Evolution Expects

by Jonathan Green

  For a moment it had looked like the vigilante had been ready to bring the fight to the Oriental rat-men but Ulysses had stayed his hand. And although Nimrod had already unholstered his pistol, Ulysses knew that his manservant wouldn’t do anything without receiving a direct command from him first.

  There had been another opportunity when the four of them had been thrown into some stinking cellar for what had felt like hours before being moved again, cold having numbed them to the bone. But it still hadn’t seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

  At the back of Ulysses’ mind was the fact that the rat-men hadn’t actually laid a blow against them yet. There might have been some rough handling as they had been disarmed and shoved along the sewer tunnels but, if they had wanted to, they could have cut them down in the dark without any warning. As long as the rat-men wanted them alive, there was still a chance they could get themselves out of this nightmare relatively unscathed.

  The fact that their captors were rat-men hadn’t really surprised Ulysses, not after what he had seen back at Bedlam.

  He had a pretty good idea of what could have wrought such a change upon them though he had not seen such a partial physical change since the night of the jubilee. Then, however, the apemen had lost all semblance of their former humanity, whereas these rodent-like individuals patently still had their faculties intact.

  And they were totally unlike the insects of Bedlam. As far as anyone could tell, those poor wretches had transformed without retaining any of their humanity. At least, that’s what Ulysses hoped. To still have your wits about you while trapped within an insect’s body, that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Suddenly the line stumbled to a halt. Ulysses looked up. The rat-men, who could see perfectly well in the dark without the need for any artificial light, had confiscated their torches along with their weapons. But Ulysses could still see a little through the gloom, thanks to mats of phosphorescent moss clinging to the walls of the tunnel – enough to discern one silhouette from another, and at least enough to see that the leader of the pack had stopped to sniff the air.

  Ulysses wouldn’t have gone so far as to say that he had become used to the smell – the tunnel still stank like a thousand unflushed privies – but at least he had managed to resist the urge to gag for some time. However, he would not have wanted to take such a strong sniff himself, for fear of losing his stomach contents.

  And if their captors shared more than merely a physical resemblance to the species Rattus rattus, then their sense of smell must be just as finely tuned. If that was the case, how could they bear to inhale the noxious aromas produced by the festering filth of the city’s millions of inhabitants?

  The leader suddenly gave a shrill squeak which was briefly taken up by the rest of his pack. And then they were moving again, at double quick time. What was it that the rat-man had smelt, Ulysses wondered? What were they so afraid of?

  And so they continued, Spring-Heeled Jack at the front of the line, surrounded by four of the lithely-built rat-men. Then came Eliza, being escorted by another group of four armed rats, which the dandy couldn’t help thinking was a little excessive. Then came Ulysses and, lastly Nimrod, both being accompanied in the same manner as the other two.

  Ulysses realised that he could see Jack and Eliza more clearly and he realised that there was, quite literally, a light at the end of the tunnel.

  A miasma-fogged caged electric light illuminated a heavily-rusted circular iron hatchway ahead of them.

  The rat-men led them across a rusted iron footbridge and up to the door. A turn of a wheel opened the hatch with a grating squeal of protesting hinges and star-bright yellow light spilled out into the tunnel, making all of them – especially the vigilante – recoil, momentarily blinded.

  Ulysses felt the blunt end of a staff in the small of his back and he, like the rest of them, moved forwards into the light-filled chamber.

  There could be no mistaking the influence the designers had been going for when they had set to work down here. The chamber was decked out to look like the Palace of the Jade Emperor himself. Large golden lion-dogs and dragon sculptures lined the room, forming an avenue of imposing figures with great red silk banners hung between them from the vaulted ceiling.

  The throne room might be completely different in appearance to the sewer at the heart of which it had remained hidden from the world above, Ulysses thought, but it still smelt like one and no amount of jasmine incense was going to be able to change that.

  Fretwork lanterns bathed the opulent chamber in their warm glow, the light sparkling from the gleaming golden statues and the impressive throne that stood at the far end of the room.

