oh. Then good evening Mister Am. My name, as you seem to already know, is Augustin. Augustin van Kuifja.”

“My boy, the pleasure is all mine.”

Milou whimpered suddenly, the ground around them shook. Overhead on the streets, the bombs were still falling.

“Why are you down here?” Augustin asked, gesturing down either side of the train tunnel with a tone that made it clear that he considered the middle of the London Underground to be the last place that a man, in his finest livery, should be found.

“If you had arrived sooner, and given me more time, then I could explain to you fully.” Mister Am replied nonchalantly, “Unfortunately, it seems, that time is against us, and as I am sure you are no doubt also aware, within a state of flux.”

The phrase rang familiar to Augustin, but he could not place it, he began to open his mouth to ask for further explanation, but he was cut off.

“It means anything could happen. What I need to happen, is something to do with that up there” He swung his cane upwards in a dramatic sweep gesturing at the roof of the tunnel. Away in the distance, another bomb fell.

“If you choose to part take in this… adventure which I am arranging, and your dog informs me that you certainly will, then you may meet me in the British Museum in about an hour. You’ll need to sneak around the left-hand side: There is a window in a high place which is always left open, I want you to enter through this, hide, and wait for me.”

“Break… in?” Augustin asked sceptically.

“Everything is above board. I just need to test your mettle” Mister Am said, smiling reassuringly. He produced, from one of his inside pockets, an identity card. He showed it to Augustin. Mister Am kept his gaze upon Augstin, his right eye making Augustin feel uncomfortable indeed.

The identity card marked Mister Am as a board member and financial backer of the British Museum.

“I never said “break in”, dear boy. I said “enter”. If you can’t even break in to the British Museum, you’ll be no good attempting to break into the Reich.”

“Into the Reich?!” gasped Augustin, adding as an afterthought “And you just said “break in”. Twice”.

“It’s a figure of speech, dear boy. Now please. Time is of the essence. Do tell him.” The last bit was addressed at Milou, who looked determinedly scowled at Augustin, who was taken back by the seriousness written into every aspect of his small white doggy face. He bent down to pick him up.

“Oh all right.” he finally said reluctantly, “I suppose there’s no harm - up unto the point where we get caught and thrown into Dartmoor.”

There was no reply. Looking up, Augustin was surprised to find he was now completely alone. Augustin stopped for a moment, looking into the gloom thinking he would, if he only peered hard enough, he would see the outline of this strange old man in his dinner suit, slinking through the tunnels.

He shrugged, and turned around to walk back up the tunnel.

Presently, he re-emerged at Hobb’s Lane station. It was darker and quieter now, more people had, in spite of the bombs falling over head, drifted into a nightly slumber.

Chang was still asleep, his arm outstretched, folded around nothing. He looked so peaceful, that it pained Augustin to wake him.

“Chang, wake up. We have to go.”

Chang opened his eyes and stretched his arms, yawning a great long yawn.

“Hmm? Is it over? Can we go home now?” he asked dazed. Another bomb fell, dislodging dust from the ceiling.

“I’m sorry Chang,” Augustin said reluctantly, “We can’t go home yet - we need to go to the British Museum. I’ll explain on the way. Come!”

Leading a confused Chang by the hand, Augustin crept around the bodies huddled together across the station and across the tracks, making care not to disturb them. They took the long flight of steps up and out into the London night.

Out on the streets, the noise was deafening. The streets were dark, lit occasionally by the beams of light that combed the sky searching for the weapons and aircraft that had come from across the channel.

From all across London, the report of the guns bellowed, echoing through the empty streets. And the bombs fell, rendering the air above, landing upon the homes, and businesses of the millions of Londoners who hid from them below. Fires raged across the city, product of wave upon wave of incendiary devices.

They crept through the streets, taking care to avoid the Blitz scouts and police that roamed the streets: the last thing they needed was to be detained as German spies.

And then was that little boy in the gas mask who had approached them, and, rather bizarrely asked if either Chang or Augustin happened to be his mother. Naturally they decline, suggesting that he seek shelter.

The bombs fell.


