by Paul Crilley
Why had Victor Shaw been so against Barnaby speaking? He was angry they had started early, obviously hoping the police would arrive before anything could be done. But once Samuel insisted they go ahead he had played his hand in order to stop Barnaby from saying anything. Even though it meant waiting for the police to arrive.
Almost…
Tweed leaned forward in the chair, staring hard at the screen.
Almost as if he were scared Barnaby might be the real thing.
But why would that scare him? Unless…
A slow smile spread across Tweed's face. He picked up the transmitter and depressed the trigger.
“Repeat everything I am about to say to you. Do not edit, do not hesitate. I think I've found a way out of this. Understand?”
Barnaby gave the tiniest of nods.
“It must have bruised your ego when Henrietta spurned your advances. Isn't that right, Victor?”
Barnaby hesitated.
“Say it!”
Barnaby sighed. “It must have bruised your ego when Henrietta spurned your advances. Isn't that right, Victor?”
There was an inrush of breath from those around the table. Victor's eyes almost popped out of his head. His face darkened in anger, and in that moment Tweed knew he had guessed the truth.
“You, a highly successful businessman, and your brother nothing more than a traveling salesman. And yet that didn't matter to Henrietta, did it? She cared nothing for power and money.”
Barnaby repeated his words and Victor nervously licked his lips.
Tweed carried on. “And the last time Samuel went on his travels, you decided to play your hand. You visited Henrietta, you declared your love. You begged, you pleaded, and when that didn't work, you threatened. Still she rejected you. And that was too much, wasn't it, Victor? Nobody makes a fool of Victor Shaw.”
Tweed watched Victor as Barnaby repeated his words. It was a gamble. Victor might simply shoot Barnaby on the spot, but Tweed was hoping that Victor really was the odious coward he appeared to be, and would simply flee from the house.
Unfortunately, Tweed hadn't factored in Samuel Shaw.
The tall, thin man rose to his feet, straightening to his full height.
“Victor?” he said. “What is this?”
Victor's eyes shifted between Barnaby and Samuel. Finally, he exploded. “All she had to do was say yes!” he shouted. “But no! She had to be loyal.” He said the last word as though it were an obscenity. “Stupid woman. She deserved to die. After all, if I couldn't have her, why should you? I deserved her. I'm the one with all the money. What could you have offered her?”
Samuel took a step toward Victor. Even through the grainy screen, Tweed could see tears coursing down his face. “What could I offer her?” he said softly. “I offered Henrietta my love, Victor. And that was enough for her.”
Victor snorted. “How poetic. Love fades, dear brother.”
“Not ours.”
“Oh, because you're somehow special? Is that it? You think you're better than everyone else?”
“No. Not special. We were the most mundane people in the world.” Samuel's hands curled into fists. “But we had each other!” he shouted. He launched himself at his brother, grabbing hold of the hand that held the pistol. The gun went off with an explosive bang! the bullet shattering a vase on a corner shelf. The three other guests dived under the table as Barnaby hurried forward to help Samuel restrain Victor.
Tweed threw down the transmitter and shot to his feet, banging his head against the roof. He cursed and threw open the doors, setting his feet on the metal steps.
He froze.
Tweed felt it first, a low thrumming that vibrated up through the soles of his shoes. Then he heard it. The dug-dug-dug of an approaching airship. The sound grew louder by the second, the vibrations stronger.
Tweed jumped out into the street and looked up. There it was: a small dirigible that slowed to a floating standstill about fifty feet above the ground. But it was unlike any dirigible he'd ever seen. The airship was much smaller than normal, and it was matte black, without any warning lights, making it almost impossible to see from a distance.
As Tweed watched, a huge metal box dropped from the belly of the airship. It sank slowly to the ground, lowered by a thick metal chain that unspooled from within the ship. Tweed moved behind the carriage as the box bumped against the cobbles. The front of the container fell forward and dropped onto the road with an almighty clang.
The pulse and flare of blue-white light came from inside. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a strange group of people stepped casually into the street.
There were five of them. All dressed in black. But it was what they wore on their heads that made them look so odd.
