H. G. Wells, Secret Agent Read online

  H. G. Wells

  Secret Agent

  Alex Shvartsman

  PUBLISHED BY:

  UFO Publishing

  1685 E 15th St.

  Brooklyn, NY 11229

  Copyright © 2015 by Alex Shvartsman

  Cover design: Jay O’Connell

  Print ISBN: 978-1514638484

  All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  H. G. Wells Secret Agent

  Also Available By Alex Shvartsman

  THE CASE OF THE WEATHER MACHINE

  THE CASE OF THE DIRIGIBLE HEIST

  THE CASE OF THE YELLOW SUBMARINE

  Afterword

  Annotations

  A Sample from EXPLAINING CTHULHU TO GRANDMA

  About the Author

  Also Available By Alex Shvartsman

  EXPLAINING CTHULHU TO GRANDMA AND OTHER STORIES

  As Anthology Editor

  UNIDENTIFIED FUNNY OBJECTS

  UNIDENTIFIED FUNNY OBJECTS 2

  UNIDENTIFIED FUNNY OBJECTS 3

  COFFEE: 14 CAFFEINATED TALES OF THE FANTASTIC

  DARK EXPANSE: SURVIVING THE COLLAPSE

  THE CASE OF THE WEATHER MACHINE

  H. G. Wells felt like he was on top of the world as he strolled through the Armorial Hall of the Winter Palace. A who’s who of the St. Petersburg’s elite mingled under the enormous chandeliers. Conversation, laughter, and music blended into a pleasant cacophony. Gentle sunlight bathed the hall through windows atop the balcony and reflected off the gilded columns. All of it created a storybook atmosphere the likes of which the young Englishman could only dream of until a few months ago.

  Wells held his head high as he made his solitary way across the hall. He didn’t look back, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed how the conversation ceased briefly as he passed by, and how these exemplars of Russian high society stole glances at him, sensing a whiff of mystery and danger. He imagined how all these dolled-up women desired him and the men pictured themselves in his place. He was enjoying himself beyond measure, and almost regretted it when a servant came to whisk him away to the most important meeting of his fledgling career.

  He followed his guide out of the hall, the sounds of the party becoming gradually muted as they made their way through a patchwork of smaller rooms and staircases until they reached a massive cherry wood door. The servant nodded for Wells to go in and positioned himself to wait, a few steps down the corridor.

  Wells touched a tiny marble inserted into his ear which allowed him to understand Russian and translated his own speech. The Ministry had appropriated a handful of such devices from a time traveler they had recently captured. Improbably, the woman from the future had called this gadget “the Babel fish,” despite its apparent lack of any ichthyic qualities. Wells inhaled deeply and opened the door.

  He entered a spacious study. One wall was lined with bookcases filled with weighty tomes. Directly ahead of him a window took up most of the wall, offering a magnificent view of the Neva River. And against the third wall sat a massive mahogany writing desk inlaid with intricate carvings: a desk fit for a monarch to run the affairs of Europe’s largest empire.

  The man sitting behind the desk, however, was not the tsar. He looked to be in his sixties, his gray hair cut short, contrasting with a thick, full mustache and beard. “So you’re the one MacLean sent,” said the man after studying his visitor for a few moments.

  “Herbert George Wells, agent of the Ministry of Preternatural Affairs, at your service.” Wells wasn’t entirely certain if he should salute or bow, so he nodded to the older man and held himself at attention.

  “And why is it you are here, Mr. Wells?”

  “An audience,” said Wells. “I was sent to meet with His Imperial Majesty—”

  “No,” the man behind the desk interrupted.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “No, you don’t get to meet with the tsar.” The older man leaned forward. “The political star of your boss, Ms. MacLean, must truly be at its zenith, risen high since I met her in London a few years ago. She dispatches emissaries to the courts of Europe and issues orders to those clearly above her station. But she has overreached, demanding a royal audience for a British spy. My name is Nikolai Bunge, Chairman of the Cabinet of Ministers. Your agency’s clout buys you a few minutes of my very reluctant attention, and nothing more. So I say again, why are you here?”

