by Gareth Clegg
He pulled the door open to the first black cab and climbed in to find a pistol aimed at him from the seat opposite. Lynch sat there, face a mask of calm and said nothing. The barrel didn’t waver in the slightest. Her eyes asked a question to which he nodded a silent yes. The Mauser lowered but remained in her hand.
Their contact entered, sitting beside Simmons. “My name isn’t important. You can call me Smith if you must. Before I say any more, I don’t want to know anything about you or the rest of your team. I’ve been paid to get you into the rail yard and onto a carriage. After that, I’m done. Everything else is up to you. No names, no information, no questions. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” replied Simmons.
“Good, now let’s go.” Smith tapped on the cab roof, and they lurched into motion with the crack of a whip.
Lynch sat with the Mauser on her lap, looking as relaxed as if they were on a simple trip to the theatre. She showed no sign of concern about their plan to break into the Inner-City and invade the Queen’s residence in Hyde Park. Simmons had found her to be a woman of few words, and that was fine by him. Nothing worse than idle chatter on route to important business. He realised he hadn’t thought about quiet in some time, having become accustomed to Bazalgette’s tendency to blurt something out when it went silent. If it wasn’t the latest tweaks he’d performed on the arc-lamp, it was some other techno-wizardry he’d come up with.
Simmons tried to convince himself it was better this way. But damn, he missed the sound of Bazalgette’s excited tones describing his latest discoveries. A smile crossed his face thinking about it, and Lynch raised a quizzical eyebrow. He shook his head at her, and they continued in silence.
Smith directed them onto a labourer’s omnibus a few streets from Hampstead Road, and they travelled with the rest of the late shift to the engine yard at Euston.
With the clothes provided, they blended in with the other workers and the checks at the gate went without a hitch. The overhead rails from all the Inner-City areas converged here. Silent carriages hung in the darkness, awaiting repair.
Lynch and team found an empty work-shed where they could change out of sight. They unpacked the tool-bags they each carried, which held their equipment rather than the expected engineering tools. They had packed the top layer with spare coveralls and an assortment of spanners in case of inspection.
Now the squad constructed the devices they knew and loved. Pistols and holsters along with a variety of hand-to-hand weapons and even a few rifles and a shotgun were being rebuilt. Simmons busied himself with his rifle. The speed at which Lynch’s crew organised themselves was nothing short of amazing. There was a little chat between them, jokes poked at each other, but all in good humour. As they prepared for action, he could see this was an elite force of veterans, as disciplined as any he had served with.
The rifle he’d spotted was approaching completion, and it was unlike anything he’d seen before. It reminded him in part of the arc-rifles used by the Black Guard, but a much slimmer, streamlined design. The other woman in the team, Fletcher, had pieced the remarkable weapon together in a few minutes. She spent a few seconds checking the mechanism. It appeared conventional enough, a breach loaded round, though the bullet itself looked unusual.
She noticed him watching and smiled with a chuckle. “Simmons, isn’t it?” Her accent was sharp and clipped Scottish dialect.
Simmons hadn’t realised he had been staring. “Ah, yes. Yes, it is. You are Sergeant Fletcher if I’m not mistaken?”
“You’re no mistaken,” she replied, “but it’s no me you’re interested in now, is it? It’s this wee beauty.” She tapped the stock of her weapon and looked back over to him. “It’s no quite the brute you have there,” she gestured at his rifle. “.303 Holland if I’m no mistaken?”
Simmons stood and crossed the distance to take a seat beside her. “You’ve a damned fine eye for weapons. Yes, I’ve had this old girl for a good few years, been through thick and thin with her out to India and back.”
“Really?” Fletcher said. “Was it all hunting, or has she seen any real action?”
“A little of both to be honest. More so since returning to Blighty. It was just before the invasion, you see.”
“Which regiment did you fight with?”
“Ah, long story,” he replied. “Let’s say I was freelance and worked with the resistance.”
Fletcher smiled with a knowing nod. “Enough said.”
“So,” Simmons continued, “what the heck is this contraption you’ve got yourself hooked up with? I’ve not seen one before. It looks like the bastard child of an arc-rifle and something much more elegant.”
Several groans issued from the team. “For the love of Christ, don’t ask her that. She’ll tell you the story,” the big man, Blake said.
“Shut your yaps,” Fletcher said. “Just cos you lot cannae hit a barn door at arm’s length.”
A few more friendly jeers followed before she continued. “Dinnae listen to them bampots, they wouldnae know a good tale if it danced in front of them and kicked them in the balls.”
“Two minutes,” said Lynch. Silence filled the shed in an instant as all the humour ceased.
“I’ll tell you later, Simmons,” Fletcher said. “It’s worth the wait.”
Nathaniel watched the readings from Raphael with a sense of despair. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. Callam crossed the room. “It’s no use. I can’t boost the signal any further. The relays won’t take it.”
“Why is it degrading so quickly? The power outputs haven’t changed. It’s almost as if there’s a new resistor or capacitor in the loop somehow.”
