by Gareth Clegg
“Oh, just another toy from Mister Tesla’s collection, the transceiver, that’s what he called it. It’s a poncey way of saying transmitter and receiver. It’s in my jacket button, transmits a radio wave that’s picked up by the rest of the squad.”
“So you were just ‘calling in’. Ah, I understand now.”
He adjusted the binoculars and brought them to bear on the unmoving automata. They leapt into focus, the magnification was impressive. All eight were identical in construction, brass, wood and gun-metal grey. They seemed almost skeletal, except for a solid wooden torso’s peppered with valves and dials. Each was a little broader and shorter than the average man and looked like service or manual labour models. He said as much to Fletcher. “Aye,” she replied. “Well as they’re still deciding if they want to dance or no, I’ll get the lads and lasses moving this way.”
Another series of dots and dashes clicked by too fast for Simmons to follow this time and a few seconds later a single click in response. “Here they come,” Fletcher said, pointing back towards the crates and boxes nearest the last carriage.
It was incredible to see from above. They rolled in two teams, moving to new cover, then waiting for the other team to slide past them taking an advanced position before the whole fluid motion repeated. As Simmons watched, he knew these weren’t as good as the best troops he’d ever worked with. They were much better than that.
The squad crossed the warehouse while Simmons and Fletcher observed from their vantage point. There was still no sign of life from the automata.
“Movement, one o’clock,” Fletcher whispered as she tapped on her button. Simmons oriented ahead and noticed what she had spotted. Someone was moving through the shadows outside towards the warehouse.
The team moved in response to her warning, taking cover focused in the same direction he was. That transceiver is impressive.
He watched the scene unfold as Lynch made a series of hand signals and two of them peeled off. They headed in opposite directions but seemed to be moving to intercept the approaching intruders.
A figure in a black uniform pushed the door a little too hard, and it clanged from the wall. An almost identical form followed and said something to him. By the second man’s body language, Simmons could tell he was less than impressed by his colleague’s inept entrance.
As ‘Clumsy’ turned to apologise, Lynch’s men struck from either side, and the two Black Guard troopers slumped to the concrete.
A low laugh came from Fletcher. “Ooh, they’ll have sore heads tomorrow. Blake and Turner are the best at that quick takedown shit, silent as a shadow then bang, like a steam-hammer.”
Simmons had to agree. He’d lost sight of the men as they stalked their prey, moving between cover. They were chalk and cheese: Turner had an athletic build, short and lithe while Blake was his opposite, a great hulking fellow, made of muscle. It surprised Simmons how he moved with such grace for someone who looked more like a prize-fighter. Full of surprises, this team of Lynch’s.
“Best get yourself down there, Lynch will want to know what you prefer to do with those lightweights,” said Fletcher as she continued surveying the warehouse.
“Right,” Simmons said, making his way back to the ladder.
By the time he reached Lynch, the two bodies lay gagged and bound in a pile. The squad had established a perimeter with a clear line-of-sight to the remaining entrances and the still immobile brass and wood statues.
“Simmons, enjoyed your little jaunt with Fletcher, did you?” Lynch said.
“Yes, a remarkable performance. It was quite the show from up there.”
Lynch smiled at that.
Well, there’s a first time for everything.
“What do you want to do with the prisoners?” she asked.
Simmons thought for a few seconds. “Let’s see what they can tell us, then we’ll decide.”
“Right you are.” She turned to her team. “Look lively, lads. We need to have a chat with these two when they come around, and I don’t want them making any noise when they do.”
Blake and Turner watched the captives between them. Turner picked at his fingernails with a thin blade while casting his gaze about the room. Blake sat in silence, keeping both prisoners in his view.
A few minutes passed before ‘Clumsy’ showed signs of coming around. Blake tapped Lynch with his boot and nodded towards the groggy guard. Their prisoner’s eyes snapped open, and he made a few mumbled sounds, lost in the fold of his gag.
“Whoa there,” Blake said, pressing onto the knotted rag, forcing it further into Clumsy’s mouth. “No talking until the boss asks you something, or it will be the last thing you ever say. Understand?”
Clumsy nodded his comprehension, his eyes wide and shifting between the surrounding figures.
Simmons leaned forward into his sight. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you shall answer them quietly. If you make too much noise, my friend here,” he motioned to Blake, “well, let’s just say, he won’t be pleased.”
Another vigorous nod from the prisoner.
“How many Black Guard are there?”
Clumsy mumbled four syllables through the damp fabric.
Simmons turned to Blake. “We need to take that off him. I can’t understand a word he said.”
Blake looked past him. From his peripheral vision, Simmons detected an almost imperceptible nod from Lynch and Blake removed the gag, pulling a wadded ball of cloth from the man’s mouth.
His eyes still wild, Clumsy whispered, “God save the Queen.”
38
“Try it now,” Callam called from beneath the central console. All Nathaniel could see of him were his legs. The rest of his body lay crammed into the guts of the unit under cables that spilt onto the ground like a mass of writhing snakes.
“Are you sure?” Nathaniel asked. “You are in the thick of it if anything goes wrong.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Nathaniel didn’t want to say the first thing that came into his mind and instead settled for, “Okay. Powering up in three, two, one.”
