The Immorality Engine (26 page)

The tunnel finally terminated in a vast chamber, a huge natural cavern, the ceiling of which was covered in a forest of dripping stalactites. The cave had been adapted to house a massive brass sphere, at least thirty feet in diameter. Its outer shell was battered and tarnished, and it sat upon a supporting pedestal surrounded by all manner of strange, bulky equipment. Funnels and tubing protruded from it like the spines of a sea urchin, and a large iron cylinder, like a chimney spout, rose from its top and disappeared into the ceiling above. It thrummed gently, vibrating through the cavern floor.

Veronica, lurking in the shadows at the cave mouth, glanced at Newbury quizzically. “What is it?” she whispered.

“I have no idea,” he replied.

Cautiously, Veronica broke cover and crept into the cavernous chamber. There were no signs of life inside. Whatever the machine’s purpose, it didn’t currently appear to be operational.

She heard Newbury’s footsteps behind her. “There’s a door here,” he said, approaching the vast, gleaming belly of the sphere. He pulled it open and bent low, ducking inside.

A few moments later his head reemerged from the doorway. “It looks like some sort of medical chamber. There’s a chair inside, and a device hanging from the ceiling covered in banks of needles.” His head disappeared inside again.

Veronica walked around the strange machine. There was a workstation wired into the sphere and covered in a plethora of buttons and levers that she assumed must affect whatever went on inside the device. Farther around the sphere she was confronted with the evidence she’d been looking for, and the nature of the device became suddenly clear.

It was the duplicating machine
.

Two large glass tanks sat side by side on a raised dais, connected to the brass sphere by thick, snaking pipes. The glass panels were encased in mahogany frames, each displaying elaborate engravings and fretwork. The symbols and carved figures that intertwined in the woodwork were strange and unfamiliar, yet reminiscent of the type of ancient pagan iconography she’d encountered regularly at the museum. Both tanks were filled with a thick, viscous fluid that seemed to glow pink with its own ethereal light. One of the tanks was empty, but the other held the partially formed body of a human male. It was utterly disgusting, and Veronica blanched at the very sight of it.

The lower half of the cadaver could have belonged to any man in his mid-forties, save, perhaps, for the pinkness of the flesh and the lack of natural wear and tear. But the upper half of the torso remained horribly incomplete. The rib cage and belly were almost entirely exposed, revealing the swimming, un-living organs beneath. The right arm was still skeletal, with only the first tentative signs of muscles and flesh beginning to form around the hand and wrist.

The head, however, was perhaps the most disturbing sight of all. The left half of the face was pink and human, the eyeball staring unseeing from the socket. But the right half was a horrendous vision of exposed muscle and bone. The eye socket was an empty void, the cheekbone clearly visible below. There was no ear, and farther down she could discern part of the throat and the trailing muscle of the tongue, lolling about in the suspension fluid. Pinkish muscles were beginning to build up around the jawbone, but the back teeth were still visible beneath.

It was a vision that she knew would stay with her forever. She knew this man had never been alive, but somehow that made the whole thing worse. She shuddered to think that the body she was staring at was an incomplete copy of a man who was probably carousing in the great hall somewhere far above her. Worse was considering what he might do to it once it had been completed and transported to the hanging room.

Veronica stepped back from the tank, unable to look upon the duplicate any longer. She had no idea how the machine worked, and no desire to learn, either. It was an abomination, a travesty against nature. She found it ironic that the members of the Bastion Society could be so aggrieved by the Queen’s desire to continue living, but not see the horror of their own creations.

Newbury was standing beside her. “Fascinating,” he said, pressing his fingers against the glass. “The perfect marriage of science and the occult. I would never have imagined it was possible.” He traced his fingers over the symbols and glyphs in the wooden frame. “Hermeticism. These are alchemical symbols.” He moved around the occupied tank, examining the partially constructed corpse inside. “Edwin Sykes was one of these. The
first
Edwin Sykes, that is. The one we found in the gutter. Stolen and hot-footed away from here to foil the police.”

