Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  The smell was a little less pungent now. Either it was diminishing as they continued further from the river, or he was becoming accustomed to the life of a sewer dweller. That it had come to this, wading through the muddy waters of other people’s filth. The bars holding the grate in place slid back with a clunk.

  “Just one more to go,” Bazalgette said, voice eager with excitement.

  “Excellent,” Simmons replied, trying for enthusiasm to make up for his earlier brusqueness.

  They rounded the corner in the tunnel, losing sight of the dim glow from the distant entry point. The floor below became rougher and ridged underfoot. After a short while, the strain in his calf muscles told Simmons they were on a slight incline. They slowed as they neared the final grate and he tapped Bazalgette on the shoulder.

  “What layout are we expecting ahead?”

  “The Ravenmaster wasn’t clear. It’s not somewhere he frequented, but I expect we shall emerge into a holding tank area. There should normally be overspill from the inlet that washes everything through from the cistern, and we will have a few sluice-gates to bypass.”

  “Sluice-gates?”

  “Yes, large wooden sections with rubber seals around them that stop backflow.” Bazalgette brows creased as he fought for the right words. “Erm, they don’t allow the sewage that has gone through to get back in. As the Thames retreats at low tide, the pressure inside the system is greater than outside, and so it can flow through the sluice. But when it returns, the water forces the sluices closed. Ingenious really.”

  Simmons chuckled. Bazalgette had been so careful in phrasing his answer. “So it stops all the… waste coming back into the cleaner areas?”

  Bazalgette beamed at him. “That’s it. Simple but effective.”

  “So the next question is, how do we get past?”

  “Ah, brute force, I’m afraid.”

  “Brute force?”

  “Well, that and plenty of leverage.”

  It took half an hour to open the sluice-gate. Most of that was to satisfy Bazalgette that the wedge was secure if they needed to get out in a hurry. Even with that done, it was still a squeeze pushing past the massive section of dark-stained oak. The flow of water was a touch stronger once it opened though only enough to nudge it a few inches before it thudded back against the wooden chock.

  The last grate surrendered to the final key combination, and they were into the inner workings of the Tower of London. They stood in a collection area where the waste outlets emptied.

  A rusted ladder led up to floor level from the far side of the pool and pipes entered the room, seemingly at random. They ended in the central vat, some form of water processing Simmons thought. Grilled metal walkways, edged with steel barriers, lined the vast chamber, and across from them was a single doorway. The exit was an impenetrable-looking grey monstrosity: seven feet in height and half-again as wide as a typical door.

  As Bazalgette crossed to inspect it, and a soft click sounded as it swung inwards.

  “What do you know?” Bazalgette said, surprise evident in his tone. “Unlocked.”

  “Isn’t that strange?”

  The engineer glanced over his shoulder. “Well, I don’t think they expected to have to lock anyone in here, so not too unusual. Maybe it’s just the element of luck we need?”

  Not convinced, but unwilling to get into a further debate over it, Simmons crossed the gantry to peer out onto a dark stone cut stairway leading both up and down.

  He listened for a few seconds at the edge of the stair. Satisfied they weren’t about to walk straight into members of the Black Guard patrolling outside, he motioned down the stairs.

  As Bazalgette took the lead with the arc-lamp lighting their way through the blackness, Simmons pulled the Mauser from his coat and checked the magazine. The time he’d taken to make sure it was in good shape, during their stay in the Infirmary, had been well worthwhile. He held it low as he proceeded with slow, precise footsteps.

  The stairwell descended and turned left ninety degrees every twenty steps. They were on their fourth full rotation when Bazalgette stopped. The light dimmed, and the arc-lamp dropped to a quiet hum.

  “I think I heard something below,” Bazalgette said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Turn off the lamp.”

  The stairs plunged into blackness. They waited. The only sound - Bazalgette’s slow breathing two steps below him. As his eyes adjusted, a faint glow emerged, almost indistinguishable, but enough to show the reflected light from below. A scraping noise echoed to them, followed by a murmur of conversation.

  “Let me take the lead,” Simmons whispered. He made his way past moving towards the next turn of the stairwell. “Oh,” he added, “and whatever you do, make sure you secure your equipment. This isn’t the time for a spanner to go tumbling down there.”

  As he stopped at the corner, he held his hand up to his friend, hoping he’d recognise the universal signal to wait there. Peering down, the light was stronger, but there were still a few more turns of the stairs below them. He beckoned Bazalgette forward and pointed at his position on the stair then moved with deft footsteps down to the next corner.

  There were voices ahead, the back and forth of idle conversation, guard chatter. Yes, definitely the sound of two guards trying to kill time until someone relieved them.

  He continued, moving to the next corner while Bazalgette took his previous position. After a few turns, the bottom of the stairs opened out into a small room illuminated by at least one lantern. The faint smell of smoke drifted past, reminding him of his old paraffin lamp.

  “It’s bloody freezing,” said a gruff voice from within. “How can you stand it, you’re not even wearing a jacket?”

  “It’s not that bad, you soft git. Anyhow, in or out?”

  A pause and then a grumbled reply “Call. Two pairs, jacks and sixes.”

