Whitechapel Gods (20 page)

“He’s more than proved himself to me, Tommy,” Oliver said. “Let’s make him an official member of the crew, shall we?”

“The king bowing to another master? Never!” Tommy said, chuckling. Phineas helped him up, all four or five hundred scraping, squealing pounds. Oliver pointed to Bergen.

“You’re our lead climber, Keuper.”

Bergen rose. “So that you can keep a watch on me?”

Oliver held his mouth shut.

“So, tell me, since you have styled yourself our governor,” Bergen said as he approached the first rickety, rusted and bent step of the stair, which at its base turned out to be more like its namesake. “What shall we do, now that Bailey Howe truly is dead?”

Oliver felt acute stares from Tom and Phineas. Once again they looked to him to take up that mantle he’d watched burn five years past, and lead them all to their deaths in some heroic folly. They wouldn’t let him off, not again, not when he’d been hiding from the responsibility all this time.

You wanted this, chap. Deep down, you always wanted it.

A second chance. A second Uprising.

Tom rocked foot to foot. “Ollie?”

“We return to Sherwood,” Oliver said. “We gather the crew and call in Hews and Sims and Joyce and whoever’s left.”

He stared at Bergen, matching the man’s intensity.

“And then…we proceed,
my
way.”

“I know who you are.”

That was all Baron Hume had said.

The lift locked into place with a shower of sparks and the two Boiler Men jerked Bailey forward. His captors’ titan strength had long ago crushed the bones in both arms, and Bailey was beyond the sensation of pain. He was aware only of the endless layered thrashing sounds of machinery to rival hell itself, and the smell of cooked meat drifting up into his nose. The Boiler Men had welded a metal plate to his skin using their lightning rods, to steal his death away.

Bailey had looked into Hume’s impenetrable brass eyes and seen nothing—not anger, not satisfaction, only the cool detachment of logic. Bailey was not a defeated enemy made to kneel; he was a faulty part being corrected, so that the machine would run smoothly once more.

We are as nothing to them.
Empty, lifeless soldiers that moved and killed and could not die, weapons that threw lightning and steam and bullets faster than a man could tap his fingers—
Lord, what were we thinking? What arrogance to assume we could topple these creatures. These…gods.

His legs lost all power, and he fell forward. The Boiler Men dragged him by his shattered arms without breaking stride. Bailey’s tears splattered on the walkway. His twisted feet smeared them as they passed.

They were deep inside the Stack by now, past the visitor ledges on the outer rings, down past the workrooms and storerooms and the holy places of the gold and black cloaks. Down here Mama Engine’s furnace burned eternal with a heat to rival the sun, and the eldest of the black cloaks, their humanity stripped away by layers of iron limbs, tempered the foundations of the Great Work.

The endless gyrations of the machines faded, and a hum rose in their place. The sound boomed and echoed around the cavernous space into which they now passed, ringing like the song of a thousand angels, or the hissing of a thousand devils.

Good Lord, if I have ever been good to you, take me now…

The chamber stretched a hundred or more yards across, lined on all the outside surfaces with clocks of senseless and maddening design. The walkway extended into it, held up by gossamer golden cords, to the room’s central feature.

Bailey could not look. He knew what he would see: row upon endless row of broken, drained, mutilated men and women and children; golden wires piercing their skin; muscle and flesh rotting off their bones; and yet none of them dead—none permitted to die, so long as the Great Machine had need of them.

The Boiler Men dragged him to a halt in front of a creature constructed of tangled strips of brass. Porcelain eyes assessed him, a single finger indicated the place of his fate. Bailey watched the creature as it turned away to its duties, and knew instinctively that it had once been human.

His shoulder came loose as his captors renewed their march. His bowels gave as they slammed him roughly into an empty brass chair. His last breath escaped as they forced steel bolts through his hips and chest to pin him there. His vision darkened.

Please, Lord.

A wire broke the skin of his neck and began digging into him, burning like an electric worm. A second punctured his rib cage, a third, his lower back.

Not this,
he screamed.
Death I have always welcomed, but not this.

The Boiler Men marched away, and the ticking began. It grew, instant by instant, pummelling his perceptions with its insane repetition, until it deafened his very thoughts. It stripped away everything he knew, everything he had ever thought, every hope and every plan. The weight of Grandfather Clock crushed him down, hammered him, shaped him. He became a perfect component of a larger whole, losing all that he had been before.

And all was harmony in the Great Machine.

His chosen will call themselves the Brothers of Order. They will be the expression of His Function, and the makers of His Harmony, and they will call me Master.

—IV. i

It was like a veritable sewer of the filthiest dregs of humanity, all coated in their own foulness, all gathered together in a drainpipe so clogged that no amount of rain would ever wash it clean.

Yes, that’s it.

And those churls at the Stack had sent him knee-deep into it without so much as a clothespin to protect his nose. Yes, he’d botched the capture. Yes, he’d let the British sons of bitches shoot him to death. It hadn’t been
his
fault. They’d been hiding in a tool cabinet, for goodness sakes; a bloody, bleeding,
fucking
tool cabinet. How could he have known? Yet his superiors had blamed him harshly and shipped him off to Shadwell to wallow in his shame.

