Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  Simmons followed him downstairs to the workshop. Bazalgette carried the device in reverent silence and deposited the spider on the workbench with great care. Simmons cast his eye over the room again at the destruction wrought by the Black Guard in their search for evidence, and Dent’s arrest. It seemed the schematics no longer interested them now they had the designer.

  Returning his gaze to Otto, Bazalgette was already into the guts of the machine. He prodded with tiny prongs and screwdrivers that looked like someone designed them for a doll to use. As he watched his friend making minute adjustments, it reminded him of the precision of a surgeon.

  The interior was a hive of wires, cogs and pulleys. Bazalgette pressed on something inside, and a leg jerked in response. A moment later, he had another of the creature’s limbs twitching. “Astounding.”

  “And the microfilm?” Simmons asked.

  “Oh yes,” Bazalgette said. “I think there must be a special combination. The wires take the place of ligaments but look to have an excessive amount of play. They seem to be over-designed. Perhaps if I…”

  He appeared to be looking off into the distance. A few seconds passed. “Yes,” he continued, changing tack. His hands left the instruments in position, and he spread the limbs out, making something resembling an eight-pointed star. He reached and pulled on two opposite legs with a resounding click. Continuing the process with the three remaining pairs, each lengthening, he returned his attention to the body cavity.

  “Yes, look,” he said, motioning Simmons to peer into the recess.

  The spot, previously packed full of wires and mechanism, now exposed a tiny octagonal box. They must have recessed it behind the leg mechanisms. Bazalgette reached in with long nosed tweezers and lifted the ornate container out onto the workspace.

  “Is that it?” Simmons asked.

  “I believe it is,” Bazalgette replied. He’d found a pair of jewellers spectacles and was adjusting the multiple lenses. Arms rotated on their housings, moving in front of each other to create the correct magnification for the task at hand.

  His friend fiddled with the silver octagon for a few minutes before a small lid popped open revealing a brass cylinder. It looked like a sewing spool, for holding thread.

  “This is it,” Bazalgette said, lifting it to the light from the arc-lamp. “There are hundreds of drawings on here, the schematics as Dent suggested.”

  “Excellent. Let’s get out of here and find somewhere safe to hole up.”

  “My house is not that far from here. It would be quicker than getting back to Whitechapel. That is where you’re based, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. To the mad scientist’s laboratory then?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Bazalgette replied, his face a mask of innocence.

  He replaced the microfilm in its protective octagonal case. Once safe, he reassembled Otto and placed the mechanical spider in his leather satchel, along with the tools he had collected to work on it later. “It seems an awful shame to leave such a beautiful workshop to rot.”

  “I suppose it is, but let’s find somewhere to safely plan our options, then you can concoct a strategy to steal all this stuff.”

  Bazalgette narrowed and twisted his mouth as if he’d eaten something distasteful. “Well, we could re-purpose it. As its previous owner is dead, it has no legal ownership, so it wouldn’t really be stealing.”

  “However you want to look at it,” Simmons said. “As long as it means we can leave now.”

  Bazalgette took one last glance around the workshop before following Simmons upstairs. They stepped into the back yard, the faintest glimmer of pink tinging the dark sky, and Bazalgette drew the watch from his inside pocket. “Almost six o’clock,” he said while Simmons opened the gate into the alley.

  A harsh voice thundered from behind them. “Halt. You are violating a restricted zone after curfew. Raise your hands and submit to inquisition.”

  21

  As Simmons turned to face their accusers, four Black Guard troopers emerged from the dark alley followed by another man in a long trench coat. Two crossed silver daggers high on his collar denoted his officer status.

  The guards each carried an arc-rifle burning with a soft blue light along the length of the barrel. Sizzling white sparks danced at the muzzles, casting shifting shadows over the refuse-laden walkway.

  The officer scanned his face. “I know you. Simmons, right? I said you were trouble from the start. We should have arrested you earlier. Now it seems you’ve confirmed my suspicions.”

