Whitechapel Gods (9 page)

Her eyes never left Heckler’s. “But he is such a charming young man. Shouldn’t I get him under my thumb as quickly as possible?”
Shouldn’t you claim him as one more ribbon in your hat? One more loaf of bread in your carry basket?

“Ah, Michelle, but you are a cold bitch,” Phineas said.

A stinging in her abdomen. Missy’s composure broke, and she flinched visibly.

Truth is a difficult thing to accept in any guise,
said Gisella’s voice.
If I recall, you have used such atrocious language to refer to myself on many occasions.

Her guts clenched and twisted and a horrid, potent loss and sadness gushed up. She pushed it down with a careful, slow, ladylike inhalation, and painted a smile back onto her features.

“Oh, but I’m very warm as well.”

They chuckled, and the moment of tension passed.

She moulded her face into a scowl for a moment. “And you, sir, are not to call me by my proper name.”

Phineas’ eyebrow snaked out from beneath the blindfold.

A sigh, and Missy elaborated. “The use of such is reserved only for very particular individuals with whom I share a relationship of a type not to be discussed in impolite company.”

“Ah.”

Silence fell for a moment as Thomas gathered the cards and the other men scooped their winnings or remaining capital back into pockets and purses. It was a pity: Missy had always wanted to see how this American game was played, but the presence of a woman always seemed to bring it to an irretrievable end.

Missy settled back into Oliver’s chair, doubtless referred to as a “throne” when its king was abroad.

You’ve designs on him. It was no accident you sat in this chair.

Or perhaps it was because it was the only one unoccupied, witch.
The rest of the whiskey she tossed into her mouth without ceremony.

You’re much cleverer than that, my dear. You wanted to announce your intentions to these three. Romantics that they are, they’ll nudge him in the right direction. You think that and your whorehouse charms will be enough to land him? It is an insult to both of you.

Gisella’s voice quieted as the alcohol fire bloomed in her stomach. She passed her glass to Thomas with an if-you’d-be-so-kind. He refilled it to half its previous volume and passed it back to her.

“How were the rounds today?” Thomas said.

And you forgot to do the rounds. Stupid little girl.

Oliver insisted at least one of his crew go ’round the Underbelly every day, chatting, eavesdropping, mingling. Then the roundsman had to give a report, a long, silly report in exhausting detail about the state of things, the places people wandered, the things they talked about, the things they needed done. And with that dutifully categorised and compiled in Oliver’s mind, he would set the crew about helping those in need and so forth.

Why does the man bother to toss away his earnings on building repairs and doctor’s bills and food baskets? He must have an angle, a sinister purpose in all of this, mustn’t he?

Missy knew men too well to think otherwise, and yet that assessment fell flat every time she tried to assert it regarding Oliver.

The others were waiting. She cleared her throat and began with the one piece of information certain to distract them.

“The Ironboys are in town,” she said.

The three of them fell instantly still. She continued.

“I saw them marching up the Parade, a full dozen, without cloaks to clear their way. I made some inquiries. Apparently they entered the Blink from the south and descended into the downstreets.” Actually, she had overheard it by pure chance on the walk back to Sherwood, but there was no need to disclose that.

Thomas scraped his iron knuckles over his stubble. “Did they say why they were here?”

“No,” Missy said, sipping daintily at her new drink. “Not that they are the most talkative of gentlemen.”

Phineas, still blindfolded, looked to Heckler. “Lad?”

Heckler nodded. “Ah’ll take a look.” A little smugness showed as he hefted the velvet bag into which he’d slipped his winnings. “Just a quick trip to mah room first, Ah think.” He strutted from the room.

“The precociousness of youth,” Tommy commented wistfully. “Those were the grand days, don’t you think, barnacle-bugger?”

“You’re half my bloody age, grease-breath. You go talkin’ like that again, I’ll crush out your bile and use it to polish my shoes.”

Missy sighed. “Charming, Phineas. It has always amazed me that you never married.”

Phineas untied his blindfold and tossed it into the corner. “Ah, I’d have an impossible time slinging the seed at my age, so what’s the point? Unless I had some o’ that seal-testicle tea they make in Bangkok.”

Missy pointedly dismissed him and turned her full attention to Thomas, who stopped whatever pending insult was about to escape his lips.