  It was towards this that the rat-men led their prisoners, bowing and fawning like penitent supplicants as they approached the dais upon which the throne stood, and the less than imposing figure seated upon it. Ulysses remained standing tall, as did his three companions.

  “Bow before the Emperor,” the leader of the rat-men hissed at him, obviously appalled by his disrespectful attitude.

  “I bow before no man,” Ulysses said, staring into the impassive, wrinkled mask of the wizened creature dwarfed by the immense throne.

  “Lao Shen is no man!” the rat-leader hissed again, shooting Ulysses a sidelong glance, whilst making sure he kept his head bowed and his eyes averted from the figure, almost smothered by his voluminous robes. “Lao Shen is a god!”

  “What, him?” Ulysses mocked. “I see no god. I only see King Rat!”

  “How dare you speak this way before Lao Shen!” the figure upon the throne suddenly shrieked. “You will kneel!”

  With that, one of the rat-men struck Ulysses across the back of the legs, forcing him to his knees. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ulysses stared defiantly up at the king of the rat-men.

  He was small, even by the standards of the Chinese, but he commanded the reverent awe of those who had sworn fealty to him nonetheless. There was not a single patch of skin on his body that was not a collection of sagging wrinkles. His flesh was the colour of a thousand year-old egg and his long moustaches trailed down past the sides of his mouth, to rest upon his robe. The fabric was red silk, like the opulent chamber’s drapes and banners, and seemed to be too big for him. Upon his head he wore a Mandarin’s hat.

  The others were forced to their knees behind Ulysses.

  “Do we really want to be antagonising our captors?” Nimrod whispered at his shoulder.

  “If we want some answers, yes.”

  “Silence!” the King Rat shrieked. “What are you doing here?”

  Ulysses looked from the unusually quiet Eliza to his manservant and then, to the impassive expressionless mask of the vigilante, before answering: “I think you’ll find that it was your men – if you can call them that – who brought us here.”

  “I know who you are,” Spring-Heeled Jack suddenly spoke up, his amplified voice echoing around the room.

  “You do?” Ulysses replied, surprised.

  “Yeah, and me,” Eliza gasped in sudden recognition. “I’ve seen his face all around London, specially the East End.”

  Ulysses was truly amazed. He still had no idea who they were dealing with, beyond the fact that he must be one of a dozen Chinese opium lords who vied to capture their own slice of London’s criminal underworld activities, now that the Black Mamba and Uriah Wormwood were both out of the picture.

  “It’s that vaudeville magician,” Eliza said.

  “Lao Shen,” Jack added.

  “You are not fit to speak the name of Lao Shen,” the rat-leader uttered, in appalled embarrassment.

  “The one with the show at the Palace Theatre?” Ulysses said.

  “That’s the one!”

  “You know of the attack on our theatre?” the magician said, eyes narrowing further in dark suspicion. “Was it you? Were you behind it?”

  “I had nothing to do with it, I can assure you –” Ulysses began.

  “I was there,” Jack interr
upted.

  “It was you? You started the blaze?”

  “No, but I know what did. It was the Limehouse Golem.”

  “But who sent it to kill us?” Lao Shen said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But that’s why we’re here,” Ulysses added, “or at least that’s why we entered this stinking rat’s lair of yours. We’re hunting the golem.”

  “But why? What is it to you?”

  “Why? Because its actions look likely to start a turf war the likes of which...” He broke off, feeling dizzy. “The likes of which...” Ulysses closed his eyes against the pulsing pain throbbing in his temples with every beat of his heart. A regular thud-thud-thud, like approaching heavy footsteps, like the pounding of a steam-hammer, like the banging of a fist on a door.

  He opened his eyes blearily and muttered something only half-heard by those around him.

  “What did he say? Tell me!” the Chinese magician demanded.

  “He said, ‘It’s coming’,” Nimrod said.

  The resounding clang of ceramic-covered iron against iron came a moment later. Startled, the rat-men moved away from their captives and turned to face the heavy iron hatchway.

  Ulysses turned with the others, towards the door.