Callam turned to face the mangled remains of the ArcAngel amongst a mass of wires and tubes. “Raph, can you detect any changes to the network since the last diagnostic?”
Power lines pulsed around Raphael, and a rising hum filled the room. “I’m sorry, Callam, the system appears to be identical to our previous baseline.”
“Shit,” Callam said, thumping the workbench with his fist.
Nathaniel looked pensive for a moment. “So, if what we are seeing is accurate, then there’s nothing different with the systems. No change in the power input, so what does that leave?”
Callam’s face lit up catching Nathaniel’s inference. “If it’s not external, it got to be internal. Raph has changed.”
“When did you notice the fluctuations?”
Callam shook his head, the shock of realisation sweeping over his features. “It was after I plumbed him into the core. I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself. I suppose they were only minor to start with, and that could have been the system reconfiguring. Then it’s been difficult trying to keep everything else going with such a skeleton crew.”
“Raphael?” Nathaniel asked.
A screech of metal accompanied the ArcAngel turning his head to focus across the room. “Yes, Nathaniel?”
“Can you run a self-diagnostic? See if there have been any changes in your processes since your integration with ArcNet.”
“Sorry, Nathaniel, I can’t do that. My internal diagnostics are offline. They are one of many non-functioning systems from the damage I sustained during my detention.”
“So you don’t know if something has changed in how you are processing the data and power inputs?”
“No, I can only tell you I feel no differences, and I have started no new protocols.”
“Okay,” Nathaniel said, turning back to Callam. “We need to work around it. What are the chances we could run additional feeds straight from the core?”
“You mean to bypass Raph? There will be no failsafe if we pull raw power. It is doable but dangerous.”
“As long as it’s possible, we can deal with the safety factors. I’m thinking of running through a series of capacitors to ramp down the output to a safe level, and then link it into the dormant systems. It’s not as good as everything coming from a central point, and we won’t be able to adjust the flow—”
“But it will get those systems operative,” finished Callam, a huge grin spreading across his face.
The carriage clanked into motion. While the squad crouched between stacks of wooden crates, Simmons couldn’t resist the urge to examine the contents of the one nearest him. It contained an assortment of fresh vegetables and salted meats. How the other half lives.
Their carriage joined three others, all of them rising into the air. Cogs clacked above them, and sparks rained down as they passed a set of points where different overhead tracks crossed. Carriages banged together, and a few crates shifted, but the straps in place prevented them from moving more than a few inches.
He caught Lynch’s eye. “So this is how the nobility travel? They’re braver than I thought.”
“This is a goods carriage,” she replied. “The ones for passengers are a lot more luxurious, and they have hydraulic suspension for an almost smooth ride.”
Simmons nodded. “I’ll have a word with Smith, see if he can upgrade us to first-class next time.”
“With any luck, there won’t be a next time.”
A steady clicking sounded above them as they climbed at a steep angle. Some clever connection to the rail kept them horizontal.
“We’re approaching the wall,” Lynch said. “Lights out and keep your heads down. We don’t need any eagle-eyed guard spotting anything in here and raising the alarm.”
The carriage interior was pitch-dark, and Simmons didn’t think anyone could see them, even if they peered in with their noses pressed against the glass. Clearing the wall was much easier than expected. They passed over ten feet from the walkways, and high above the soft glow of street lights below.
With a lateral sway, their carriage veered to the left, snaking along after the others southwest towards Hyde Park. They’d travelled around fifty yards when they lurched forward with a squeal from ahead, then swung back, leaving them rocking to-and-fro in the night sky.
Lynch shot out a burst of hand signals to one of the squad obscured from Simmons’ view, fingers pointing to her eyes then back to the team member. She turned to him and whispered, “Simmons, keep yourself between those crates and the rear window and see if there’s any unusual activity from the wall behind us.”
Their connection to the overhead track creaked as they continued a subtle shift back and forth. The sound wasn’t dissimilar to old sailing vessels riding a calm sea. Nodding his acknowledgement, he made his way to where the crates stood high enough that his head wouldn’t rise above them as he peered through the rear window. He rose until his nose rested on the rubber seal holding the glass in place.
Through the darkness, he spotted floodlights on the walls behind them, all pointing down into the city. Uniformed figures moved along the wall, two-person patrols and groups that huddled at sentry posts every few hundred feet. It was many years ago, but he remembered his early days as a young officer being garrisoned and ordered to watch the perimeter through the night. Cold work if you stood still. He’d always preferred to keep walking, inspecting the positions where there would be a brew on, tea or coffee, it didn’t matter as long as it was hot.
He ducked back to floor level and located Lynch. “Everything seems in order. No signs of any excitement, they’re scanning the ground with the spotlights as usual.”
“Good,” she replied. “It looks like there’s a passenger transport ahead. It will have priority if it needs to cross our path. Fletcher is keeping an eye on it, but we need to sit tight until it’s out of our way.”
A faint blue light flickered on the rails above them to the north as power streaked along before the approaching train. A shower of brilliant white sparks accompanied the clanking of the other vehicle crossing tracks ahead of them before carriages hurtled past. Simmons tried to follow one of the bright windows and glimpsed a scene of luxurious upholstery and several seated figures. In the brief glance, he could swear those were champagne flutes in their hands. Then the other black carriage was a receding blur suspended in the heavens as it sped across the night sky like a shooting star. Now that’s the way to travel.