The British Museum was in dark, naturally. This was, after all, a blackout. Darting off the main road and hid in a space between the museum grounds and the surrounding environs.

“What do we do now?” Chang asked. Augustin had explained the situation to him, and, although he was reluctant to be getting involved with strange men met in dark places, but if he had to, he would trust Augustin to the ends of the earth.

“Do as my god-father would always advise,” Augustin replied, “And use our little grey cells.”

*
Chang climbed through the open window first, helping Augustin through after him.

“Well, it worked,” he said.

Augustin nodded.

“For a moment there, I thought it wouldn’t.” Augustin responded, panting, “Thanks. If you hadn’t displayed such quick thinking there - I’m surprised I managed to get caught in such a sticky wicket, eh?”

Milou barked appreciatively, jumping from the small of Augustin’s back.

“Don’t worry,” Chang replied, rubbing his friend’s arm, “I’m just lucky I decided to take the coat-hanger after all. So where are we now?”

“Inside the British Museum, I’d assume”

“Yes, I know that. But where in the British Museum, and where do we meet your friend?” Chang produced the torch which he had salvaged earlier, and after fumbling with it momentarily, turned it on.

The corpse, standing in front of them was staring straight back. Chang dropped the torch in shock. Milou yelped and hid. Augustin laughed, picking the torch off the ground. He shone it downwards towards the plaque that shone gold in response to the light.

“Hamunaptra Expedition. 1926. It’s only a mummy”

“Yes - but what are they doing keeping something like that somewhere where people can just stumble upon it.”

“I suppose when they arranged the exhibits, they never expected guests to climb through the window. In the dark.” Augustin said pointedly.

“That is a very good point.” Chang conceded, “So where do we go now?”

Augustin swung the torch around the room, revealing exhibit upon exhibit. On the far side of the room, he could see two doors, one was a ajar. They agreed that it would be a good place to start, and they made their way across, passing through the striding legs of the man from Colbenz.

They passed through the door, and emerged in a smaller corridor. At the far end was another door. On the right hand of the corridor was a door. Passing down the corridor, they decided to enter it.

It was, compared to the room from whence they had just came, small, being a library with bookcases. A long oaken table stretched down the middle and upon each wall were a variety of pictures, in all shapes and sizes. Switching the lights on, Chang approached the right hand wall and began to examine the pictures there.

Augustin turned off the torch and looked around the room.

“This seems like a good place to have a meeting.” he said, “I suppose this is were Mister Am expects us to meet him”

He examined a collection of the larger paintings on the wall. Each had captions beneath them listing their subjects name, and a set of dates.

The most recent three pictures were of a small thin man with a lizard-like brow (Professor James Moriarty: 1894 - 1898) a portly, balding man with a large nose and keen intelligent eyes (Sir Mycroft Holmes: 1898 - 1928) and, most recently, a bald podgy man with glasses (Sir Henry Merrivale: 1928 -).

Augustin examined them with anthological curiosity. The names seemed familiar to him somehow. His desire to keep a aid-de-memoir overcame him, and he cursed himself for not having his camera - as ungainly and unwieldy as it was, with him.

“Augustin.” called Cheng, “Come and have a look at this.”

***CONTENT REMOVED PENDING REWRITING ON GROUNDS OF EXCESSES OF INCOHERENT CRAP***

Straining his ears, Augustin could tell that none of the voices belonged to the mysterious figure known as Mister Am, and a cursory glance at Milou, whose hearing was naturally, more acute. Without their rendezvous with Mister Am, Augustin was uncertain about allowing themselves to be found, walking through the secret wing of the museum at night. Realising that his story could sound absurd - even if Mister Am was a backer of the museum - he reasoned they would have to find a place in which to hide.

They had two choices, they could backtrack along the corridor. With relatively little cover in the large meeting room, and deciding that the approaching figures were more likely to require the use of the meeting room, decided to chance the door down the end of the corridor.

“…Damn”

They didn’t have time to question the many possible reasons there might be a sitting room deep inside the British Museum, least of all why someone would leave a weathered and worn double bed in the centre of the room.