Except that Marcus James Westerton did not feel shame, as it didn’t do one a damned lick of practical good. What he felt was anger; anger at those queen-worshiping zealots and whatever inborn human stupidity drove such people to rebel against their betters.

Anger, you see, was
useful
. Anger made people do as you wanted.

“Look sharp, you,” he growled, without warning or provocation.

The young lad who was the target of the growling shrunk back like he’d been actually struck. The Stack had given Westerton two fresh recruits as underlings and he had to go about breaking them in. The sooner they kowtowed to his every whim and cruelty, the faster they could become an adequate fighting unit. This one lad—Eugene?—Westerton had ordered to stay by his side as a bodyguard. The other marched some twenty feet ahead, in the company of the intolerable street urchin leading them to their prise.

And what a prise, what a prise.

“You, boy!” Westerton called. “How much farther is it?”

The little cretin turned a gap-toothed grin back at the question. “No’ long, sir. Few mo’ turns, i’ is.”

“It had better be soon, or I daresay you’ll get no shilling. And if I’m in a mood I’ll have you hauled off to the Chimney.”

“No worries, suh. Few mo’, likes I said.”

His growl seemed to have little effect on the human rodent.
I might have him hauled off anyway, on account of his irksome presence.

Despite himself, Westerton felt his foul demeanour slipping. Whether this creature was lying or not, the day would be a good one. Either he would send that animal to the Chimney, or he would have satisfaction on one of the men who’d shot him. He’d almost had him once, but the villain had eluded Westerton with the help of that damned bookseller Fickin. A traitor and rotten to the core, that one. Why didn’t the Good Lady simply burn him up?

Because the Lady is as inconstant and as fickle as any woman. Not like the Lord. Ah, his is the beauty of structure and logic. Unassailable. He
deserves
to be worshipped.

“Here, sirs,” the boy said. “Just here.”

They had arrived at an alley, which, like all the alleys of this God-cursed tower, was dark and stank of mould and general hideousness. Westerton checked the street to either side. He recognised none of the tenements nor the guttering lamps or the stray dogs probing the stairways and doors looking for food.

“Where are we, Brother?” he demanded.

Eugene swallowed hard and shook his head. “I…don’t rightly know, sir.” He cringed at Westerton’s gaze and mumbled an apology.

The street boy stood expectantly at the alley mouth.

“Presumptuous child,” Westerton said. “You think I’ll pay you before the job is done? For all I know you’ve led us to a whorehouse and will run off with my shilling.”

The child shook his head. “Led you true, I did, suh. The door’s at the end, in there.”

“It had better be.” Westerton motioned Eugene to move up beside his brother-in-gold. Westerton himself drew out his 1.20-calibre breech-loading sidearm, which he had ordered custom built at great expense. It was always a fine day when he got to fire the thing.

“You stay here,” he said to the boy. “We’ll be back presently.”

The boy sat patiently on the curb and stared at his shoes.

“Forward.”

The alley’s shadows swallowed his two underlings after a single step. Cursing under his breath, Westerton followed. The dark that closed over him was nearly total, revealing only hints of the walls and the vague outlines of forms in front of him. He’d never been able to see properly in the dark since his initiation, when Grandfather Clock had blessed his heart and replaced much of his nerves with copper wiring. Westerton trusted that the Good Lord had a reason for this particular debility, though he sometimes found it irritating.
Not that I’m ungrateful, noble Grandfather. Not at all.

Two shots filled the alley. Something wet splattered on his face and frock an instant later.

“To the sides, my brothers! Give me space.” Without waiting, Westerton discharged his weapon directly down the alley’s length. He thrilled to it: percussive force sufficient to shatter nearby windows and enough recoil to tear the arm off a mere human being. His enthusiasm dulled somewhat as the impressions the muzzle flash had burned onto his eyes resolved themselves into two bodies crumpled on the street in front of him wearing gold vests.

His heart-clock began to fall out of rhythm. “Brothers?” he said. “Answer me, you disobedient libertines.”

At a whirring and grinding from behind, Westerton grabbed for another shell from his pocket and scrambled to reload.

That’s it. Get closer, Englishman. Get up where I can see you.

Rapid, plodding footsteps accompanied the noise. At the last moment Westerton whirled and discharged the weapon into the centre of the massive shadow closing in on him. The shadow jerked and halted.

Westerton laughed aloud. “Take that, traitor. A taste of the Good Lord’s justice.”

The shadow swiped out a hand and ripped the gun from Westerton’s fingers.

“What do you know?” it said, pointing to its belly. “Got me a matching pair now, Chief.”

“Wh-what?” Westerton stammered. “You’re a cloak! You’re a bloody crow, that’s what you are! Fickin put you up to this, the no good bastard.”

Then a voice from behind: “It occurred to me that you probably don’t see very well in the dark, Mr. Westerton.”