  “Oh, sorry my friend, but that won’t cut the mustard. Three tens.”

  “Whoa. Wait a minute. Two pair beats three of a kind, don’t it?”

  “Really? You’re having a laugh, mate. One pair, two pairs, three cards, straight. As it has always been. Now stop your belly-aching and cough up.”

  Simmons moved closer, hugging the wall for a clearer view into the room. Two guards sat either side of a small folding table, their rifles leaning against the wall behind them. He grasped the opportunity, striding in with his pistol aimed at them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. The men reached for their weapons before the realisation struck them of the pistol pointed at them.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Now we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way entails you being bound and locked in a cell until someone misses you at the next guard change. While the hard way…” He paused. “Well, let’s just say you won’t enjoy the hard way.”

  They stared at him, their faces a rictus of loathing. Both wore Black Guard uniforms, and Simmons pointed to the one wrapped in his greatcoat. “You, sit on the floor there,” he indicated a spot a few feet in front of the table, away from the rifles. “Hands behind your back. And you, my good friend,” this time gesturing to the guard in his shirt, “you can join him, back to back.”

  “You’ll regret this,” the second guard said through gritted teeth, eyes narrow. He was a little older and slighter of build.

  “Not as much as you, if you don’t shut up.”

  The man manoeuvred himself into the requested position. His eyes flitted around the room, looking for something, any advantage he could use. Simmons repositioned himself to stand ahead of the second guard. The one in the coat had resigned himself to captivity, and he wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Now from here,” Simmons said with the pistol aimed at the guard’s chest, “the round will pass right through you and into your colleague. So, let’s be sensible, and no-one needs to get hurt.”

  The older man laughed and spat to the side, a smile growing across his face. “And what next? How do y
ou expect to tie us while keeping that gun in our faces? That’ll be a tricky and dangerous manoeuvre, won’t it?”

  “Only if he was alone,” Bazalgette replied, stepping into the room. A crackle of blue sparks and a deep hum issued from the arc-rifle focused on the two captives.

  The smile dropped from the short man’s face.

  It took little to convince the younger guard to give up the keys to Dent’s cell. His older colleague cursed and threatened him until Simmons applied a dose of percussive therapy. With the senior man slumped unconscious, the other spilt everything he knew.

  Dent was in the last of five cells that led from the guardroom. Simmons pulled the door open a crack into a dark interior with several tarps laid over the floor. An array of metallic components sat on them, clockwork, gears and various lengths of wire. Pushing further inwards, he saw movement from a simple cot at the far side of the cell. A man lay huddled beneath two threadbare grey blankets on the hard stone—his clothing, once elegant, now worn with rips and loose stitching.

  “What is it? It’s not ready, it’s the middle of the night,” the man said, his voice slurred from recent sleep.

  “Mister Dent?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes? What’s going on?” His eyes darted between the two men in his cell. “Who are you?”

  “We’re here to free you from this place, Mr Dent,” Bazalgette said, taking a step further into the cold room.

  “But. The guards?”

  “They won’t be a problem,” Simmons said. “Come on. Time is short, collect anything you can’t live without and let’s be going.”

  Dent looked up from the filthy cot. “I can’t leave.”

  “What do you mean?” Simmons asked. “Don’t you understand, we’re here to rescue you, to get you out of this Godforsaken hole.”

  “Simmons,” said Bazalgette, his voice was distant. “Look at his legs.”

  Dent pulled the damp woollen blankets aside, exposing the ruined remains of his lower legs. They both bent at an obscene angle below his knees. It was more severe than the worst-case of rickets or deformity Simmons had encountered in all his time in the subcontinent.

  “They broke them,” Dent said, “when I refused to co-operate. Said I didn’t need them for what I had to do.”

  “And they didn’t splint them?” Bazalgette’s face was a mask of horror.

  “No, they left them to heal like this. Told me that if there were a next time, they’d take an axe to them.”

  “Damn it. What now?” Simmons kicked the wooden door.

  “We carry him,” Bazalgette said matter-of-factly. “Between us, we can get him out of here.”

  Simmons snorted. “It’s impractical, he’ll slow us down, and what would we do if we encountered any more guards?”

  “We can’t just leave him here. Look how he’s suffered already.”

  “Well we can’t take him, so what do you suggest?”

  “Mr Bazalgette?” Dent’s voice, like his frame, was frail. “Listen to him, he’s right. I’d only slow you down.”

  “But—”

  “No, please listen. I have important information that needs to get out of here. If the Black Guard tear it from me, then all is lost.”

  “I’m sorry Bazalgette, it’s the only way,” Simmons said.

  Bazalgette stared at his feet unwilling or unable in that moment to meet the gaze of either Dent or Simmons.

  “Who are you? Why should I trust you?” Dent said. “You might be from them trying to trick me into telling what I know.”

  Simmons walked further into the cell. “A man who told us of your father, and his work as a Horologist, sent us. He revealed secrets that only he knew and that you tried to follow but didn’t fully understand.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s a strange fellow. His name is Josiah.”

  “What?” Dent asked, his face ashen. “Josiah is alive?”