  “The Ministry represents more than the interests of the British Empire,” said Wells. “Modern science has proven that there’s far more to the world than was previously dreamt of in our philosophy. There are terrible threats just around the corner, nesting among the stars, in other realities, and in the vastness of time. Threats we’re ill-prepared to face. Queen Victoria created the Ministry to arm the human race against the future. The twentieth century is when everything changes. And we’ve got to be ready.”

  Bunge frowned and made a show of opening and checking his gold pocket watch. “I gave you five minutes and you already squandered some of it on a speech that served no purpose other than to make yourself feel important. Kindly get to the point, I have matters of state to attend to.”

  “The weather machine,” Wells blurted out. “We know that Russia has a secret weapon capable of altering weather patterns. This technology is of considerable interest to the Ministry, and I’ve been authorized to negotiate for the opportunity to examine it.”

  Bunge laughed. “A weather machine? We have no need of such things. Our cold winters are weapon enough. Just ask Napoleon, or any other invader who had suffered the misfortune of their armies being caught on Russian soil after the snow begins to fall.”

  “Are you certain? Ms. MacLean had it on very good authority—”

  Bunge waved him off. “I have no interest in that upstart’s delusions. Who does she think she is, sending a man-child, barely old enough to shave, and expecting the attention of the monarch himself? No, you’ve wasted enough of my time with your tales of fantastical machines and otherworldly foes. Go back to your master and tell her to keep her odd affairs out of Russia.”

  Back in the Armorial Hall, Wells sought to soothe his bruised ego with strong spirits. He approached one of several bars set up for the guests. He waited for the bartender to finish serving a glass of sparkling wine to an attractive blonde.

  “Have you got any gin?” Wells asked.

  The bartender shook his head. “Vodka,” he said curtly. “Seven different flavors.”

  “Obviously,” said Wells. “Very well. I’ll have a vodka mixed with a shot of the Kina Lillet you’ve got over there.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the blonde watching him with interest. Perhaps this day wasn’t entirely ruined yet. “This mixture is my own invention; I’m going to patent it when I think of a good name. Make sure it’s stirred, not shaken. Wouldn’t want the drink to be weak.”

  He turned toward the blonde and flashed his best smile. “My name is Wells. Herbert Wells.”

  The blonde giggled and walked off, carrying her glass. Wells sighed as he watched her go. Things really weren’t working out in the way he had imagined. He waited for his drink, composing excuses for Ministra MacLean in his head. His first mission for the Ministry was shaping up to be his last.

  Wells took a swig of the proffered cocktail and coughed violently. The drink turned out to be far more potent than he had anticipated.

  “You should have added lemon to that. I take a slice whenever I have to drink Cognac. Makes the vile stuff taste almost tolerable.”

  Wells looked up at the tall, immaculately groomed young m
an advising him, and swallowed the biting remark he was about to make. Standing in front of him was the heir to the Russian throne.

  “Prince Nicholas!” Wells put his drink on the counter. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m—”

  “Herbert Wells. Yes, I overheard.” The Russian royal smiled into his beard. “Just as I overheard your conversation with Bunge. I must apologize for him; the man is a brilliant economist and a competent bureaucrat, but he is certainly no diplomat.”

  The prince must have seen the confusion on Wells’s face, so he clarified: “Bunge’s office has very thin walls. One learns such things growing up in this place. Come, we have much to discuss.”

  For the second time in the span of an hour, Wells was led to the private rooms of the Winter Palace.

  The Russian tsarevich was eighteen, only a couple of years younger than Wells. Surely someone like him would be more receptive to the modern realities in which the Ministry dealt than a stuffy old minister who reminded Wells of his school’s headmaster back in England.