  And then, with a rending of steel and the crack of stonework, the hatch was wrenched free of its mountings in a welter of brick dust.

  As the dust cleared, bathed in the yellow light of the throne room, stood the golem. Eight feet tall and hunched, ready for battle, eye-lamps blazing white hot, a guttural metallic rumble emanating from its furnace heart.

  The golem-droid’s head rotated about its neck joint, its eye-beams sweeping the throne room as the rat-men leapt into action.

  To Ulysses, it seemed as though it stopped when its gaze fell on him, something like recognition whirred and clicked inside its mechanical brain. And then, with a roar like a steam engine at full power, it came for him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bad Medicine

  THE SEEMINGLY UNSTOPPABLE golem crashed its way towards Ulysses, pulling great silk streamers down behind it, as its huge shoulders snagged the drapes and dragged them after it.

  The dandy was aware of the rat-men taking the fight to the golem, but not one of them, despite all their martial skill and weaponry, even made so much as a mark on the relentless automaton’s ceramic shell. He was vaguely aware of the clangs of their blades striking its great bulk, the thuds of staves against its steam-powered limbs, but most strident of all he heard the terrible high-pitched squealing screams of the rat-men as the golem batted them aside or tore their bodies apart, sending sprays of blood splattering across the opulent decor of the throne room.

  Ulysses reached inside his jacket, aware of how filthy the tweed had become during his recent travails. He felt the handle of his pistol against the palm of his hand and pulled it free, even though he already knew that it was a futile effort. He had seen what the golem-droid could do and a few bullets weren’t going to stop it, but he had to do something.

  He could hear Eliza’s screams, the shouts of his manservant and the ricocheting pangs of bullets. Bullets fired from his own gun, bouncing off the kiln-hardened carapace of the metallic monster.

  And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spring-Heeled Jack pelting towards him, saw the vigilante throw something in the direction of the golem, before piling into Ulysses, sending him reeling out of the path of the steaming automaton.

  As Ulysses hit the ground, the wind was knocked from his lungs and an explosion shook the subterranean chamber. In the close confines of the throne room, he felt as much as heard the blast, tensing in agony as the concussive shockwaves rendered him momentarily deaf.

  All he could now hear was the desperate pounding of his pulse.

  He felt strong hands on him, trying to haul him up. He looked up to see the grim visage of Spring-Heeled Jack looking down at him through his expressionless red goggle-eyes. He knew that the masked vigilante was trying to tell him something, because he could hear the humming rhythm of speech beneath the throbbing rush of blood in his head, but he couldn’t actually make out any of the individual words.

  He went with the vigilante, still reeling from the shock of the explosion, taking shambling steps, his balance unsteady.

  Ulysses shot desperate glances over his shoulder, to see what had become of the golem. He saw a cloud of gunpowder-grey smoke, the sharp, acrid smell of cordite hot in his nostrils. Through the coiling wreaths of explosive discharge, he saw the golem-droid stumbling backwards, its ceramic carapace scorched black but still in one piece and still on its feet. The hulking automaton stumbled into a golden dragon sculpture, shattering it into just so much gold-painted matchwood.

  For a moment, he wondered, hope against hope, if the vigilante’s explosive devices had really done the trick. But then, his hopes were dashed as the colossal machine found its footing again, gyroscopic stabilisers helping it to regain its balance.

  The baleful beams of its eyes fell on the shrunken figure cowering upon the dragon throne. There was a puff of pink smoke then that enveloped the chair and its occupant. When the cerise cloud cleared, the shrivelled figure of the Chinese magician had vanished. Something like a bellow of frustration escaped the maw of the droid.

  Ulysses turned to Spring-Heeled Jack. “We have to get out of here!”

  This time, when Spring-Heeled Jack spoke, Ulysses was just able to make out what he said. “I can stop it.”

  “With those explosives of yours? They barely scratched the surface. Come on, we have to get everyone out, lose the golem in the sewers.” He froze as the beams of the droid’s eyes fell on him. “Now, do as I say and run!”

