The Immorality Engine (16 page)

Cautiously Veronica picked her way along the corridor. Up ahead, it turned abruptly to the right. Veronica followed it, unsure what she expected to find. Ever since arriving at the institute, she’d been filled with a growing sense of unease, and now, upon hearing that awful scream, she suspected that something was terribly amiss.

The passageway terminated in a door. She crept up to it, straining to hear any sounds from the other side. Silence. She leaned closer, wondering what use anyone could have for a room this far removed from the main part of the building. The scream couldn’t have come from anywhere else. She pressed her ear against the cold wood.

Inside, she heard the muffled sounds of an animal, a low, plaintive keening, as if the creature making the sound had been in pain for some time but had now given up all hope of attention or relief.

Was Dr. Fabian involved in some sort of vivisection experiments? It wouldn’t surprise her if he tested his medical machines on apes or dogs or other mammals, and it would make sense to lock them away here where the patients couldn’t accidentally happen upon them. Nevertheless, Veronica couldn’t suppress the nagging doubt that Dr. Fabian was up to something more nefarious. She didn’t really know the man, and she had put her faith in him to heal her sister, but for some reason she had a horrible, hollow feeling in her gut, a sense of impending dread. Something about the Grayling Institute just didn’t
feel
right.

Veronica tried to laugh at herself, to remind herself that her sister was the clairvoyant one, that she was probably just being paranoid. But what if Newbury were right? The dreadful thing he had predicted during his occult experiments—what could it be? Was it something to do with Amelia? She supposed there was only one way to find out.

Veronica was just about to reach for the handle when something screeched loudly on the other side of the door. She jumped back in fright with a sharp intake of breath. She felt her heart race in her chest. The sound had set her teeth on edge. What on Earth was going on behind the door? She gave herself a moment to steady her nerves before pressing on.

Tentatively, she grabbed for the brass knob and gave it a sharp twist. The door swung open. It was dark on the other side, so she couldn’t see much of the room beyond, but the smell was horrendous. The air was thick with the cloying scent of faeces and perspiration, and other things she couldn’t—or didn’t want to—identify.

Definitely animals, then,
she thought, debating whether to bother searching for her handkerchief to cover her face. Absently, she remembered leaving it at the morgue.

She stepped farther into the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She could sense motion somewhere nearby. Something was turning in the darkness, something large that disturbed the air currents in the room, a machine of some sort. She could hear it whirring slowly in the darkness along with a low murmur of some sort. She walked forward and immediately got the sense that she was in a large open space, a hall or ballroom at the centre of the old manor house.

Veronica felt the wall behind her and managed to put her hand on a wall-mounted gas lamp. She felt for the knob and turned it up, spilling some light into the otherwise gloomy room. Then, turning around to see what the room contained, she emitted a scream of a sort louder than she had ever issued before.

All thoughts of secrecy or subterfuge went from her mind. She rushed forward, but then skidded to a halt, not knowing which way to look, which way to run. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She thought she was going to vomit. She realised she was whimpering with shock and anger and sheer, unadulterated fear.

The room contained at least twenty Amelias.

Everywhere she looked, there were more of them, each identical to her sister in every way: pale skinned, painfully thin, raven dark hair. They were barely dressed, covered only in thin cotton nightgowns. Each of them was lashed up to a different machine or torture device.

Veronica stared at the contraption at the centre of the room. It was a large disc, a circular platform fixed upon a pedestal, and it was spinning, round and round and round. Upon the disc, her sister—one of the many—was strapped down, electrodes trailing from her temples. Strange occult symbols had been daubed onto the surface of the disc, and Veronica realised with horror that her sister’s duplicate had been arranged in the form of a pentagram, her arms, legs, and head forming the five points of the star. She was babbling, too, spouting prophecies and visions of the future. They all were. Veronica realised that the murmur she heard was an incessant litany of words and phrases, snatches of things seen out of time, predictions of the horrifying things to come.