Missy swirled the liquor in her glass. “Is Oliver due back?”

“Yes, ma’am. Should be anytime, I’d say.”

“You’ll give us fair warning, won’t you Phineas?” Missy asked sweetly.

“I’ll hear him before he rounds the block,” Phineas muttered, then paused, regarding Missy from the dark beneath his hat’s brim. “The lady here’s about to ask us ’bout the chief, brass-balls.”

Thomas fiddled unskillfully with the cards, trying to align them in a single direction. “Well, salt-spit, shall we wait and see if this is an inquiry that deserves answering?”

Missy leaned forward.

“I want to know about the Uprising.”

Thomas’ hands fell still. Silence. Cold. Suddenly Missy’s breathing was too loud for the room. She swallowed and pushed on anyway.

“Oliver led it, didn’t he?”

Phineas opened his eyes fully, eyes that might have been blue beneath frosty cataracts. He and Thomas shared a long look, exchanging an unreadable communication.

Phineas slid his eyes back into a tight squint.

“Aye, he led it,” he said. “Started with a little girl. Chimney gang hauled her right out o’ her mother’s arms and cut ’em both with a knife when they protested. Ollie was working some angle for Hewey at the time. Can’t recall, now…”

“Tracking opium,” Tommy said.

“Right-oh.”

They fell still. Missy shifted in Oliver’s chair. At length, Phineas continued.

“Ollie never talks about this, y’see, but the way some o’ the blokes tell it, he just went off. The gang had a cloak leading it and Ollie went manic and beat his head inside out with a milk jug.”

Missy gasped. The image of it assailed her—the violence of the act.

He wouldn’t. Would he? Is he capable of it?

The man is a criminal and a spy. Of course he’s capable of it.

Thomas took up the thread, staring dully at the unmoving cards. “That might have been the curtain for him, but when he took his first swing at that canary, all the regular coves and sweaters and coal backers on the street just charged in. Forty or fifty to hear ol’ Hosselton tell it.”

Phin chuckled. “Wish you could hear Hoss tell this. Now, there was a man with a gift.”

Thomas continued as if Phin had not interrupted. “Ollie did what every red-blooded man in Whitechapel had always wanted to do. He stood up to the damn cloaks. Those forty or fifty on the street that time, they were Ollie’s first crew. A week later, they went and blew up a canary chapel in Cathedral Tower.”

“Woulda taken some stones, let me tell you,” Phin put in.

“After that,” said Tom, “word got around. I heard about it through the gossip when I was backing at the air docks. A heroic young man leading a rebellion, killing cloaks—so many of us had just been waiting for it.”

Missy sipped her drink, finding the fire unwelcome. “I remember the rags,” she said. “It went on for weeks.”

Phin drained his glass with sudden exuberance. “I remember thinking ‘What’s this, a bloody kid’s in charge here?’”

Thomas swirled his own liquor. “I believe your exact words were, ‘Sod it, I’m going.’”

“But there were so many by then, see,” Phin said. “More than a hundred, and they were all reg’lar coves—family men, and youngsters and the like. And old, useless codgers like me. Ollie had us planting bombs, ambushing cloaks, cutting trams lines. Everything that happened, he had a plan. Those were the glory days, eh, clunker?” Tom nodded. “And Ollie took care of us, split us into crews, showed us the best places to hide. Hell, he had these tunnels built under Shadwell so’s we could move ’round. Never got caught, ain’t that a lark? Not once’d they get us.”

“Not even the Boiler Men,” Thomas said, finally reviving his smile. “You can’t rightwise kill ’em, but they’re damned slow.”

They smiled together, and Missy smiled with them. But this was not what she had asked for, and they knew it. No light anecdotes, but the meat of the matter.

The laughter died away into the same grim silence.

Phin refilled his drink. “The lady, here, knows how it ended.”

Missy nodded. “I read it.”

“Ollie saw it coming,” Phin said. “Wasn’t but a handful that listened to him.”

“All the men and firearms and gumption on the whole of the Earth are not enough,” Thomas said, raising his glass. “One cannot fight the Boiler Men. They cornered us down here, blocked up the elevator so we couldn’t get out, and shot every man they could find.”