“It’s disgusting,” Veronica said.

“It’s remarkable,” replied Newbury. “Truly remarkable. But wrong in every sense. What they’re doing here with these bodies, what Fabian is doing to Amelia … it has to be stopped.”

Veronica looked again at the sickening face of the body in the tank. Yes, it had to be stopped. But first they had to get out of there alive. “Come on,” she said, ushering Newbury back the way they had entered.

They left the strange, throbbing sphere and exited the cavern, returning to the tunnel system beyond.

Veronica selected one of the two remaining passages, but Newbury stopped her, tugging her in the other direction. “No, let’s try this way,” he whispered. Shrugging, she followed him towards the sound of hammering metal.

The tunnel wound for a short way before once again opening up into a large chamber, not dissimilar to the cavern from which they had just come. She realised there was probably a whole network of natural caves in the bedrock here, and that the Bastion Society had co-opted them for its nefarious use. It made a perfect hiding place, with space enough to hide an entire army.

And that, Veronica realised with awe as she looked out across the chamber, was
exactly
what they’d been doing.

The cavern was a hive of industry. She pressed herself flat against the tunnel wall, keeping back as she peered cautiously over the edge. “My god,” she whispered, more to herself than to Newbury. “It’s an armoury.” She could hardly believe her eyes.

Row upon row upon row of gleaming brass horses, just like the ones they had seen at the demonstration in Piccadilly Circus, stood in serried ranks awaiting riders. There must have been fifty of them, if not more, shining under the electric arc lamps that filled the armoury with brilliant, dazzling light.

The horses themselves looked new and unused, fresh off the production line. They were a small army unto themselves. Unlike the ones they had seen in action, these were each adorned with deadly looking weapons. Gatling guns hung off the sides of the saddles on pivots, ready to be directed and fired by the mounted riders as they charged into battle. The multibarrelled guns were a far cry from the flaming braziers and jousts the demonstrators had been playacting with in the street.

Men in grey suits and bowler hats, but wearing leather smocks over their jackets, were bustling between the horses, tinkering with the delicate clockwork innards, refining and improving. Others were checking the Gatling guns’ ammunition belts, which snaked away into the hindquarters of each mechanical animal.

Elsewhere in the chamber other men were preparing rows of projectile weapons. These took the form of long cylinders mounted on tripods, with large cranking handles that would allow the firing mechanisms inside to be wound. They were mobile cannons, she realised, light and easy to transport, and simple to fire without the need for gunpowder or other explosives. She imagined them raining fiery Hell on the palace.

Worse still was the row of ten enormous armoured suits that stood motionless against the far wall. These were more like robotic chassis than the suits of mediaeval armour they were clearly modelled to represent. They were ten feet tall and adorned with the heraldry and insignia of the Bastion Society, supported by an exoskeleton covered in shining armour plating. The faux-mediaevalism was bizarrely at odds with the pistons and pneumatic joints that were bolted onto the frame to power it. Veronica could see where a man could climb inside the machine, inserting his arms and legs into braces so that he could use the movements of his own body to direct the corresponding movements of the exoskeleton. A large steel cowl appeared to fold down from above to protect the driver’s head, echoing the visor of a knightly helmet. The things must have weighed tonnes, but the power at the disposal of the operator would be phenomenal.

It was clear the Bastion Society was readying itself to strike. Veronica was astounded by all the machinery hidden down there in those catacombs beneath the city, a secret army preparing for a personal war. This was how they were going to storm the palace, charging in on shining clockwork steeds, their weapons blazing.

They really did believe they were latter-day knights, Veronica realised, upholding the spiritual beliefs of their cause to ensure the salvation of their nation. It was utter madness, but it was real. The assault on the palace was actually going to happen. Until now it had seemed like a surreal, nebulous threat, detached from her more pressing concerns. But seeing their war machines here, ranked up and prepared for battle, the reality of the situation came crashing in.