But the footsteps were still approaching.

“Hide!” Augustin hissed, grabbing Milou and darting, naturally, under the bed. From this vantage point, they watched the door open precipitately. Three people entered, and if their footwear was anything to go by, a man and a woman. For a few moments, they stood expectantly in silence.

“It can’t take that long,” the woman said, “What’s keeping him?”

For a moment, Augustin’s heart leapt, thinking that she was referring either to him, or to the mysterious Mister Am. But the thought was passing; it seemed somehow more sensible to wait under the bed for the moment. Chang naturally followed his lead, taking Milou and pressing his hand over the little dog’s mouth in an attempt to cloak his loud, doggy panting.

Augustin edged closer to the end of the bed, covertly peeking out from behind the long flowing bed sheets.

With her smart casual dress and long flowing red scarf, he recognised the woman instantly. The only notable difference was her hair, which was drawn into two tight buns. She was the lady from the paintings; the lady who had entered the house of Alwin Ransom earlier that day. Miss Mina Murray.

Then, for certain, the individual standing behind her in the green trench coat and hat could only be the other fellow in the paintings: Allan Quatermain Jr, son of the great colonialist.

Presently, the door opened again, and a bland bowler-hatted man in a suit entered. He was holding the three identical red books, marked out with stars, that Augustin had since been examining in the meeting hall. Behind him, to Augustin’s surprise, was Dr Alwin Ransom.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” said the small man holding the books. His voice was dry and without emotion, varying little in pitch or tone.

“I didn’t leave them where I thought I had.”

“That’s quite all right Mr Miles,” Mina Murray said graciously, “Please, continue.”

“Er…well yes.” Mr Henry Miles responded, “As you can see, our agents have, over the course of the day, retrieved from various elements of the criminal classes. Furthermore, we have compiled various eyewitness accounts of an unknown flying object that departed across the North Sea: given it‘s clear course directly for Berlin, we believe there is now certainly no doubt who stole it.”

Miss Murray pursed her lips. For a moment, it looked as though she would speak, to interrupt Mr Miles, but presently it became clear that she wouldn’t. The look on her face, however, did not fade.

“Dr Ransom has examined each book and concluded that they are, in fact, forgeries, based on the few copied pages British Military Intelligence has deigned to publicly release.”

At this juncture, Mr Miles handed a book to each of them, only Dr Ransom declined, evidently having the previous familiarity with the text in question.

“Okay,” began Allan, “I can just about see some differences between the copies, but I still don’t understand. We’ve established that, until our philologist friend here cropped up, no one has been able to read them. Why the devil would Germany undertake an infiltration during wartime and only retrieve this book?”

“Honestly?” sighed Mr Miles, “Honestly, we don’t know. And frankly, that’s worrying a lot of people around here. There are many dangerous books in this world, and books that, in the wrong hands, contain information that threatens the crown.”

“You don’t have to remind us.”

“I have been in contact with my superiors, and M agrees that we have not fully established the nature of this book, it must be retrieved immediately from Berlin, and to that end, we will be dispatching you - along with Dr Ransom - to retrieve the book forthwith.”

There was a pause, and suddenly the bed above them sagged, two very distressed people had just sat down.

“Now, steady on,” Allan said agape, “One does not simply walk into Germany.”

“You’re right. One doesn’t. Nonetheless, you will be going there and back again. And indeed, in awareness of this paradigm, we have taken the liberty of preparing a suitable method of transportation for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You’re sitting on it.”

Again, there was another pause. Even Milou was silent.

Augustin looked at Dr Ransom, who seemed calm and composed, save for the gnawing worrying that could be detected in his eyes. He did not seem surprised, and quickly, Augustin surmised that he must have already been aware of the direction this conversation would take. Surely he must? He would have had to give his prior consent, and had agreed to become part of this ensemble. Evidently, his speciality with the book in question would make him the only candidate capable of confirming beyond doubt the authenticity of the book when, and if, it was found.