  “Get ready to run,” Simmons whispered.

  “When?” came the low reply as Bazalgette stretched his shoulders.

  “You’ll know when it’s time. Have the arc-lamp ready.”

  Simmons turned back to the officer. “I think there must be some misunderstanding.”

  The man sneered at him. “Don’t act the innocent here, Simmons. You are a confirmed sympathiser with opponents of the Empire, and we look harshly on those who murder our brethren. Or did you somehow forget that trip to Highgate the other day, traitor?”

  “I didn’t forget anything, except—”

  Two staccato shots rang out, and the officer dropped to the cobbled street, blood spreading beneath him.

  “Was that the signal?” Bazalgette asked, his voice somewhat higher than usual.

  “Yes, damn it. Run!”

  Simmons bustled past his friend as the whine of the arc-lamp’s ignition sequence grew. Light blossomed behind him, the rapid burst casting long, stark shadows all around. Turning, he fired another two shots into the area occupied by the other guardsmen. Bazalgette followed, along with the telltale wail of arc-rifles discharging.

  The flash from the arc-lamp must have damaged the guards night vision as three arcs of charged particles crackled past them into the railings lining the alley. Sparks flew, and small explosions of mortar and brick sprayed them as they turned the corner back towards The Strand.

  Through the dark alley between the buildings, Simmons saw the two guards knelt, aiming at them from the street. He dug his heels in trying to arrest his forward momentum. This isn’t going to go well.

  Instead of slowing, his right boot slid out from beneath him, his weight already dropping as he slipped on the slimy rubbish in the alley. Everything seemed to fall into slow motion. As the hum of the arc-rifles ahead built to a crescendo, a shadow of something flew above him on the brick wall.

  Electricity exploded before him, deadly tendrils of white light grasping to scour the flesh from his bones. A second larger explosion followed with shrapnel whistling by, rebounding from the alley floor and walls. A sharp pain tore into his right leg above the knee, sizzling and burning. Ozone filled his nostrils as everything crept back into rapid motion. Someone was tugging at his arm. His head felt full of knives, maybe this was what that dockworker enjoyed before passing out in the police station?

  “Get up.”

  “What?” His vision swam, and his stomach clenched, threatening to heave.

  “Simmons, get up, we have to leave.” It was Bazalgette. The other man pulled him to his feet. The face coalesced into the familiar bearded form he had grown accustomed to though it seemed to have an unusual look of concern. “Can you walk? We need to go now.”

  Everything was a little fuzzy, like when Simmons awoke in the middle of the night after one too many bottles of poor whisky. He moved his legs under him, but they were unsteady.

  Pain lanced through his thigh as he tried to support his weight. He gasped, almost collapsing until Bazalgette’s shoulder intervened lifting beneath his arm, half supporting, half dragging him across the road.

  The familiar but distant whine of a siren cut through the ringing that filled his head. He recognised it instantly—the Black Guard were mobilising troops. Damn, we have to get off the streets.

  “Wait here,” Bazalgette told him, his footsteps receding into the gloom of a side street.

  Simmons reached down to his leg, his vision was
still blurry, and his hand came away slick with blood.

  Metal scraped in the darkness, followed by a solid clunk. He searched for his Webley, but the holster was empty. Hadn’t he been holding it a few seconds ago? Realising he must have dropped it when he fell, he instead reached into his jacket for the Mauser. It was reassuringly sturdy in his hand, and he aimed it down the dark alley.

  Footsteps approached, and he recognised a form emerging from the darkness.

  “Whoa,” Bazalgette said spotting the pistol pointing at him. “Are you all right? It’s me, Nathaniel.”

  “I know who you are. Don’t leap out of the shadows like that when I’m injured and jumpy.”

  “I’ve opened a sewer grate to get us out of sight. It sounds like we’ve caused a ruckus with the Black Guard.”

  “Fine, let’s get moving, then you can tell me what the hell is going on.”