A loud click of the heavy switch preceded the growing hum as power found its way into the new circuits. “See,” Callam said, “what did I tell—”
A shower of sparks exploded amid the crackling of angry electrical current and an even louder series of curses from the Welshman ending with, “Turn it off. Turn the bloody thing off.”
Nathaniel slammed his hand against the switch, killing the power. “Are you all right?” he shouted at the legs protruding beneath the cables. A few of the smaller ones smoked and the acrid smell of burning wires and hair hung thick in the air.
“Yes, I’m great. I love getting ten thousand volts up my backside. What do you bloody think?”
Nathaniel was ready to apologise, but Callam beat him to it. “Sorry, it’s not your fault. I’m just frustrated at this whole mess. I thought we had it this time.”
“It’s fine,” Nathaniel replied. “We’ve been at it for hours. Maybe we should take a break, look through the schematics again and see what we’re missing?”
“No, we’ve gone through it, and your calculations are correct. We both agreed that on at least three occasions. There’s something else we must have missed.”
Nathaniel smiled. “All the more reason for a cup of tea and a rethink. If we recheck the circuits, with clear heads, we’re bound to work out what we are overlooking. It will be something obvious.”
With a heavy sigh, Callam agreed. “All right, you smooth-talking devil, pull me out of this nest of vipers. We must have been at it for bloody hours?”
“Three… and a half hours,” Nathaniel replied glancing at his pocket watch. It was three hours and twenty-seven minutes. It felt odd not to say that, but he’d grown accustomed to having to limit his accuracy when referring to time. Most people seemed unable to appreciate the finer details.
He reached down, grabbing Callam by the boots and
hauled him from the mess of smoky cables. Scorch marks ran across his clothing in a web of dark lines, and his thick black hair was a smouldering mop jutting out at all angles.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Nathaniel asked as he helped the big man to his feet.
“Yes, I’ve had worse.” Callam thought for a few seconds. “Well, probably not. That hurt like hell, my body’s still buzzing from it.” He slapped Nathaniel on the back. “But nothing a good cuppa won’t cure, eh?”
“What?” Simmons said.
“God save the Queen,” Clumsy repeated.
“You’re the contact?”
“Yes, it was all last minute. I had no way to get free of my associate, that’s why I stumbled into the door, hoped it might give you enough warning.” He paused, rubbing his neck. “What the hell did you hit me with?”
“Sorry about that,” said Blake.
“No, it will make it seem better when I’m found with Jackson later,” he glanced at the other unconscious form.
“You’re not what we were expecting,” Simmons said.
“I’m sure that’s true, but we haven’t got time to talk about it now. The Empress is in a cell somewhere in the cellars, while the imposter will be in her rooms upstairs with two guards on the door. I think they are planning to take one or both of them out of here in the early morning, so you need to get moving.”
“What about the other guards and the household staff?” Simmons asked.
“There is a garrison of twenty-four Black Guard troopers and two officers. They work twelve-hour shifts with a change at six o’clock.”
“So,” Simmons said, “with you and your colleague incapacitated and the two guarding the imposter, that leaves eight troops and one officer on duty until six?”
“Yes, but they might miss us after a few hours, so best get your job done quickly.”
“And the staff?”
“They should be sleeping until they rise between four and five to provide food for the shift changeover. I don’t expect they will cause you any trouble, but the Black Guard employs them, so they have no loyalty to the Empress, they are just paid to play a role. They arrested the original staff months ago. God knows what happened to them.”
“What about access to the Palace and the cellars?”
“Right. I can reprogram the automatons to transfer the goods to the stores in the main house. There are tunnels between here and there and if you travel with them, it might offer you cover with the movement and noise.”
“Ah,” said Simmons, “so that’s what they’ve been waiting for?”
“Yes, they follow basic pre-programmed tasks. They will continue their current task unless you get in their way. They can make simple decisions, such as stopping to wait until their path ahead is clear, or if they cannot complete their instructions, they go into a standby mode. That’s all I know about them. The orders come on punched cards.” He pulled a stack from inside his dark coat. They were seven inches by three, grey in colour, and full of tiny rectangular holes.
“That’s what gives them their instructions?” Simmons asked.
“Yes, I need to load each unit with one of these and then tell them to process them.”
“Thank you.”
Clumsy smiled at him. “Let me get these automatons running, then make it look convincing with dumping Jackson and me someplace they won’t find us for a good long while.”
Lynch took over. “Turner, Blake, once those things are moving, bag our two friends and stash them somewhere safe. Everyone else prepare to move out in five.”
She tapped her top button three times then turned to face the gantry. When she received a single click in response, her hand was a flurry of movement telling Fletcher what they were planning. It was too quick for Simmons to understand, but from the few signs he recognised, Lynch was relaying the same message she had given the rest of the team.
He followed Blake and Clumsy to the group of eight wood and metal statues on the far platform. He had a strange feeling of unease as he approached them. Their identical frames were humanoid in design, but their heads recessed into the torso as if they had no neck. Their eyes were lifeless, glassy baubles surrounded by copper sitting in the gunmetal egg that resembled a head.