That made his heart-clock twinge painfully. He was out of balance, his perfect order disturbed. He felt an infirmity creep into his knees, and spun around to find two figures, one hunched as if aiming a rifle, the other tall and thin. He pointed accusingly at the taller one.

“You! You’re under arrest.”

“I’m very busy right now, Westerton,” said the man, “and I can’t have you or yours prowling about the Underbelly looking for me.”

At that Westerton cackled. “Do your worst, villain. Kill me again if you like. I’ll simply come back for you tomorrow, and I’ll have more men next time, now that I know where you’re hiding.”

“Ah, yes, that. Well, surely you don’t think I hired that young lad to show you to my real hideout.”

“It doesn’t matter. I know your face. That is all I need to find you again.”

“Be that as it may, I’ll need a few days more. I’m going to have my associate shoot you and then we’ll be tossing you off the tower.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Listen closely, Canary. I’m going to give you your gun back before we drop you. Use it only to defend yourself. The hounds shouldn’t bother you unless you become hostile.”

“You…
savage
.”

He’d intended something more eloquent, some scathing words to put these renegades in their places. Well, perhaps a sterling display of violence would suffice. One second was all he needed; a quick squeeze or a quick jerk and the battle was won even if they shot him down. A single tick of the clock.

The Ticking Lord had long ago taken away his pain, and then his fear of death. He hesitated only an instant, then lunged.

The third man shot him in the throat. The big man dragged him back by his collar, while the others closed in. He took seven rounds in the stomach and chest before his assailants were done. In each flash Westerton absorbed the grim-faced glare of his adversary, memorising its creases and features until he knew them as well as his own.

Body forced out of harmony, he slumped to the ground and found he could not move.

It doesn’t matter. The Lord protects me. The Lord will bring me back to harmony so that I can strip the eyes out of that fucking creature and break his skull with my fingers.

His senses went dark, and he was alone with the ticking of his own heart.

Candlelight gave poor illumination at farther than reading distance, and she hadn’t made any sound. She just had a way of being noticed.

Oliver closed the
Summa Machina
and set it on the short wicker table.

“Miss Plantaget,” he said. He rose, approached her, then swept up and kissed her gloved hand. Her hair was down and fell about her shoulders. The soft light seemed to glow beneath her skin as her lips spread in a smile. Realising he’d been staring, Oliver cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She cocked her head and blinked lazily at him. “I suppose you’re aware that there are perfectly good reading chairs out in the lounge, not to mention better light.”

“Solitary contemplation can be good for one,” Oliver said. “Phin says the Hindus and the Japanese do it all the time.”

She fixed him with a stare he found unreadable.

“I don’t doubt that Phineas says it,” she said. “He also says he once owned a pet sea serpent he called Lila.”

Oliver chuckled to hide his growing unease. Why was she looking at him so intensely?

“I haven’t heard that one before.” Oliver straightened his vest, then the suspenders beneath it. “What is it?”

“Thomas is awake again. I thought you would like to know.”

“Thank you.” He made to push past her. When she didn’t move aside, he waited.

“Is there something else?” he asked.

Her eyes searched his.

“Michelle?”

“Oliver,” she began. Several expressions passed over her face in rapid succession. “It’s the German.”

Oliver sighed. “He’s a sullen bravo, I know. I’d stick him with a different crew if I thought any of the others survived.”

“You got word, then?”

Oliver nodded. “Joyce’s address was hit by the Boiler Men early this morning. The cloaks assaulted half a dozen other places at the same time. I can’t say there’s much hope.”

“I’m sorry.”

Missy’s face readjusted into the subtlest expression of sympathy, and suddenly all the sadness he hadn’t wanted to feel flushed over him in one wave. No Joyce, no Sims, none of the other crews. Oliver knew how it would have happened: echoing footsteps coming up the street, a blast of steam through the door, another through a window, leaving the men to choose between fleeing into the street and being shot or hiding inside and being broiled alive.

During the Uprising he’d seen it happen to a neighbourhood family, and he’d run to his secret tunnel and hid. They’d chosen to stay inside, and he’d listened to the mother scream for more than an hour before the Boiler Men got around to executing her. That memory had always been caught on the question of whether she was screaming for her children or screaming from her own pain. Silly thing to wonder about, all these years later.

A warm finger poked into his arm.

“Come back, Oliver,” Missy said, a soft, petite smile on her red lips.

Oliver cleared his throat. “Sorry, I was just—”

She held her finger up to interrupt. “I don’t care to know where you were just then, Mr. Sumner. The past is really not something one should worry over. Don’t you think?”

She lowered the finger. Her eyes awaited agreement.

“Right,” Oliver said finally. “That’s a sensible piece of advice.”

“I’m glad you agree.” She drew her finger through the air as if following the path of a fly, eventually landing it on an unseen piece of furniture. “Getting back to my original question…”

“The German. Right.”
She
is
a distraction.
“I know he’s abrasive and I don’t want to make excuses for him…”