“Right. I think this has gone far enough. You have put us into absurd and ridiculous situations before, and often without fully briefing us. But to send us on what must surely be a wild goose chase into the heart of Nazi Germany over a book that, so far, is completely incomprehensible to all but our colleague here.”

“And to claim that our method of transportation is to be… a bed… this is a pretty rum joke, even for Merrivale.”

“Sir,” snapped Mr Miles, “And Madame, this is no joke. Now, if you would care to calm down for a moment, I will be able to explain.
“Did either of you read in the press an account of a Nazi scouting raid earlier this year?”

“Which one?”

“Heh. Quite so. There was a curious incident in Dorset. According to the locals, their village had come under occupation by Germans who apparently intended to create havoc with the nation’s communications system. We also believe they may have been intending to go “underground”.
“According to local eyewitness, this preliminary scouting party failed when, rather oddly, their force was repelled by the exhibits from the local museum.
“We initially dismissed accounts describing various military uniforms from Britain through the ages, as products of an overactive imagination, or possibly some home-brewed alcoholic beverage.”

“I say,” interrupted Mina Murray in surprise, “I take it there is truth to this then?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. However our investigations led us to the home of an elderly spinster, who had recently taken in three evacuees from London’s South End. Further investigation yielded to us, this”

Watching from under the bed, Augustin and Chang could see him gesture towards the bed. They looked at each other: Maybe the bed hadn’t been the perfect place to hide.

Mr Miles funnelled Dr Ransom towards the bed.

“I suggest you make yourselves comfortable.”

“This bed?” Allan had a tone of marked scepticism in his voice.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, eh chaps?”

“Now hold on!”

“YOUR MISSION,” Mr Miles began, drowning out Allan’s objections, “according to Sir Henry is very simple: Germany is largely fortified from the coast against our raids. Similar fortifications are being built at Normandy, yet for the time being this remains the passage ideally suited for your task ahead: You are to meet up with members of the French Resistance in Nouvion . From there, you are to, by any means possible or necessary, to travel into the Berlin Metropolis, find this book, and retrieve it.”

“I’m speaking to you-” Allan said, haughtily, “Now if you’ll stop to listen for a minute -”

“It shouldn’t take you more than a week.”

“Hang on a moment,” added Mina, “A week? And you haven’t even told us how to drive this thing!”

“Oh, it’s quite simple.”

Augustin and Chang were not aware of what happened next, they only heard Henry Miles command the bed to take it’s occupants to Nouvion, in France. An orange glow that twinkled like tiny inherent flames flickered around them, and they became aware of the feeling of rushing window between the floor and their bellies, which whipped the room into a small storm, scattering papers and nearly causing Mr Miles to lose his hat. Allan was bellowing above the noise.

“NO! WAIT! STOP! I’M TRYING TO ASK YOU A GODDAM QUESTION!”

To break their cover was a decision they both came to at the same time, but everything before their eyes receded and vanished in a blaze of orange stars.

Above Milou’s panicked barks, Augustin could hear Henry Miles from somewhere a long way off, cursing. Apparently he had not actually expected it to work, and was as surprised as everyone else.

The next thing they knew, they were in the British Museum no more.

Spoiler: Chapter: the Third - At the Sign of Le Cafe Rene

Psyche! Nothing here yet. :P

Igno's Notes:

1.) You really begin to appreciate how central the visuals are to the whole make up of the crossover world when you try to do something in text: I deleted a couple of references to things such as Brideshead Revisited, or Doctor Who mainly because they just felt superfluous in text, whereas they would have been great little easter eggs in graphics. :dead:

2.) Can anyone else tell I'm getting gradually more bored tas it progresses or is it just writer's privillage of being able to know how you were feeling when writing? I just wanted to get it over with: Like I said before, I'm going to rewrite swarthes of the above - I just want something to submit before next week.

3.) Are the characters identified fairly? I have a lot of titles, and due to the period, it seems more appropriate to refer to certain characters thusly. eg. Dr Jones, Dr Ransom, Mr Miles etc.

4.) Is there really no way to indent! This blank formatted text is irritating me. :barf:

5.) Is the cod German consistant? :biggrin: