First contact, p.21
First Contact, page 21
Sean turned away. Hakon was watching him, not the screen. She waved her hand, then pointed again at the screen. It now showed a photograph of the cloaked man running down a corridor. His hood had fallen from his head. He was bald and clean-shaven. On his cheeks were small red scars. No, not scars. Tattoos, perhaps. But as Sean leaned forward to get a closer look, the picture changed. The killer ran down a different corridor, one that was wider and guarded. The blades came up, slashing the back of a figure in a grey and red uniform.
The image changed again, and this time showed space, and a red cigar-shaped ship being pursued by four discus ships. Suddenly, the cylinder-shaped ship vanished. One last time, the image changed, this time returning to that first image of the same cylinder-shaped ship battling Hakon’s craft in the air above Ireland.
“I think I understand,” Sean said.
Hakon waved her hand. The image flipped back to the killer running down the corridor. She pointed at the magazine in Sean’s hand.
“Yes,” Sean said. “Our Ripper is your killer.” He pointed at the magazine, then at the screen.
Hakon moved her hand again, this time returning to the scene in the piazza where the mothers and their children were enjoying the day. Hakon pointed at the girl who had run, and so had escaped the Ripper. Then she pointed at herself.
“That’s you?” Sean asked. “Well, yes, now I really do understand.”
Chapter 26 - All the Time in All the Worlds
Sean sipped the perfectly chilled water, using the break in their afternoon’s peculiar labour to ponder the moving photographs which had begun their day.
The Ripper had attacked Hakon when she was a girl, and that must be around twenty years ago, give or take. What had the Ripper been doing in the years since? Why had he come to Earth? Hakon, and Davir, had come here in pursuit, so why had it taken them so long? Was the answer that the Ripper had only recently arrived on Earth? Was it because he, and Hakon and Davir, had travelled from so far away? He’d been shown another set of moving pictures that began with a statue, a street, a city that encompassed a continent, a planet, a star, and then a swirling mass of light from millions of stars, before settling on a dot, a star, a planet, Earth. From that, he gathered Hakon and Davir came from much, much further away than the moon.
So far, on Earth, there’d been five murders ascribed to the Ripper. The first had been on 31st August. The most recent had been on 9th November, only a few days before Sean had left London. If this grey-skinned monster was the Ripper, where had he been lurking in the intervening years?
They called him Jack the Ripper because the newspapers had received a letter signed with that name. Some had questioned the authenticity of the letter. Sean was now inclined to do the same. How would a grey-skinned star-sailor buy ink, stamp, and envelope? If the letter was a fraud, how much of the other evidence was worthless? Clearly, the police were chasing liars and ghosts, which was ironic because every penny dreadful, including Sir John’s, was full of tales of this killer being some kind of demonic ghoul.
Hakon was here for revenge, and he assumed a similar motive for Davir. But why was it just these two? Why not an army of grey-skinned constables and a fleet of starships? For that matter, was it just these two? Before he could add more unanswerable questions to the increasingly long list, Hakon tapped his wrist.
“Time to begin again, is it?” Sean asked. “Where were we up to?”
After Hakon had been satisfied that Sean understood Jack the Ripper to be an otherworld killer, and from a planet an incomprehensible distance away, she’d made the viewing-window display the magazine’s page with his ghost story. He’d read the tale aloud. Twice. And then she’d had him read each word one at a time as they were highlighted on the large screen. Now, she had the screen display the first page of the magazine. So, from the beginning, he read aloud.
“Tell me it’s bedtime,” Sean said, when Davir finally returned.
Davir gave a polite nod before wiggling the fingers of his right hand. On one half of the viewing-screen appeared a photograph of the hooded Ripper fleeing down a long corridor. The other half showed the vampiric caricature that adorned the magazine’s front page.
“Sure, our Ripper came from your world,” Sean said.
“Ripper,” Hakon said, then spoke a few sentences in her own tongue.