Clumsy walked between the two rows of four, inserting a punched card into a slot into the middle of each of their wooden chests. They remained inert, dead to the world and might as well have been statues.
“Automata, attention,” he said to the assembled group. A series of clicks and whirs sounded as their glassy eyes lit with a dull blue glow.
“Process new orders.”
A cacophony of scratches and clicking issued from the machines. The sounds like an army of angry old women knitting for their lives. It stopped after a few seconds.
Clumsy stood to one side. “Execute new orders.”
Each machine burst into action, marching in unison, their metal arms down by their sides like a group of newly appointed butlers. They split into four groups of two, each moving to a carriage to unload the crates and boxes onto the platform.
“All done?” Simmons asked.
“Yes, best get me stashed with my colleague,” he turned to shake Simmons’ hand. “Good luck. God save the Queen.”
“God save the Queen,” he replied as Blake led the black-uniformed figure across the warehouse and out of sight.
Simmons watched the automata following their new orders. I must tell Bazalgette about this. They lifted the crates with ease as if designed to fit them, or vice versa.
After a few minutes, the cargo stood stacked on the platform. From there, the automata picked up a container and headed to where they’d entered, and Simmons followed.
He stopped at the exit from the warehouse that led to stairs descending into darkness. As Lynch approached, he made his best attempt at a courtly bow. “After you milady.” She sneered as she passed with the first half of her squad, but he was sure he’d glimpsed the merest hint of a smile.
Lynch’s team activated torches in the pitch-black passage. Some attached to their weapons, others hand-held. They illuminated a brick-clad tunnel wide enough for two of the machines. Simmons guessed they were about twenty feet below ground level.
Lynch sidled over to him. “Best you stay close for now, my girls and boys know how to play nicely in the dark. I’d hate for you to walk in front of one of them when they think they have a clear shot.”
“Fair comment,” he replied, matching Lynch’s whisper. “Where on earth did you find all these people? You don’t have an entirely conventional approach to…” He stumbled for how to finish, “well, to anything really.”
“Long story, maybe I’ll tell you sometime. If we get out of here with our cargo.”
“I look forward to it.”
They travelled slowly, carefully. Light from the surrounding team moved to check walls, floor and ceiling. The sound of metal scraping and wood creaking ahead of them, a constant reminder of the silent automata as they progressed through the cold brick tunnels. It hadn’t looked that far between the warehouse and the Palace as they approached, but it had been dark, and they took care with their cautious progress.
Simmons felt a hand on his arm. “Hold up,” Lynch whispered.
Looking ahead, he noticed the torches had stopped. Then soft clicks followed as they switched off. The automata continued moving forwards into an area which began to resolve with a dull glow of light.
Lynch moved forward, reaching out to squeeze two of her team on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure exactly what happened, but there were quiet footfalls as the pair selected sneaked ahead hugging the walls of the tunnel. Silence hung heavy in the darkness for minutes, then out of nowhere a black shape appeared speaking in whispers to Lynch. It was Turner’s voice. “Opens into a large storeroom packed with boxes, so there’s light cover. It has electric lighting, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone there other than the machines stacking the crates.”
“How far have you seen
?” Lynch asked.
“Without going into the room, only about thirty feet, but it looks like it continues for some distance. A heavy door opens into the area. It’s open at the moment, but who knows once they finish lugging that food about.”
“Blake?”
“Yeah, he’s still at the entrance.”
“Okay. Head back, and if everything is the same in two minutes return and we’ll move in.”
“Done,” Turner replied, his footsteps receding to nothing in less than three steps.
The storage space was large but poorly stocked. Discoloured wooden crates sat in a puddle which produced a sickly sweet odour from their rotting contents. Damn, Simmons thought, this is the royal residence. What the hell is going on?
The exit was unlocked and opened onto a dark passage. It ran in a slight curve towards the low glow of lighting from beyond the corner. The light from the storeroom crept in, illuminating arched brick ceilings which were much lower here, only a few feet above head height.
Blake and Turner sneaked away into the murk, becoming one with the shadows. If he hadn’t seen them leave, Simmons would have sworn there was nobody in that dimly lit tunnel.
Fletcher took a position outside, aiming along the corridor with her rifle. The rest of them taking places either side of the door into the storeroom, ready to move in an instant. Lynch closed it and received a reassuring click of Morse.
Five tense minutes passed as Simmons waited with Curtis and Lynch. Eyes flicked between the three, but they remained in silence. Simmons knew the least about Curtis. He was a young-looking chap with a thin styled moustache which ran parallel to his top lip. It seemed to defy gravity, tapering to fine points at each end with a distinct peppery smell from the wax he used to tame it. The only thing Simmons could remember mentioned, other than his name, was engineering. That had stuck with him, because of Bazalgette’s skills, but he envisaged a different style of problem-solving from this fellow.
Like most of the team, Curtis carried a Mauser pistol, but this one had an extended box magazine. It dropped below the base of the grip, and Simmons wondered how many rounds it held. He also wore a selection of waxed leather pouches around his belt and across his chest on a harness.