  With the golem stomping after him, Ulysses ran to where Eliza was turning circles in confusion, panic and fear in her eyes, his manservant trying to drag the girl to safety.

  “Get out!” Ulysses yelled, stumbling over the broken body of one of the Rat King’s warriors, grabbing Eliza by the arm.

  “Sir!” Nimrod shouted and tossed something towards him. Ulysses instinctively snatched his sword-cane out of the air.

  “Good show, old boy! Now, let’s get out of here!”

  Nimrod turned and made for the hole in the far wall. Ulysses caught glimpses of the encumbered vigilante running at his side, the black wings of his cape flapping behind him.

  The golem had described a circuitous route through the Rat King’s throne room, causing untold damage but also leaving the exit clear for the few that had survived its crazed assault. Those rat-men who had not dared take on the unstoppable juggernaut, with Lao Shen – their leader and inspiration – gone, had already fled.

  Ulysses threw himself through the hole, brick dust, shaken loose by the crashing footfalls of the two-ton monster, showering down over him and Eliza.

  The four of them sprinted along the footpath that ran along beside the steadily moving channel of the sewer. Nimrod’s swaying torch beam revealed the way ahead, giving Ulysses glimpses of mossy walls crumbling red orange bricks and the impenetrable shadows of the tunnel’s snaking depths.

  And then the way ahead became much clearer, illuminated by the penetrating beams of the golem-droid’s eyes, as the automaton exploded from the ruin of the Rat King’s subterranean lair, sending a fresh cascade of broken bricks splashing into the effluent stream.

  The escapees ran on, the crash and splash of the golem’s footfalls drowning out the desperate beating of their own panicked hearts. The droid’s bellowing engine roars rebounded from the curving tunnel walls, creating a painful cacophony of noise, that Ulysses could now hear all too well.

  The great domed space, like a partially drowned cathedral, emerged from the gloom ahead of them. Somehow Nimrod had managed to lead them back to the branching of the ways where the rat-men had first ambushed them.

  With a cry, Eliza tripped – her sweat-slick hand slipping from Ulysses’ grasp. Close on their heels, it was all Spring-Heeled Jack could do to bound over her
to avoid trampling her beneath his iron-shod boots. Ulysses skidded to a halt and spun round, rushing to help her.

  The Limehouse Golem was piling towards them, its hulking frame barely contained by the tunnel.

  Eliza clung to the path, nails deep in the grime, feet kicking against the befouled water below her.

  Ulysses reached down with his simian left arm and pulled her up onto the path in one swift motion, Eliza’s scream audible over the piston roar of the golem that was almost upon them.

  Terror giving them the adrenalin kick they needed to make their escape, they fled before the inexorable advance of the robot, feeling the pathway crumbling behind the mighty blows from the golem’s steam-hammer fists.

  Then Spring-Heeled Jack was before them again, appearing out of the murk of the sewer, illuminated by the beaming headlamp eyes of the droid, reaching into a pouch on his suit’s utility belt and taking out something small and dark, like a collection of iron pebbles.

  Realising what the vigilante was planning, Ulysses threw himself past him, even as the other hurled his handful of tiny grenades at the droid.

  The two of them skidded out of the tunnel and into the vaulted space of the domed chamber. Ulysses pulled Eliza around the corner, pushing her up against the mouldering brickwork, shielding her body with his own.

  The explosion rocked the sewer, dust and brick and effluent gouting from the tunnel behind them amidst an eruption of flame.

  As the echoes of the detonation died away, Ulysses dared to look up, shaking brick dust from his hair. By what little light permeated the cavernous space from the fire now burning on the water’s surface at the mouth of the tunnel, Ulysses saw Eliza looking up at him, the whites of her eyes clearly visible, her cheeks running with silent tears. In the aftermath of the explosion, as the echoes died away, he heard the plop of stone fragments hitting the water, the wash and slap of the disturbed waterway against the brick walls, and the quiet crackle of flames.

  And then there was another sensation, an insistent itching at the back of his skull.