In a strange sort of way Veronica admired their courage. She couldn’t agree with their methods—of course she couldn’t—but at least they were doing
something
. At least they weren’t as apathetic as the rest of the population, sitting idly by as everything turned to chaos around them. They were prepared to stand up for what they believed in, even if that belief was ultimately misplaced.

Veronica could tell by the look on Newbury’s face that he had come to a similar conclusion. But it didn’t change anything.
We have to stop them,
he mouthed silently.

Veronica shook her head. “We need to get out and warn the palace.” Two of them against a small army—they’d never be able to pull it off. They’d just end up getting themselves captured again, or worse. As it was, the guards had probably realised they were missing from the cell by now and would be mounting a search.

She surveyed the armoury chamber. There would be no use searching for an alternative exit in there. Even if there was one to be found, the sheer amount of people milling about meant they’d never be able to move around unseen. She pointed back towards the junction. “Third time lucky?”

Veronica was relieved to discover that this time the passage soon made a dogleg and began climbing towards the surface again along a gentle incline. She’d lost her bearings as they’d woven through so many tunnels, but she had the sense that they were now climbing parallel to the passage that had contained their cell.

As they climbed, it became clear that the older tunnels were in fact part of a mausoleum complex. Here, the walls were lined with macabre burial alcoves, each containing the remains of the long-ago dead. Some were elaborate coffins, tooled from blocks of glistening marble. Others had once been wooden caskets but had disintegrated over time, leaving only dusty skeletons behind.

Veronica spotted one alcove that was entirely filled with human skulls, piled up one upon another to form a wall of haunting skeletal faces, staring out at her silently from their empty sockets. She shivered with a sudden chill, and didn’t know whether it was the temperature or the realisation of how many people had died to fill that single alcove. She wondered if it dated back to the plague.

There would be other, more recent mass graves all over London now for people to stumble upon in centuries to come—the victims of the Revenant plague, turned into shambling flesh-hungry monsters, rounded up by squads of soldiers, and destroyed. Many of the corpses had been ferried out to sea, dumped in vast loads over the side of the plague ships, but others had been interred in huge graves excavated by an army of steam-powered diggers. The plague continued to burn through the population of the slums, hundreds of people falling to its clutches every day. And so the diggers remained busy, carving up the landscape to find room for the ever-increasing piles of corpses.

Veronica dragged her eyes away from the heap of skulls. She realised Newbury had wandered off again, and she found him inside a small doorless room a little farther up the passage that had been converted from a tomb. She ducked her head beneath the lintel and stepped inside. She was immediately assaulted by a dry, musty smell of dust and decay. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

The room was brightly lit by a naked electric lamp, fed by a curling power cable that snaked in through the open door from the tunnel outside. The generator must have been located somewhere else farther into the complex, probably close to the armoury.

The walls of the tomb had been pasted with schematics and maps, architectural diagrams showing the floor plan of a large building. Others were spread across a table in the centre of the space, and Newbury was studying these with interest. Veronica joined him. Arrows and boxes had been drawn on the plans in thick blue ink, accompanied by notes scrawled alongside them in red.

“The plans for their assault on the palace,” she stated. So this was their hidden war room, where they had planned their offensive against the Queen.

But Newbury was shaking his head. He tapped the schematics on the table. “No. Look again.”

Veronica frowned, but did as he suggested, studying the diagrams more closely. “It’s not the palace!” she said, a moment later.

Newbury grinned. “Indeed not. It’s the Grayling Institute.”

Veronica didn’t know what to make of that. “The Grayling Institute? Are you sure?” She scrutinised the plans again. He was right. “Do you think they’re going to attack there as well?” She shook her head in disbelief. Were they going after more than one target? Had the Bastion Society planned a whole campaign against the Crown?

Newbury turned to her. “No. I think Enoch Graves is a considerably better tactician than he is mediaeval knight. I think they’re going to storm the Grayling Institute
instead
of the palace.” He smiled as he considered the implications of his words. “Oh, that’s clever.…”