To Veronica’s left, another of the duplicates was strapped into a chair, her hair lank and dripping, hanging before her wretched face. This one turned and looked up at Veronica with eyes that were sunken and bruised, imploring her to do something. Others sat on the cold tiles of the floor, rocking back and forth, scratching things into the floor with their bare fingernails, etching out the scenes they were seeing in their minds. Yet another lay dead on a table in the corner, stark white and unmoving. One of them rushed at Veronica, its hands held out before it as if to throttle her. Veronica wailed in confusion and distress and the meek creature—a shadow of her sister—fled to the back of the room, to the shadowy recesses where Veronica could hear scores of them gathered, gibbering and whispering to one another.

Weeping openly, Veronica moved towards the machine at the centre of the room. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She wanted to stop the spinning. But the Amelia on the disc glared up at her, snapping its teeth like a feral animal and growling. Its eyes were full of malice and confusion. This was not her sister. This was … something evil. Something inhuman. Something
created
.

Whatever Dr. Fabian was doing here, she had to put an end to it. She had to save Amelia from this, get her away from this horrible place … if it wasn’t already too late. How had she allowed this to happen? What had she done? She was the one who had pushed Newbury to talk to the Queen, to have Amelia moved here. She was the one who had put her faith in the Queen and her physician.

But there was no doubt in Veronica’s mind. Dr. Fabian was the one responsible, and she would ensure he paid dearly for his crimes.

“Cracking walls and fire and pain … so much pain. Brass engines of destruction will tear down the world, and the man with the white face shall come out of the darkness.”

Veronica looked down at the doppelgänger strapped to the machine. It had Amelia’s voice, but it was raw and broken, and it was coming from inside a monster.

“The one who sits in the chair. She is the key. She is the nightmare at the eye of the storm.”

Veronica realised with dawning terror that the duplicates were speaking in unison. Each and every one, chanting the words of the prophecy. It was too much. She had to get out of there, had to find Newbury, to find Amelia. The
real
Amelia.

Veronica turned to flee, but stumbled when she saw someone hovering in the doorway. The man with the white face!

Her path was blocked. The thing that was watching her had to be another of Fabian’s sick creations. He was a man, of sorts, dressed in an evening jacket and white shirt, with white gloves and a featureless porcelain mask where his face should have been. From the waist down he was entirely a machine, legs driven by pistons in his mechanical thighs.

Veronica realised that this must have been the thing that had followed her here through the passageways of the old house. The strange creature cocked its head silently to one side, as if considering what to do next. Then it came lumbering towards her, its blue eyes blank and staring.

Veronica saw her opportunity. She could move faster than this strange man-machine. She backed away, drawing it farther into the room, biding her time. Then, just when it seemed as if she had nowhere else to go, she turned and bolted for the door.

She felt the thing’s fingers brush her collar as she squeezed past it, but she was driven on by fear and her desire to get away, to find Amelia and get her to safety. She darted out into the passageway, flinging herself around the corner, and then on into the depths of the house. She was still weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision. She didn’t know what to do. She had to find Newbury. But Newbury was with Fabian.

Veronica blundered around another corner, banging her arm painfully against the wooden panels. She just needed to get out of there. Out and back to the cab. Newbury would help her after that. He would. She knew he would. Newbury wouldn’t let it go on any longer.

Veronica ran on, away from the man with the white face, and away from the dreadful room. She prayed that she was right, that Newbury would help her save her sister. He was, after all, the only hope she had.

*   *   *

Newbury turned at the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside the door. Carrs had returned, escorting Dr. Lucien Fabian, that old master of invention, the Queen’s personal physician. The man who had ensured Her Majesty’s survival and, indirectly, Newbury’s own.

Newbury rose to greet the doctor as he entered the room.

“Sir Maurice Newbury! Now, here’s a surprise. It must be, what, four years since you last had reason to pay me a visit?”

Newbury nodded. “Yes.” The date was emblazoned on his mind. He’d come to Fabian in the aftermath of the events at Fairview House and the death of his previous assistant, Templeton Black. He’d hoped Fabian would be able to help, to do something miraculous, to somehow restore the young man to life. But Newbury’s actions had been motivated by his grief, and of course, Fabian had only been able to turn him away. “Yes, it’s been a while.”

