After Hawthorne introduced himself as well, Rourke flipped the cover from the Magic lantern's lid, slipped the slide-wheel into position, and stepped over to the porthole and closed the weather hatch to block out the sound of the wind and the engines, while the captain obliged in turning down the lights. With the wardroom thus darkened, it was easy for its occupants to see both the lantern's projection and the contents of their envelopes."Right. Let's get started, then, shall we?" he turned the slide wheel to the first slide: a top-down view photograph of a the gigantic, triple-envelope Mobile Aerodrome dirigible Nirgalian Dagger, which the Treadstone organization used as their flagship. The circumferential airfield with its numerous aircraft dotted about its surface, and the central armed and armoured superstructure (dubbed 'the castle' by the media pundits) were plainly visible.
"This," Rourke said, "Is our first objective; the SS Nirgalian Dagger. We are due to land at the Main Portal, here," he pointed to the relevant place on the photographic image, "in," he checked his watch, a silver turnip-like military timepiece, "approximately three hours from now. Let's get one thing straight from the start, my friends," he added in a slightly sharper tone, "We're here to 'heal the sick, what have become so by no means that is certain' -- or at least, that's what we have to convince them of, so that we can carry out our real mission. If, in fact anybody still remains alive or uninfected to convince. That brings me to the next point. Look in your notes from yer envelopes, and take out this sheet," he held it up for the others to see, "if you will: the Greenmouth Information page."
Rourke turned the wheel so that a new image slid into place: a hand-colored photograph of a Greenmouth Plague victim in Advanced Mode. The green and greenish skin coloration and apparently fungal growths around the mouth, and the vacuous, almost-unseeing expression were obvious and frankly unsettling. "This Greenmouth, my friends. Some of you may have seen it before, but just in case, here it is. The most recent transmission from the Dagger placed the number of Advanced cases to be two-thirds of the officers and men aboard, and roughly half of the Organization's Hierarchy as well. Infection knows no class or rank; anybody can be infected. I'll say this now, and remember it: DON'T let them bite you! And they'll try, they will, and they roams around in packs once there's a lot of 'em. That's what was roamin' the backalleys o' Baghdad just before we left, me 'n the lads. We had the devils own time fightin' our way clear, havin' stepped into the middle of the swarm unawares. Lost the whole bloody unit, I did, except for Dick and Smalls, but some not until we got back. That outbreak in Devonshire? Papers said it was "Influenza." That's a right laugh."
"Influenza doesn't make people give people green mouths and make them form packs and hunt other people to eat." he grimaced ruefully. "That was Smiles, he bit a nurse and several other people before they shot 'im, she bit several more, and then Jamie bit some people, and then the whole east side of the town was one big swarm, and the cavalry were called in. They managed to kill all teh Greenies -- and then they were infected, and had to be killed as well."
"Bottom line: if you see 'em and there's Treadstone folk about what are normal, and the Greenies are still human-like, muzzle 'em however you can, take 'em into medical custody, strap 'em to a stretcher or tie 'em to the furniture, give 'em aid, and stay away from their mouths. So far, nothin's had any effect but sulphur pills, and that just makes 'em wake up and rave -- and puts you at risk of their mouths." he paused, then continued.
"If they're far enough gone to try and bite, and there's healthy Treadstone folk about, the best thing you can do for 'em is kill the greenie or greenies, but do it like its a mercy killing. The Treadstone lot should already know that; they're pretty coldblooded when it comes to killin' their own so their upper crust can survive. Practically fanatics about it, so there shouldn't be any problem about killing the lost causes. HE became deadly serious. "If you're beset by a swarm of the greenies, Whether there's healthy folk of any ilk about or not, KILL the buggers as fast and complete as you can. If there's too many of 'em, fight your way clear and run like living hell. There's no recourse. The swarm is impossible to reason with or cure."
He slid through several more slides, pictures of Treadstone functionaries and higher-ups, including their High Council and High Command, Maps which were also included in ther envelopes, and the Grand Lord President himself, the Honorable Mr. Harcerius Bey. "Looks like a right upper-crust gentleman, doesn't he?" Rourke said. "I met 'im, in Baghdad. A right nice older fellow, Old-World charm an' all that. He was the one asked me an' the lads to 'investigate a situation' in Baghdad's back alleys. Dropped us in the pot, he did, almost like he'd planted that swarm there himself. yeah." Rourke took a sip of water with a bitter expression. "really nice gentleman, that one," he said, the word 'gentleman' dripping in sarcasm. "don't trust 'im any farther'n you can shove 'im -- but keep yer hands off of him. That comes from up top. Unless he's, ahem, infected," Rourke added, an oddly hungry look in his eyes.
Finally, here's our true objective." Rourke said, having replaced the image wheel with a new one. The picture that slid into place was another hand-colored photograph, this one depicting a nattily-dressed fellow with a specimen bag over one shoulder, pistol belt around his waist, and holding, apparently with some difficulty, what was obviously a ledger-sized tablet covered in cuneiform writing. It was a departure from other artifacts of it's type, in that it appeared to be made of gold, yellowish bronze, or perhaps brass. "a daguerreotype of this image is in your envelopes," Rourke said. "And you're right. That's gold. nearly forty pounds of it, in an inch-thick slab. And anybody who's ever touched it without reciting a certain cantrip, which yes, is included in your envelopes, is stricken with this same Greenmouth plague that keeps popping up all over the place. Our job is to retrieve this object, read or recite the cantrip, plus an additional set of phrases which are also in your envelope, and manage a way to get it off of the Dagger and to the rendezvous point in the Canary Islands."
But here's the fly in the pudding, friends: no transmissions, and no answers from the Dagger, have occurred for three days. even their normal patrol and operations chatter has gone silent -- an' the Dagger's been flyin' in a ten-mile circle at half speed for a week. Sources say she's got fuel left for a week at most, and what makes it worse is the storm they're flyin' through is followin' them around in that same circle, like they're the source of it -- or it's target."