A moment later, a hum heralded the power increase before they bumped forward, resuming the journey towards Hyde Park and their target—Kensington Palace.
The train crested the wall surrounding the northwest corner of Hyde Park. They had been running parallel a hundred feet north for some time. Now they rounded a sharp bend to head due south, descending into the grounds of the royal residence.
Once across, the team jumped into action. They adopted positions to exit the carriage. If their information was correct, they were aboard a scheduled shipment which would end in one of the warehouses near the Palace. The crates should remain overnight, transferring to the stores in the morning. However, they’d received no intelligence, so they couldn’t rule out a night shift with workers waiting to unpack anything that might spoil.
This was where they needed to play it by ear and react to the environment they faced. Lynch and team seemed relaxed and ready for business, no matter what the evening threw at them.
Lynch had made it clear to the squad that the ideal operation was to sneak in and out with the Empress without detection. If things became dangerous, their first encounters were to be silent. It would only get noisy if their plans all went to hell.
A dull glow rose towards them as the carriages descended into a group of large buildings and Simmons soon saw the warehouse loom into view. The train rattled on the overhead track and clanked as they crossed under the supporting pylons as it slowed, now only a few feet above ground level.
A series of Arclights hung from the beams of the deserted area shedding a dim light. Everything was quiet except for the rattle and hum as the carriages came to a shuddering stop.
Piles of boxes and crates littered the platform, providing reasonable cover, at least from sight. The team surveyed the scene for a short time planning the safest route from the carriage and through the warehouse towards the Palace.
A crackle of electricity sparked overhead, and the interior lights brightened.
“Shit,” said Lynch.
Simmons looked at her. “I take it we weren’t expecting that?”
“No, we were hoping we’d have free rein until a morning unload.”
Her face was grim but determined. “Fletcher, what have you got?”
“Nothing new,” came the Scottish drawl.
A single bell rang from the interior, and the doors hissed open.
“Talk to me, Fletcher,”
“I’m telling you, there’s nothing—” she replied. “Oh, just a minute we’ve got movement from ten o’clock. Five—no, eight figures.”
Lynch wasted no more time. “Move out, take cover and let’s keep this quiet.”
“Wait,” said Fletcher, holding a flat palm up at her side. “They’re bloody automatons.”
“Orders stand, move out.”
The team slithered between the carriage doors staying low and pushed into positions between the crates. Simmons felt a tap on his shoulder, turning he saw Fletcher beckoning to him. “Follow me. I got a wee plan for us.”
He crouched and followed the woman who ducked behind a set of boxes further along the platform. As he rounded a crate, expecting to see Fletcher holed up there, she shuffled between them and disappeared off the other side. He crawled across to investigate.
She’d dropped four feet into the areas designed for the carriages and, he presumed, inspection by technicians. He caught up halfway to the next platform. “Where are we going?” he whispered.
“There’s a gantry at the far end of the warehouse. Noticed it as we were coming in.”
“Ah,” he said, realisation flooding his features. “And you want a better vantage point?”
“That’s my boy, Simmons. Aye, I like to see what’s happening down there, a bird’s-eye view helps a lot in my line of business.”
“Right you are then. Come on, what are you dawdling for?” he said, pushing ahead.
They checked the progress of the automatons when they reached the base of the ladder. The things looked to have entered the warehouse and then stopped on the platform by the front carriage. They stood in four pairs and seemed to be waiting for something.
Simmons followed Fletcher up thirty feet onto the gantry that spanned the width of the building. Narrow railings ran on either side of the five-foot-wide metal beam, and Simmons had to admit it was a massive section of steel. Bazalgette would have loved it.
Fletcher took up a position where she had cover near the control unit, and he followed her lead. Simmons hadn’t noticed her unsling her rifle which was now aimed it at the train they’d arrived on.
“What’s happening?” Simmons asked.
“Have you no got any lenses on those goggles of yours?”
“Nothing that magnifies, no.”
“Well, the team are still in cover. The doors are open to each of the carriages, and those metal monsters are just standing around.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“Damned if I know. There are binoculars in my belt on the left, use them if you want a look-see. I need to call in.”
Simmons wasn’t sure what she meant but found the pouch. After unbuckling a strap, he reached in, withdrawing a fine-looking pair of binoculars constructed in black leather and brass.
There were a series of quiet clicks, soon followed by a few more.
Simmons looked to Fletcher. “Was that Morse code?”
“Oh, look who’s mister technology now,” she said.
“What was that? Two dots, that’s an I, and dot-dash-dash-dot, is that a P?”
“Not so rusty after all eh, Simmons?”
“But what’s IP?”
“Oh,” she replied, still scanning the platform through her sights. “It’s short for ‘In Position’, I cannae be arsed tapping everything out, life’s too short for all that shit.”
“I suppose,” Simmons said, “but how have you got a Morse key working up here?”