  “Well, yes,” Simmons said, “he said was a Horologist like your father. You know him?”

  “Yes,” Dent said, a catch in his voice. “He’s my brother.”

  “Brother?” Simmons said, turning to Bazalgette. “Why didn’t he say?”

  “I’m not sure, perhaps…” Bazalgette shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Dent was suddenly more animated. “What did he tell you of father’s work?”

  “That it was to do with the schematics for the original pocket watches,” Simmons said. “And he thought you were making copies.”

  “Yes, that’s what they wanted me to do. The Black Guard needed them, but I realised they’d know if I was lying, so I made one, but it’s inferior—by design. I limited the mechanism so it will only work for a short period and then require a long time to recharge.” Dent’s eyes dropped to his ruined legs. “It was my miserable attempt at defiance.”

  “How long have you been here?” Bazalgette asked.

  Dent’s brow furrowed. “Around six months, as far as I can tell. They marched into my store and dragged me off on charges of treason.”

  “And how many of these watches have you made for them?” Simmons asked.

  “Six. One per month. It’s as slow as I can make it seem reasonable, but they’re finding it harder to locate power sources.”

  “Power sources?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes, the power comes from certain… artefacts. It’s an electrical component of some form, but nobody fully understands it. I believe they’re from the remains of the alien fighting machines, from the war.”

  Simmons leaned back against the cell wall. “How are the Black Guard getting hold of these components?”

  “They have caches of alien salvage. The government organised the dismantling and collection of it all when the Martians died. Didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”

  “All right,” Simmons continued. “Let’s take a step backwards. Why did you think Josiah was dead?”

  “It was during the invasion when the aliens were approaching London. We were at home, and when they hit the house, it collapsed around us. Josiah and I were in the cellar. A beam gave way, and the whole roof came down, Josiah pushed me back, but he…” Dent let out a long sigh, shaking his head. When he raised his view, his eyes held a haunted look. “Well, I thought he must be dead. Everyone else died in that collapse except me.”

  “Didn’t you check?”

  “Not at the time—I ran. Then I got caught up with the others fleeing their homes. The Martians doused the whole neighbourhood with the Black Smoke and then fires rampaged. When I made it back a few days later, there was nothing left but charred remains.”

  “Fair enough,” Simmons said. “I can see why you thought as you did. Your brother also mentioned the ArcAngel project or network and to cut a long story short, he thinks one of them—”

  “Gabriel,” Bazalgette interjected.

  “Yes, that one, possibly Gabriel, received an original timepiece from the Empress. And that it might somehow have survived when the airship crashed. Is that feasible?”

  Dent grunted as he tried to shift his position to lean against the wall. “Well, the ArcAngels were tough. I mean really tough. Tesla provided the blueprints for their power sources. It was unfathomable, but yet beautifully simplistic in design. My father worked with him on the project, and the pocket watches used several of the same components that made the armour near indestructible. So, yes. It’s at least possible parts could have survived.”

  Bazalgette seemed to perk up at this. “And with the schematics, it could be possible to find the ArcAngel?”

  “ArcAngels,” Dent corrected.

  “Yes,” Bazalgette said, “but they destroyed the other three before the fall of Angel-One. Gabriel was the last survivor.”

  “That may be true, but as I have stated, they made them of stern stuff,” Dent said. “If you find the schematics, then you might discover a resonant frequency to locate the watch.”

  “Where are they?” Simmons asked.

  Dent paused, then no
dded. “They are in the basement at my store at number sixty-one, The Strand.”

  “Are they hidden? In a safe or something?”

  “Ah. That’s trickier. You’ll need to find Otto. He’s a mechanical toy father made for us when we were children. Within, he holds the schematics on microfilm. But he’s a little skittish around people he doesn’t recognise.”

  Bazalgette frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he is an elaborate device but only has a simple machine intelligence. So his default action is generally to run away if he’s confused. He’s got a few hiding places which are difficult to get at, so your best option is to lure him out.”

  “And how do we do that?” Simmons asked.

  “He likes music—especially uplifting works. His favourite was the 1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky. I know it sounds crazy, but it was my father’s favourite too. He must have written something into Otto to recognise it.”

  It was Simmons’ turn to screw up his face. “So we find the music and Otto will just come marching out for us?”

  “Well, yes. I had a good selection of recording tubes, Tchaikovsky should be among them if they are still there.”

  “It seems possible,” Simmons said, looking towards Bazalgette for confirmation.

  He stood there, silent, the cogs whirring. “We can’t leave him, Simmons. There’s got to be a way.”

  Dent shuffled trying to move his mangled limbs into a more comfortable position. “Mr Bazalgette. Please, listen to your friend. I know too much. It’s only a matter of time before they realise I’ve been lying to them, then they will rip what they want from me. We can’t let that happen.”

  “I can carry you. Simmons could take the Arc-Rifle and—”

  “Please, leave me. You have to retrieve the schematics. Every second you waste arguing about how to save me could be time getting to the information you need.” The crippled man looked up to Simmons, a pleading look in his eyes. “Do you have a spare pistol?”

  Simmons retrieved one of the guard’s weapons and handed it to him.