Phineas finished for him: “And when they couldn’t find the men, they shot the women.”

They sat for some long minutes in silence. Thomas wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. It came away stained brown.

Phineas set his glass carefully upon the table and slid his chair back. “If the lady would excuse me,” he said.

“Of course. Thank you, Phineas.”

The old sailor slunk from the room without another word.

Thomas began to work on the cards again.

“So why only three men, now,” Missy asked, “if he could rally hundreds before?”

“Three’s a lot fewer as can be killed, Miss Plantaget—oh, sod these things.” Thomas made a snort of disgust and scattered the cards over the table. “The Ironboys came down on us with those awful Atlas guns and steam cannons. You know they’re strong enough to push over a building with their bare hands?”

Missy shook her head.

Thomas continued. “Was all we could manage to keep ordinary folk alive. A few of the crews helped out with evacuating people to the tunnels, but most of ’em were just too angry and…Those sorry buggers. Makes no damn sense to charge down an Atlas rifle. No damn sense.”

He flicked at the cards with his metal fingers. “We lost a lot of people that day, fighting men and ordinary folk both. Me and Phin stayed with Ollie, saved whoever we could. Tried to save the women and the children, at least. We didn’t fight, ’cause what was the use of it?” He sighed. “Ollie’s a clever cove, but I don’t think he ever realised that no one put the blame on him for what happened. Hell, half the Underbelly’s just waiting for him to raise the banner again.”

A long pause. The portraits stared down from the walls.

Tom spoke again into the quiet.

“We’re just waiting on him to come back to himself. He’s not been right since that day.”

They sat in silence a long time, lost in their respective contemplations. Missy let her mental rendering of Oliver stack up against these new images. It was no wonder he did things quietly now.

Except when inept little girls go on murdering his foxes, eh?

She ignored that.

“Why didn’t the cloaks come for him?”

Thomas shrugged. “My guess is that they only cared about stopping the rebellion. Once that was done…and done thoroughly…”

Thomas’ mounting sorrow filled the room. Missy had what she wanted, but…
I can’t simply leave him in such a state.

“I have one more question, Thomas.”

“Happy to answer it.”

Missy blessed him with a smile. “Why will you drink and smoke and swear in my presence, but never gamble?”

Tommy fidgeted, but his face had already relaxed some with the change of subject. “Well, it isn’t right to gamble with a lady present. One has to draw a line somewhere.”

“But you two are atrocious. Why bother at all?”

Thomas worked his tongue inside his cheeks for a moment. “Well, there has to be a line. Wouldn’t be proper otherwise.”

“Would you like to know what I think, Thomas?” Missy said with a twinkle.

“Certain as sunrise I would, miss.”

“I think that you don’t want me playing this game of yours because you know I would beat you.”

Thomas’ eyebrow crept up. “That’s a mite presumptuous of you, miss.”

Missy placed her drink on the table, then gathered the cards and tapped them into a neat pile. She passed the deck into Thomas’ meaty palm. “Teach me the game and we’ll see, won’t we?”

Phineas chose that moment to reenter the lounge. He carried in his right hand a velvet bag that looked suspiciously like Heckler’s, and which jingled suspiciously as if filled with Heckler’s money.

Thomas sipped his brandy. “What did you swap him for it?”

“An ill-tempered rat,” Phin said.

Missy was aghast. “You villain!”

Phin grinned his gruesome gap-toothed smile. “ ’S what he gets for fleecin’ us. If he screams like a girl we might even give him his winnings back, eh, pewter-pecker?”

Thomas waved the cards in Missy’s direction.

“Still want to learn, m’lady?”

Missy rapped sharply on the table, and Thomas began to deal.

Though I call them prophecies, they are not the visions of John and Daniel. What the Lady and her Consort consent to show me of the future is derived of exacting calculation and long-practiced methodology. He is a masterful observer with a capacity of extrapolation that parallels the omniscient. She is a force of will stronger than the very tectonic plates of the Earth.

This future that I have been shown is more true than any premonition, for it is a future they will build themselves. If these visions were prophecies only, I may still have hope.