  It took Simmons a while to descend the iron rungs into the blackness below. He realised he couldn’t support his weight on his right leg after almost passing out the first time he tried it. Instead, he used his good leg and both arms to position himself and then hopped down to each new rung.

  A loud scraping of metal above reassured him Bazalgette had repositioned the manhole cover, blocking the way against pursuit.

  Simmons misjudged the distance, his foot slipping and fell the last two feet to collapse in a heap on the sewer floor below. Pain shot up his leg as he foolishly tried to break his fall, and tears filled his eyes.

  A rapid clanging descended above him as Bazalgette dropped as quickly as he could, a soft halo of light following from his lamp.

  “Bazalgette,” Simmons said, it surprised him how pained it sounded. “Perhaps you should check my leg, I think it’s bleeding again, and I feel—” His gut heaved, and he coughed out a stream of hot, acidic liquid. He waited for more, and though his stomach wrenched, thankfully he had nothing left to bring up.

  Bazalgette helped him sit, using his pack as a makeshift backrest. “Let me have a look at you.”

  The light brightened as Bazalgette twiddled with the arc-lamp, and the full extent of the damage became clear. A spreading circle of blood-soaked cloth centred on a puncture hole two inches above the knee. A short length of metal protruded from the wound, smeared in crimson.

  “What is that?” Simmons asked, pointing at the offending article. “Shrapnel?”

  “Yes, I’d guess it’s the remains of Otto.”

  Simmons furrowed his eyebrows. “The toy from Dent’s place?”

  “Yes,” Bazalgette replied, gently probing around the damage. “I threw it at the guards before they shot at us. I thought if I could get it far enough ahead, it might disrupt the arc-rifles, which it did. Both arcs diverged to strike the device, much like a lightning conductor. However, it exploded rather spectacularly. I think this is one of its legs.”

  “Well, it feels like I rammed whatever remained of Otto’s leg further into me when I landed, and it hurts like hell. What’s the medical opinion, Doctor?”

  Bazalgette looked Simmons in the eye, and his face showed concern. “I’m not a doctor, well, not a medical one.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Simmons replied. “I was trying to make light of the situation.”

  “I’m not sure how to remove it, or even if I should. Though there is blood oozing from it again.”

  Simmons grasped Bazalgette’s arm. “I can’t move with this bloody lump of metal stuck in my leg, and we can’t hide here forever. The Black Guard aren’t stupid. They will work out where we went, so that leaves one solution.” He grimaced at the thought. “Pull the damned thing out, patch me up as best you can and hope I can hobble my way out of here.”

  Bazalgette wiped the sweat forming on his brow with the back of his hand. “I can do this. It’s just engineering—with soft materials.”

  Simmons decided he needed anaesthetic. His trusty hip flask held the aid he required, and he took two deep swigs as his friend began the extraction.

  There was blood. A lot of blood, but it looked like he had been lucky, no major blood vessels seemed damaged. It oozed through the bandages Bazalgette had wrapped around the wound, but the second layer remained more white than red when applied over the top.

  It was good anaesthetic. Simmons had accrued enough from the hunting jobs to ensure he had access to a few luxuries, and quality spirits were something he wasn’t willing to scrimp on.

  Bazalgette inspected the articulation below the knee to check on any movement that might interfere with the dressings and decided that immobilising the limb was the best option. It was a straightforward job of applying a makeshift splint to lock Simmons’ leg straight, and now he could hobble about.

  “Damn, that hurts,” Simmons said, eyes watering as he applied too much weight to his right leg.

  “We’ll take it slow, but you’ll live.”

  Simmons wrinkled his nose. “You come down here often. How do you stand that stench?”

  “You get used to it after a while. Are you ready to move?”

  “Which way?”

  Bazalgette smiled. “Just follow your nose.”

  Simmons had grown accustomed to the constant dripping and gurgling of the sewer waters. Even the smell was but a distant memory.