“Ripper,” Davir said. With a wave of his hands, the caricature was replaced with an image of Earth. The planet grew until only Britain was in frame. Britain grew until it was just smoke-soaked London. That became a suburb Sean knew too well. Despite the peculiarity of seeing Whitechapel from above, he recognised the cracked water tower belonging to the tannery where he’d once worked. Davir pointed at the small image of the fleeing Ripper. A blue oval circled the murderer. A much larger blue oval appeared over Whitechapel.
“You think the Ripper is hiding in Whitechapel?” Sean said. “But I’d wager you don’t know exactly where.”
Hakon confirmed this by pointing at the killer, then at the oval atop Whitechapel.
“No, I get it,” Sean said. “And I’d win the bet if I guessed what you want from me.”
Chapter 27 - The Sandpit
Sean shielded his eyes from the swirling sand as he watched the starship rise back into the sky. This natural sandpit was somewhere southwest of London, and near a railway station, but that was as much as he’d been able to glean from the top-down view from space. The sand settled, and he brushed himself down. Surrounding the acre of sand were trees, and among them, he caught the hint of smoke. He should make himself scarce before someone came to investigate.
He adjusted his hat, then his collar and his cuffs. The suit, overcoat, hat, and boots were all new. They looked similar to the clothes he’d been wearing during his attempted rescue of Hakon, but every seam was neater, every crease sharper. The fabric was somehow both lighter and warmer, and yet more comfortable.
The gold-framed spectacles were new, too, though they weren’t to correct his vision. Simultaneously, he could see through the lenses while they also showed a blue arrow indicating the direction he should walk. On the side of the frames was a hidden button. Pressing it would allow him to see at night, but only in ghostly shades of green. In his pocket was a gun. While it appeared too small to do much damage, they had shown him a moving picture of its bullet melting a hole through steel. On his wrist, and hidden beneath the jacket’s sleeve, was a bracelet that was linked, somehow, to the spectacles. The explanation of its purpose, and usage, had ended in confused frustration. So had Davir’s explanation of his mission. He was to find the Ripper. The arrow displayed on the eyeglasses would show him the way. It was unclear what he was to do next. Perhaps the answer lay in the gun, but those two had travelled a very long way to hand their revenge to someone else.
“I see you met the towani,” a woman said.
Sean turned around. From the other side of the clearing approached a willowy black woman in a sapphire-blue dress. Her shoes were hidden by the dress’s hem, but by some trick of the night, she appeared to float above the soft sand. A fortune in gems shimmered at her neck, ears, and wrists, and so Sean switched to the near-English accent he used around Sir John’s friends.
“Good evening, m’lady.”
“I saw their ship. I saw you disembark. But you are human,” she said. “I see they gave you some of their technology. Why? What did they want with you?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t follow, but I must make the first train.” Sean turned his back.
Three giant bees, black and yellow, each the size of his fist, zipped by his head, hovering perilously close to his face. No, they weren’t bees, but wingless, headless domes, hovering mysteriously, and threateningly, close. From one, a light as bright as midday shone in his eyes. Reflexively, he ducked, shielding his face. The light dimmed to a midsummer glare.
“My name is Celeste,” the woman said. “What is yours?”
“Sean O’Malley,” he said as he straightened and turned to face her. “Who are you?”
“As I said, I am Celeste.”
“Then I’ll ask what are you? You don’t look like them, but I sense you’re not at all like me. Are you from another world?”
“I am from the centre of the universe,” Celeste said. “But most recently, I was in Timbuktu. I came here without changing when I learned the towani had set foot on this world.”
“The who?” he asked.
“The grey-skinned people aboard that ship. They are called towani from the planet Towan III. Did you not learn that?”
“There was a wee bit of a language barrier,” Sean said. “They picked me out of the water near Cork a few days ago. I don’t know precisely how long I spent with them, but it can’t be more than a week.”