IX. i

Bergen’s neck tingled. Like a dull knife run up and down over the hairs, the sensation saturated his muscles with tension. It was a familiar feeling, one honed in the jungles of the dark continent over half a lifetime of travel there—a feeling Bergen linked with the savage heritage of man, a relic of primordial times when danger lurked all around.

He was being watched.

“Ready yourselves,” he ordered.

Mulls and Pennyedge unslung their air rifles.

Bergen unbuckled the straps of the steam rifle’s holster and lowered it carefully to the ground. He scanned the shifting smog around them.

For the tenth time he cursed the air that clung to the downstreets. It was a suffocating blanket of oily yellow blackness, staining everything it touched. Just to breathe it required a cloth tied tight across the mouth and nose that had to be kept wet at all times and regularly scraped to remove the buildup of grime. The eyes, too, needed protection, for the air would sting and water them. Von Herder had given them fish-bowl spectacles: half spheres of glass ringed in rubber and held tight over the eyes by a leather strap. Their curvature distorted Bergen’s peripheral vision, and he cursed them, too.

“Nothin’ out there, Gov,” Mulls grumbled, sweeping his lantern side to side.

“Quiet.” Bergen braced his legs and hauled the heavy weapon from its holster. He set the butt end over his shoulder, nestling it in the slight dip between his deltoid and his neck. The heat from the gun pressed in on his face as he raised it. The boiler was heated electrically, and rapidly came to full pressure.

“Not like we’s can see anyway,” Mulls grumbled.

“Quiet!” Bergen snapped. “I want a circle, torches facing out.”

Mulls muttered something under his breath and complied. Penny obeyed without question. The boy’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow, and he held himself in a ready half crouch. The boy held the air rifle like it might be a spear, and shuffled his feet side to side. In contrast, Mulls and Bergen stood tall, straight, relaxed, weapons slightly lowered so the eyes could scan wide, but high enough to snap the guns into aiming position when necessary. Bergen nodded to himself at Mulls’ form. The man must have listened to his instructions after all.

Something metallic scraped in the dark as it moved. Mulls started badly. Pennyedge merely angled himself towards the sound, remaining ready. The American-made electric torches tied to their belts illuminated more of the falling ash than the surrounding terrain; beneath the Shadwell Underbelly, no other light existed. The shifting air hid whatever other motion might be visible.

Bergen knew what it must be: he felt the rhythm of an animal prowl.
Like Africa,
he thought.
Like the Dark Continent watching me through the eyes of her supplicants.

He mentally dropped the analogy. These were not tigers, nor lions, nor even wolves. These creatures would not halt to consider whether their prey was worth the trouble. These creatures merely considered the best way to close for the kill.

“They are coming. Both of you be prepared to drop low. Hit them in the face or shoulders to delay them. The killing shots will be mine.”

Seven heartbeats passed.

A scrape and growl exploded from the ashfall near Mulls. Mulls locked his rifle into position and planted two solid shots into the charging creature’s head. The air rifle puffed soundlessly as it discharged, stirring Bergen’s hair with wind. Bergen did not turn for that creature yet.

Another leapt from Penny’s side, at the far right of Bergen’s field of fire. Penny threw two haphazard shots into it. The beast whirled and skidded to its right, directly into the path of the steam rifle. Still Bergen did not fire.

Another charged from behind. Bergen let Penny take that one as well, knowing Mulls could hold it back if Penny could not. Mulls fired twice more at his own quarry.

Bergen leveled the steam rifle and sighted along the length of it. Between the weapon’s bulges and lengths of crinkled metal tubing, he watched the creature right itself to all fours, then spin on him. The torchlight bounced back off brass-knob eyes, cast-iron skin, and teeth of tarnished steel. The beast roared, a sound like a great machine collapsing, and leapt for Bergen’s throat.

He put a round between its jaws.

The steel bullet vanished into the creature’s body trailing a blast of steam that burst into a dance of lightning an instant later. The force of the discharge torqued Bergen’s body to the right. He let the momentum carry him in a spin, dissipating it in motion rather than in tearing his shoulder apart. His target vanished, sparking, into the smog.

The sweep of the weapon carried Bergen’s field of fire to the area behind him. He found Penny crouching, still holding the air rifle like a spear, hurling his last few rounds into the swerving mechanical horror beyond. Bergen hauled back on the rifle’s handles, pushing it into his shoulder to stop the spin. His next shot was sloppy, splattering steam across Penny’s back. It took the target through the shoulder, splintering a portion of its torso and casting its gears over the ground.