Fabian waved Carrs away, instructing him to fetch tea, and then gestured for Newbury to return to his seat, dropping into the chair opposite him. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose with his left index finger. “How’s that shoulder, Sir Maurice? I understand the Fixer made good use of my medical machinery when he put you back together last winter. During that whole
Lady Armitage
scandal, wasn’t it?”

Newbury smiled. It had not yet been a year since that first case with Veronica, but already it felt like a lifetime ago. “I’m very well, thank you, Dr. Fabian,” he replied. “The Fixer did a superb job, not least because of the equipment he had at his disposal. Aside from a few scars and the occasional twinge, the shoulder is as good as new.”

“Wonderful news!” Fabian clapped his hands together with a wide grin. “Most excellent news.” Newbury couldn’t tell if Fabian was pleased that the Fixer had successfully mended his shoulder, or because it was his machines that had made the operation possible. “It was an interesting case,” the doctor continued. “I was saddened by what became of Villiers. He might have proved useful. I examined one of those ‘affinity bridges’ in the aftermath of the events. A quite remarkable device.”

Newbury frowned. This was news to him. He’d understood the devices had all been destroyed. “Do you still have it?” Newbury asked pointedly.

Fabian shrugged. “Yes. It’s in the archive. Her Majesty thought I might be able to learn something from it. I believe it was your assistant, Miss Hobbes, who helped us to obtain one.”

Newbury stifled a gasp. Layers upon layers, he realised. Betrayal upon betrayal. He didn’t know what to make of it all.

“So.” Fabian ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I gather there must be a reason for your visit? Another case?”

Newbury attempted to order his thoughts. He was still trying to work out when Veronica could have found time to procure the affinity bridge, or had the means to do it. She was resourceful, if nothing else. “Yes, indeed. I’m hoping you can help to shed some light on it.”

“I am at your disposal, Sir Maurice. I shall do what I can.” Fabian smirked. Did he already know what Newbury was about to ask? That knowing look suggested that he did. Or perhaps it was simply arrogance, a sign that he was enjoying being asked for help.

“Thank you. I would be obliged if you could enlighten me as to the nature of your relationship with Sir Enoch Graves and the Bastion Society.”

Fabian’s jaw clenched. He visibly stiffened, then took a deep breath.

So he hadn’t expected the question after all. That was an interesting fact in itself. Newbury watched him attempt to regain his composure.

It took a moment, but nevertheless, Newbury was impressed with the way in which Fabian calmed himself. He leaned back in his chair, the smile returning to his lips. “Ah, so you finally managed to catch up with Graves. How interesting. I wondered how long it would take.” Fabian laughed.

Newbury gave him a confused look. “What exactly has Graves been up to that should have brought him to my attention?”

Fabian frowned. “Well, it’s your sort of thing, isn’t it?” he said. “All that occult business. Secret societies, black magic, resurrection … an unhealthy pursuit of the supernatural. That sort of thing.”

“And that’s what Graves and the others are up to?” It suddenly dawned on Newbury that if what Fabian was saying were true, the case had just become a lot more serious … and potentially a lot more dangerous.

Fabian looked perplexed. “You tell me, Sir Maurice. Isn’t that why you’re here?” He seemed reluctant to elaborate all of a sudden, as if he feared he might incriminate himself if he revealed any more.

“I’m here because there’s been a murder,” Newbury stated. “And we have reason to believe there is a connection to the Bastion Society.”

Fabian nodded. “I don’t doubt it. I would imagine Graves has been connected to any number of miserable deaths over the years.” He paused, eyeing Newbury, as if weighing him up. “Have you worked out what they’re up to, Sir Maurice?”

Newbury chose to leave the question unanswered.

“I see not,” Fabian continued. “Well, allow me to enlighten you a little. The Bastion Society is more than simply another gentleman’s club. It’s an ideal. A way of life.”