  “I’ve been following the news of Ministry exploits with a great deal of interest,” said Prince Nicholas. “Special agents armed with a plethora of futuristic gadgets – it’s all very exciting. Tell me, Wells, is the life of an adventurer everything you hoped it’d be?”

  Wells was among a small number of students recruited straight out of the Royal College of Science by Sue Ann MacLean. The Ministry’s chief had somehow acquired a copy of “The Chronic Argonauts,” a short story about traveling through time, which Wells was shopping around to newspaper publishers. MacLean said she was impressed with Wells’s imagination and didn’t want the young man to waste his talents on creating fictions. The trip to St. Petersburg was the first time he has ever traveled outside of the British Isles. But it wouldn’t do to let the tsarevich know that.

  “It is an honor and a privilege to guard the world against outside threats,” said Wells.

  “The world or England? For all the talk of protecting everyone, it is Queen Victoria’s empire that holds in its vaults the wondrous gadgets you agents fetch from across the globe.”

  “When the time comes, arbitrary borders won’t matter,” said Wells. “Our true nationality is mankind.”

  “Very well,” said Prince Nicholas. “England doesn’t hold the monopoly on scientific wonders. I will allow you to examine Russia’s secret weapon, the weather machine. But only if you and the Ministry help me with a small matter first.”

  “What is it that you need us to do?” asked Wells.

  Prince Nicholas Romanov of Russia looked Wells straight in the eye. “Find the men who are trying to kill me.”

  Back at the British embassy, Wells used one of the Ministry’s infamous devices to reach out to his friend and mentor.

  He cranked the dials of the unwieldy contraption filling the most private room of the embassy building. Delicate gears rotated and clicked as it came to life. The large apparatus worked on the same principle as the newly invented telephone, but was capable of transmitting one’s voice across the ether without the use of wires. MacLean bragged that Ministry scientists were on the verge of making a compact travel version of this device, one that could fit into a large carriage. Even at present size, it was among the most useful tools in the Ministry arsenal. Queen Victoria had ordered each of her key embassies outfitted with one.

  The contraption emitted a high-pitched noise as it established a connection to London’s fledgling telephone network. “Please connect me to Mr. Doyle,” Wells told the operator.

  Wells was glad to hear the voice of a friend, even if it was distorted by static. He explained about his meeting with Prince Romanov.

  “The tsarevich wants me to find the leaders of a radical socialist group called the People’s Will,” said Wells. “They have waged war against the Romanovs for years. In ‘81 they had quite a coup, managing to assassinate Nicholas’s grandfather, Tsar Alexander II.”

  “Radical indeed,” said Doyle. “Wasn’t Alexander the most liberal monarch Russia has ever had? Their version of Abraham Lincoln, who finally emancipated the serfs? His successor isn’t nearly so progressive.”

  “Be that as it may, they seem to have developed a taste for hunting royals. The People’s Will made a number of attempts on the current tsar’s life, explosives their weapon of choice. The Romanovs have been forced to move to a more secure home, with Winter Palace deemed too large and approachable, difficult to protect on a daily basis. Currently it’s only used for official functions. And now, it seems, the People’s Will have set their sights on Prince Nicholas. The prince has been forced into hiding until this threat is dealt with.”

  Doyle was silent for a moment and Wells pictured the senior agent taking a puff of his pipe as he mulled over the information. “I see. We don’t generally prefer to meddle in the affairs of states, but foiling an assassination plot against the prince would gain the Ministry a most valuable ally.”

  “The Russian secret police couldn’t find these people,” said Wells. “What hope do I have, with no useful contacts or local knowledge in St. Petersburg?”

  “Elementary, my dear Wells,” said Arthur Conan Doyle. “The prince sought out your help because of the stellar reputation and notoriety enjoyed by our organization around the globe. It stands to reason that, should you publicly express certain political views, the likes of the People’s Will shall also reach out to you of their own volition.”