He’d been unprepared for the recoil. The rifle kicked into his shoulder like a horse, and he felt muscles twitch and spasm in his chest and back as he strained to keep hold of it. Penny dropped to the ground as the steam cloud’s electric discharge jolted him. The beast fled into the dark with a yowl like glass scraping on glass.

Mulls cracked off two more rounds and Bergen knew without keeping track that they were his last. A grunt or growl escaped Bergen’s lips as he tried to pull the steam rifle around and sight on the third beast.

Mulls dropped to one knee, scrambling to pull cartridges out of his belt. His target, knocked flat by his last shots, pulled itself effortlessly to its feet. In a heartbeat, the creature had dug in its heels and leapt at him, stretching wide its beaklike maw.

Bergen bit down against the pain in his shoulder as he steadied the steam rifle.

Mulls brought up his weapon and jammed it horizontally into the creature’s mouth. The steel teeth crushed the barrel and splintered the stock and casing. Mulls screamed as one of the creature’s forepaws landed on his chest and began to tear into his coat.

Bergen took an extra second to steady himself, bending his knees and bracing for the discharge. The creature tossed the shredded remains of Mulls’ rifle aside and plunged its jaws towards his face.

Bergen put the shot into the base of its neck, parallel to the spine. The rush of steam blocked all vision, but Bergen knew it was a hit.

Silence descended quickly after that. Bergen let his arms drop and settled the steam rifle bore-first to the ground.

Freed to move again, his shoulder burst into a storm of pain. Muscles spasmed up along his back. He couldn’t help but drop to a collapsed squat, wondering if anything were sprained.

“Unspeakable rotter!” Mulls cried.

He was alive, then. Good. Bergen reached a shaking hand up to wipe the condensation off his spectacles.

“Help me, you sots,” Mulls said. “The rotter’s bloody heavy.”

Bergen laid the steam rifle on its side and staggered to help. Penny joined him, still walking light and tense like a cat, and together they wrestled the metal carcass of the third creature off Mulls’ chest. The big man gave the thing a kick, then sat up.

“Stupid beast. What in God’s name was it?”

“They are called Ticker Hounds.”

“Blimey. Didn’t think they’s real. Just stories, you know.” Mulls accepted Bergen’s hand and stood. The action, so unconscious a reflex, strained Bergen’s throbbing shoulder.

“Are you wounded?” Bergen asked.

Mulls’ eyebrows twitched up; a metallic growth in his cheek swivelled a bit. He patted down his chest. “Nothing but me coat, Gov.” He stretched the coat away from his body to show the three tattered slashes across the front. “Bit o’ the vest beneath. Bit o’ the shirt beneath that, I wager. Christ, but it had nails.”

Bergen glanced at Penny, who, besides breathing harder, maintained his disinterest as he examined the hound’s body.

Mulls crossed himself. “That thing is downright unholy.”

The carcass of the hound lay on its side. Its back from the base of its neck to its hips gaped wide, streaming black oil and a colourless ooze onto the flagstones beneath. Its guts had laid a cone-shaped mark behind it, some ten feet long. Twisted bits of metal had been scattered across the area, with some wet lumps that might have looked like flesh in better light.

The thought came to Bergen that there might be more.

“Boy, give Mulls your weapon,” Bergen ordered.

Penny spun on him with narrowed eyes. Bergen stared coldly back.

“The weapon goes to the man who will make the best use of it, boy.”

Bergen could feel the lad’s suspicion. Still Penny hesitated.

Bergen placed his right hand on the hilt of his sidearm. Tendon and bone grated together inside his shoulder and he winced. He tried to disguise it as a sneer.

“I have not the time for this
Bockmist
right now.”

An empty threat, and the boy knew it.

“Easy, mate,” Mulls cut in, addressing the youth. “You can have the flasher. You’re better in close than me anyway.”

Not breaking eye contact with Bergen, Penny reached out one hand with the rifle. Mulls fully wrapped his fingers around it before attempting to haul it away, and passed over the flasher. Penny snatched it and let it hang from his fist by the leather shoulder strap. He made no move to put it on.