“It was ten days,” she said. “I detected the presence of the towani craft above Ireland, but others noticed it, too. The strange lights and explosive sounds so close to shore were avidly discussed in the newspapers. I keep beings like the towani away from this planet. I monitor all spacecraft that approach this system, and warn off any that approach too close. Few dare land. Yet there has been much strange traffic lately. When that ship came here, to Horsell Common, it was you, a human, who stepped off. Why did they take you aboard if it was only to let you return?”
“Have you heard of Jack the Ripper?” Sean asked. “He’s a grey-skin. Towani, is that what you called them?”
“That would be improbable,” she said.
“They showed me evidence,” Sean said. “Moving pictures. One of the towani is the surviving victim of an attack by this otherworldly Ripper when she was but a girl.”
“I didn’t say it was impossible, but that it was improbable,” Celeste said. “I have had little interest in this part of the planet for fifty years, but if a killer had recently appeared, I would know. The only alternative explanation is that they have developed a means of travel that circumvents my sensors. Of course, it would be in their interest to do so. Yes, improbable, but not impossible.”
“If you say so, because I didn’t follow one word in ten of what you just said,” Sean said.
“You will, and you will need to,” Celeste said. “What are your intentions?”
“I’m going to catch the first train to London,” he said.
“Why?”
“They want me to find the Ripper,” Sean said.
“Are you a soldier? A constable? A judge?”
“I’m a man with a conscience,” Sean said. “I saw what that killer has done in Whitechapel. I saw the photographs from the world of the grey-folk.”
“So they sent you questing to kill a killer,” Celeste said.
“The lack of a common tongue made conversation with them almost as opaque as it is with you, but they gave me a gun, and these eyeglasses that show me where he is. I’m going to find this Ripper, and I’ll stop him.”
“You intend to kill him?” she asked.
“I’ll take him alive if I can,” Sean said. “Wherever he’s from, this man must hang.”
The light from the wingless bees dimmed, and the three objects flew back to the woman. As they circled her head, they emitted a faint glow that made her shimmer.
“If he were taken alive,” she said, “and taken to court, no one would believe your tale that he was from another world. They would think he came from Hell, another witch-hunt would begin, and the age of science would be replaced with another era of darkness.”
“I can’t walk away,” Sean said. “Five people are dead since August, and I don’t know how many more bodies there are yet to be uncovered.”
“I remember Ireland as a land of great bards and questing heroes,” she said. “Here is your quest, Mr Sean O’Malley. I will lead you to this monster. You will destroy it. Between now and then, decide what you wish to gain from this encounter.” She held out her hand. One of the bees settled on her palm. “When you reach Whitechapel, look for this.”
“Your bee?”
“A bee? I suppose it does resemble one. Yes, look for my bee. Afterwards, we shall talk.” The lights went out.
By the time his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she had vanished, and without having made a sound. Belatedly, he remembered the button at the side of the spectacles. He pressed it. The world turned a spectral green and white, but there was no sign of her, nor even any footprints in the sand.
He took out the pistol Davir had given him. He aimed at a tree and pressed the button where the hammer should be. A bolt sped from the weapon, ripped a hole through the tree’s trunk, and tore the bark from the tree behind. Smoke began rising from the second tree, while the first creaked, then toppled.
Before anyone came to investigate, he followed the arrow towards the railway station.
Chapter 28 - A Gentleman Joins the Quest
The long wait for the train at Woking Station gave Sean far too much time to think about Hakon, Davir, their ship, their other planet, the Ripper, and now Celeste. He accepted it all as truth because it had come a small piece at a time, but who else would believe his story? If he went to the constabulary without the killer, or his corpse, they would think him mad. If he were to bring them the body, what would they think then? Sir John’s magazine had printed a story claiming the Ripper was a vampiric killer who’d sold his soul to the devil during the Crusades. This might be an age of science, but people would be more inclined to believe that than a tale of another world.
Scotland Yard couldn’t help, nor could anyone else. The residents of Whitechapel were his people. If he’d not had the luck of meeting Sir John, they’d still be his neighbours. This quest, as Celeste had called it, was his responsibility, and his alone.