  Doyle, now in his late twenties, was a Ministry field agent from the very beginning, when Queen Victoria established the organization in ‘82. Wells and he had become fast friends, and the veteran agent’s advice was always sound.

  “For all the fancy toys in your arsenal, the Ministry’s reputation is your finest weapon,” Doyle reiterated in his slight Scottish accent. “Use it well, my friend.”

  “Democracy is the road to socialism,” announced Wells, his voice slurred by the several drinks he had to imbibe in order to stay in character.

  This was the second bar he had visited that evening, a sort of dive where poor workers and students potentially sympathetic to the People’s Will came to drink. Over the past several days Wells had made a tour of such establishments, quoting Marx and drawing attention to himself wherever he went. His progressive views were well received by the proletariat, but the people he met were well-meaning and earnest. They yearned for social change but weren’t the sort who would associate themselves with terrorists. Doyle’s plan wasn’t working.

  A man smelling of cheap beer tapped Wells on the shoulder. “You the Englishman revolutionary?”

  Wells nodded, satisfied. Perhaps the persona he had been building was finally paying dividends.

  “Got some like-minded friends who are keen to meet you,” said the man. “Will you follow me?”

  The man led Wells into an alley behind the bar, where two others were waiting.

  “I hear you’re the foreigner who’s been talking about the redistribution of wealth,” said one of the men.

  “That’s right. The cause of socialism is a global one,” Wells replied.

  “Then you won’t mind giving us your wallet and your watch.” The man smirked and drew a knife, moonlight reflecting off its wide blade.

  Two of the mugger’s friends moved to block the way back toward the bar, so Wells surprised them by rushing at the one holding the knife. He tackled the man, pushing him off to the side. The mugger swung his weapon as he fell, managing a long, shallow cut on Wells’s left arm, just below the shoulder. Doing his best to ignore the sharp pain, Wells ran deeper into the dark alley, all three of his assailants in pursuit. Seconds later, his path was blocked. The alley terminated in a dead end.

  Wells spun around, viscous liquid seeping through the cut in his shirt’s sleeve, his back against cold bricks of the windowless wall. Unarmed and outnumbered three to one, he prepared to face his enemies.

  The three muggers edged toward him cautiously, like a pack of jackals. Thankfully, only one of them ha
d a knife. The trio was so intent on Wells, that they didn’t notice another man approach them from behind.

  The newcomer was young and very tall, sporting an unruly mop of dark hair, and stubble where most Russians would have a beard. He was too well-dressed to be in league with the other three. With the muggers concentrating on Wells, the tall man was able to walk up right behind the knife-wielding ruffian and bludgeon him with a piece of copper pipe he had pulled out from under his coat.

  The mugger went down like a sack of beets, landing on the pavement with a loud oomph. Wells lunged at the nearest remaining opponent, while his unexpected ally engaged another. The four men exchanged blows under the moonlight, but with odds now evened, the bandits were no match for a trained Ministry agent and his rescuer. They fled, ignobly leaving their friend lying unconscious on the ground, his face in a puddle.

  “Thank you.” Wells extended his hand. “You fight well.”

  “Had no choice but to learn. I grew up with two older brothers.” The man smiled and shook Wells’s hand. “My name is Anton Chekhov. I’m a columnist for New Times.”

  “My name is Wells. Herbert—”

  “Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Wells. I’ve been following your exploits in St. Petersburg with great interest. But we can talk about that after your wound is tended to. Come, my apartment is only a few blocks away.”

  Wells winced as Chekhov expertly cleaned and bandaged the cut.

  “It’s only a flesh wound,” Chekhov declared. “Keep the bandages clean and it will heal up nicely.”

  “You seem to know your way around a medicine bag,” said Wells.

  Chekhov’s one-room apartment was filled with books and handwritten manuscripts. There was a hunting rifle hanging on the wall. A modified Remington typewriter with Cyrillic keys occupied the desk in the center.