“Do you know how to use that?” Bergen asked.

Penny did not answer.

Had John
wanted
this sojourn sabotaged, sending along such a disobedient child?

“Answer, boy.”

Bergen’s frustration mounted. The boy clearly considered himself Bergen’s equal, and would take every opportunity to challenge him from then on out. Allowing that balderdash was no way to run an expedition.

“Come and kill me, then, boy,” Bergen rumbled. “See how far the two of you make it. What will you do when there are five or six hounds? What will you do when the clickrats in their hundreds become hungry for your bones, or the nesses drag you down into their holes? How is your sense of direction, boy? How is your sense of time?”

Penny’s lip twitched at the corners.
Angry? Good. As long as you’re listening.

Bergen beat a fist against his chest. “I have crossed the Sahara and the Alps, boy. I have been in and out of the Congo a half dozen times. You are here because John Scared assigned you to me, and for no other reason. I will have your concentration and your obedience or I am done with you. And when you think of murdering me, think first of this: I am quite capable of returning to the city under my own direction and with the help of no one else. Therefore: I can kill you, but you cannot kill me, lest you doom yourself. Is that clear?”

Though Bergen saw no change in Penny’s outward expression, he felt the boy’s presence diminishing, until he seemed less an adder than a toothless dog trying to affect ferocity.

“Put on the flasher. I will waste no more time on these childish games.” Bergen turned his back and bent to wrap the steam rifle in its holster.

He is not a toothless dog,
said a thought in Bergen’s mind.
Right this instant he is contemplating how best to dispatch you. He knows he is faster than you.

Bergen ignored the thought. He’d left the boy little choice but to fall into step, and so the boy would fall into step.

Bergen detached and switched the handles on the steam rifle. Von Herder, in one of his characteristic fits of brilliance, had designed the weapon with the ability to be configured for left-or right-hand firing. The right shoulder would not heal sufficiently for some hours. Fortunately, Bergen was left-handed.

Mulls stood nervously to the side, shifting weight from one foot to another. Bergen might have chastised him for it, but that he didn’t want to give Penny any reprieve from the embarrassment of his censure. He calmly reloaded the steam rifle’s empty chambers, then hefted the mechanism onto his back. The right shoulder strap bit sharply into the skin, a sure sign of a developing bruise.

“Come,” he ordered. “We are barely past Lenman Tower.”

He marched into the gloom without looking back.

Oliver idly watched a clickrat gnawing on Tommy’s boot. The little creature looked more like a truncated snake than a rat, sporting a pointed silver head and a stump of a tail, and getting around on six spiderlike tin legs. It did have prodigious teeth, though, which it put to use with some vigour on its chosen prey. Tom fluffed his newspaper and didn’t seem to notice.

“Always seem to come to Shadwell the instant anything goes awry, don’t they?” he said, turning the paper over.

Oliver looked up to see a group of four gentlemen gold cloaks striding purposefully down the street towards the lifts at the far east end. Their gold capes gleamed against the background of grey-and black-clad humanity that wandered antlike along the street towards their homes and families after a long day at the factories. The street was officially named Marlowe Street, and ran the length of the Underbelly, from the lifts at the one end to the sheer drop at the other. The natives had named it, as well as the people who walked it, the Beggar’s Parade.

“They came from Phin’s area. Think he marked them?” Oliver asked.

“He probably tried to engage them in dither.” Tommy folded the newspaper neatly in two and passed it to Oliver. “Ah. There he goes.”

Oliver scanned out into the crowd, picking out a crooked hat bobbing on the river of humanity as certain as a leaf on a true stream. It floated after the cloaks as they turned up a side street called Disraeli’s Amble. Phineas had them well in hand.

Oliver wondered briefly what a real river looked like.

“Queer bit,” Tom said, “and a waste of personnel, getting one whole crew to watch the Underbelly. Only one way in, after all.”

“Sir Bailey is keeping us out of his way,” Oliver said with undisguised bitterness. “Thinks we’re all rabble. A lesser class.” The newspaper turned out to be the midday edition of the
Whitechapel Guardian,
a rag put out by Baron Hume’s personal publishing house in Cathedral. “Why are you reading this tripe, Tom?”