Ghosts of War by George Mann Read Free Book Online Page A

on one of the airships leaving for the Continent in the morning. If he could make it to Paris or Berlin, he could take a train to Calais and be home in a few days.
    Rutherford rushed to the small bedroom where, beside the single cot, sat the holotube transmitter he needed. He flicked the metal lever to the “Make Call” position and sat back, waiting for the unit to warm up to capacity. The machine whirred to life, emitting a dull electrical hum. The metal box was rectangular, about two feet tall, and contained a mirrored cavity within which a holographic image of the person on the other end of the line would be displayed. It was decorated in a modern style, the side panels covered in ornate fretwork and inlaid with colored glass. Rutherford found himself wishing the manufacturers had spent more time developing a way to make it work faster and less time worrying about how the thing looked.
    It would take a few moments for the transmitter to come online, and then a couple of minutes to establish a connection to London.
    Rutherford slouched on the bed, willing the machine to hurry.
    He cocked his head when he heard something snick out in the hallway. What was it? The sound of someone cocking a gun?
    Cautiously, trying his best not to make a sound, Rutherford slid off the bed and reached for the penknife in his pocket. He eased the blade out of the housing and shuffled across the room to stand behind the door. The door itself had swung to on loose hinges, leaving only the slightest crack of light spilling in from the hallway. Otherwise, the bedroom was shrouded in gloom, lit only by the shimmering blue light of the holotube unit.
    He glanced around the dingy room, looking for anything else he might co-opt as a weapon. It was sparsely furnished, with only the bed, the bedside table, and an old wardrobe filled with different sets of clothes—everything from sharp suits to pauper's rags, depending on what he might need to help him adopt one of the many personas that his trade demanded. There were weapons—guns, knives, explosives—in the other room. He'd been intending to collect those before he left. He cursed himself for not being better prepared.
    Rutherford held his breath, listening intently for any further sounds from the hallway. Yes—there—the scuff of a boot on the carpet. Someone had followed him. They must have been good; he'd been careful to take a circuitous route, and he'd been vigilant, stopping to look in store windows or to buy a coffee, using those opportunities to scan the faces of the people on the street, checking none of them were becoming familiar.
    There was no doubt, however. Someone else was in the apartment.
    The holotube blared suddenly, the sound ringing out like a foghorn in the otherwise silent apartment. Rutherford glanced at it. A face had resolved in the mirrored cavity. “Rutherford? Are you there, Rutherford? It's London here.”
    The door to the bedroom slammed open with sudden force as the intruder came running at the sound of the English voice. Rutherford fell back against the wall to avoid catching the door in the face and barely had time to catch sight of the dark-haired man framed in the opening. Rutherford dived to the floor as a gunshot rang out, the bullet splintering the plaster where he had been standing only moments before.
    He rolled, doing his best to get clear in the confined space of the small room.
    “Rutherford!” the man on the other end of the holotube cried as he must have heard the echo of the gunshot all the way in London. “Rutherford?”
    Another two gunshots, and this time the holotube transmitter fizzed and popped, the mirrored panels shattering as the lead bullets slammed into it, sending it spinning to the floor.
    Rutherford used the edge of the bed to haul himself to his feet, twisting around and leaping for the other man, his penknife clutched in his fist. He brought it down hard, catching the intruder in the top of the arm and burying the knife to the