As the train pulled into Waterloo Station, the stench confounded him. The musty winter Surrey woodland had been a shock after the nearly odourless airship, but forgotten amid the confusion of meeting Celeste. During the train journey, the coal smoke from the locomotive’s chimney, and the tobacco smoke from his fellow passengers, had deadened his nose to all other odours. Waterloo stank.
It was impossible not to contrast the fusty tableaux of billowing locomotives and steaming commuters with the shining city of Hakon’s childhood. Where those streets had gleamed, this platform groaned beneath a carpet of sooty dirt. Where those outdoor diners were carefree, every traveller here wore the same mask of anxious uncertainty. Hakon’s people might not have worn much, but their clothes were both colourful and unique. Her people had been a mix of men, women, children, and those odd reptile-headed musicians. Here, almost everyone he saw was male, and aside from a minor variation in moustache or beard, collar or tie, they were dressed uniformly in a costume of drab conformity.
“By Jove! O’Malley? O’Malley! By gad, it is you! I thought you were feeding the crabs.”
Sean slowly turned around. “Sir John, good morning,” he said, while inwardly thinking why you? Why here?
“Everyone said you were dead,” Sir John said. Though he only stood five-six, his top hat gave him another foot. His right hand leaned on a cane, his left was wedged deep in the pocket of his fur-trimmed overcoat, hiding the withered hand which had prevented him continuing his family’s martial tradition.
“Well, I’m not dead yet, sir,” Sean said.
“The navy reported smoke and an explosion, and found your boat floating empty,” Sir John said. “I’ve a wager that a French submersible detonated as it was attempting to sneak into the harbour. Will you win me that bet?”
“It wasn’t a submersible, no sir,” Sean said. “It’s a long story.”
“Capital,” Sir John said. “I’m done here. It’s a new printing press. I got a telegram saying I had to sign for it here or it wouldn’t leave the platform. Can you imagine the gall of a manufacturer making such a demand? But what can you expect from a damned Prussian? I guarantee he’ll get no more business in the empire.” He turned to the porters. “You have the address. Get it there within the hour, and I’ll double what I said. If it takes you more than two, you’ll only get half, so I’d snap to it if you place any value on your time. Come, O’Malley.”
“Yes, sir,” Sean said, falling into step next to his employer while desperately trying to decide on the best lie. Fortunately, Sir John had concerns of his own.
“You’re supposed to be on a ship to New York,” Sir John said. “My photographer is still in Cork.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Sean said. “But I’ve got a line on the Ripper.”
“A what?” Sir John asked, stopping, and causing a near pile-up on the crowded concourse. He waved his cane at the unfortunate travellers who had strayed too close. “Be off with you!” He turned to Sean. “The Ripper?”
“Yes, sir,” Sean said. “Perhaps this isn’t the place to discuss it.”
“Indeed, it is not.”
“Home, Parker,” Sir John said as he boarded the carriage waiting outside.
The young under-butler, who doubled as a groom when Sir John was in London, gave Sean an I-thought-you-were-dead frown, but leaped aboard without speaking.
“You say you know where the Ripper is lurking?” Sir John said.
“I believe so, sir,” Sean said. An arrow had appeared on his spectacles, pointing rightward. As the horses barged through the bustling streets, the arrow began flashing with increasing urgency. Sean took them off.
“There was a hot air balloon,” Sean said. “It crashed in the sea. I attempted a rescue, but had to be rescued in turn. The Ripper’s not a local, sir.”
“Ah, as I suspected, he’s an Irishman,” Sir John said.
“No, sir, he’s from a lot further away than that.”
“An oriental?”
“I think I can find him, sir,” Sean said, deciding it was better to avoid specifics.
“Yes, we’ll find him,” Sir John said. “Just imagine the publicity!” He drifted off, as he often did, daydreaming of glories yet to be won, leaving Sean time to better fabricate a lie.