  Bazalgette led, guiding them through the twisting sewers. They alternated between travelling beside the sewage on wide walkways and climbing on hands and knees through side-passages leading to more tunnels. The place seemed endless. Simmons was sure he couldn’t find his way back to their entry point without his friend’s directions.

  The arc-lamp shed brilliant patterns across their field of view, reflecting from the muddy waters and illuminating the arched walls and ceilings. It was difficult in places with his leg splinted, but he managed, only complaining a little. Bazalgette seemed to hang about waiting for him to ask for help, which of course he wouldn’t, but he was there anyway.

  Simmons kept his shrapnel in his waistcoat pocket, the last remnant of the fantastic machine Dent created for his sons. Bazalgette had cleaned it up as much as he could, but it still retained a red sheen and specks of congealing blood on the interior. It would make an excellent souvenir to add to the two bullets fragments he’d saved from his military service.

  The slap of his friend’s footsteps through the shallow water ahead slowed then stopped. Simmons waited for Bazalgette to move again, or to tell him what he was waiting for. After thirty seconds he was about to continue forwards when Bazalgette turned and headed back towards him.

  “I heard something up ahead. Not sure what, but it didn’t sound like rats. I think there were footsteps.”

  “Was there any conversation or multiple footfalls?”

  Bazalgette shrugged. “I couldn’t make it out, but there was movement and, if I’m not mistaken, more than one of them.”

  “Can we go around?”

  Bazalgette rummaged through his satchel which held the massive battery powering the arc-lamp. “I’ll check my notes.”

  Simmons strained for any clues from the darkness ahead but heard nothing other than the slow feculent waters and occasional drips from the tunnel roof.

  “Hmm,” Bazalgette said, leafing through a sheaf of papers. “It won’t be easy. This is the most direct route to get us to the East End. There are other options, but they will require squeezing through narrow joining passageways between the main sewer and some smaller tributaries.”

  Bazalgette studied Simmons with a critical eye. “I don’t think that makes sense with your leg.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. It looks wide enough here. If we keep to one edge and make our way forward carefully, maybe we can find out a little more about what we’re facing. We might have to switch the lamp off, or have it emit as low a light as possible.”

  “I can do that,” Bazalgette said, reaching down to dim the lamp hanging from his belt. “We best wait a few minutes for our eyes to adjust before we move on.”

  Simmons followed him to the edge so th
ey could use the tunnel wall to steady themselves. The light dimmed and dropped them into the utter dark only appreciated fully by those who explore deep caves or underground sewer systems.

  He realised the low hum, which had accompanied them during their travels, had changed to a quiet ticking, more like a pilot light trying to engage. The glow floated away from him as Bazalgette advanced, and Simmons followed, trailing his gloved left hand against the curved brick wall.

  They progressed with slow deliberation, listening for anything that might carry towards them, but all remained quiet.

  After a while, the roar of rushing water echoed from ahead, and there was something else: soft shuffling noises and occasional splashes.

  Simmons waited, taking in the sounds. “I think it’s bleeders,” he whispered. The two men crept forward to a weir, the source of the cascade. It was only a drop of a few feet, but enough to aerate the water, bubbles forming in the dark murk below.

  For five minutes they viewed the area, spotting three figures in the blackness. There might have been more, or they may have seen the same ones several times, but they all wandered around aimlessly.

  “What now?” Bazalgette asked.

  Just how many are there? Simmons thought. If I shoot one, it’s likely to draw more within earshot, and down here in the tunnels, that will carry a significant distance.

  “Simmons?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Bazalgette lapsed into silence.

  “I could probably drop all three, especially with this weir between us. They aren’t very bright, but the sound might attract others in the vicinity.”

  He looked back to Bazalgette. “You’re sure there’s no other way around?”

  “No, this is the only easy route to continue eastward.”

  “What about other options further on? Is there anywhere we can get to a higher level? Ladders are good—those things are too stupid to understand how to use them.”

  Bazalgette thought for a moment. “Well, there are regular access shafts between levels, I’d have to check to see where the nearest ones are.”