The first figure had some kind of metal framework completely encircling his skull. Two rods stuck up from the frame and white electricity jumped from one rod to the other, singeing the air and giving off the smell of burning ozone. Connected to these rods were two solid metal discs, and they shone a bright, flickering light directly into his hidden eyes. But the way he looked around convinced Tweed that the discs in no way hampered his vision.
One of the others wore a protective leather helmet that came down to his chest, like some kind of elaborate gas mask designed to cause fear and terror. The eye holes were covered with black glass and wire, and a long tube hung from the mouthpiece down to his waist. Another figure wore a similar mask but made from metal, like a demonic diving helmet.
But it was the figure standing slightly ahead of the others that made Tweed move even deeper into the shadows, his eyes widening with shock.
He had heard the talk over the past year. Whispers amongst Barnaby's criminal contacts and associates.
He's back, they whispered fearfully. Come to reclaim his throne.
Tweed hadn't believed the rumors. Superstitious nonsense, he'd thought. Typical of the kind of thing the uneducated idiots who turned to crime believed in. Except the rumors wouldn't go away. Instead, they got more and more specific. He wore a mask to hide an injury, they said. He surrounded himself with a gang of insane killers. He stalked the streets of London leaving a trail of murder in his wake.
Tweed had thought he was witnessing the birth of genuine folklore, like the legend of Spring-heeled Jack. He'd even thought of writing a paper on it, submitting it to one of the more up market newspapers.
Except here he was, standing no more than thirty feet from Tweed. Exactly as everyone had described him.
The Napoleon of Crime himself.
Professor James Moriarty.
Before he and Sherlock Holmes had tumbled over Reichenbach Falls, no one had known who Moriarty was. He was a manipulator, always hiding in the shadows. But after the Reichenbach tragedy, investigations uncovered a criminal syndicate stretching from London to Eastern Europe, with Moriarty in charge of it all. The man was a genius, a mastermind who would stop at nothing to achieve his aims.
Tweed leaned forward slightly to get a better look. Moriarty wore a much more elaborate mask than the others, tight-fitting and enclosing only his head. It was made from dark brown leather with elegant patterns etched into the surface. Black glass filled the insectoid eye frames. Slim hoses were attached to gold nozzles on the cheeks and lower jaw, the hoses curving over his shoulders to a small canister attached to his back. Did he need the mask to breathe? Had he injured himself when he plummeted over the falls?
Moriarty's clothing matched the style of the helmet. A tight-fitting greatcoat that hugged his body so snugly it was like a second skin. The whole effect put Tweed in mind of a human-shaped scorpion.
As Tweed watched, a last figure stepped out of the metal box and scurried forward to stand behind Moriarty, twitching and giggling as he moved. The man was short, and wore a top hat made from metal wire. Fat worms of electricity arced around the hat, and every time they came around to the front, they hit a copper wire and sparks exploded into the air with the snap of freed electricity. The hat
was connected to a metal pipe that the figure clutched protectively to his chest.
Some kind of weapon?
The figures all surveyed the street for a moment. Tweed quickly ducked out of sight. He waited a second, then peered around the side of the steamcoach. They were already moving purposefully across the road.
Straight for Samuel Shaw's house.
Tweed darted into the carriage to check the display unit. Barnaby and Samuel had disarmed Victor and were busy tying him to a chair with what looked like the cords from the curtains. The other three guests had emerged from under the table and were pouring themselves drinks with shaking hands.
Tweed had to warn Barnaby. He picked up the transmitter and depressed the trigger.
“Barnaby!” he said quickly. “You know how I said all your friends were uneducated peasants because they believed that Moriarty was back from the dead? Well, I still think that. But he is back. And coming your way. You need to get out of there.”
But Barnaby didn't react.
“Barnaby?”
Nothing. Damn. Barnaby's earpiece must have fallen out in the scuffle.
Tweed hesitated, then pulled the punchcard out of the transceiver. The image on the screen blurred, then froze at an odd angle. The spider had fallen from its hiding place and was now staring up at the ceiling.
“What the devil…?” said a tinny voice.
Shaw's huge face loomed into view, a mass of deep wrinkles and bushy eyebrows. He picked up the spider and stared at it, then showed it to Barnaby. Barnaby's eyes widened in alarm. He muttered something to Shaw, but before anything could be done, there was a splintering crash. Barnaby whirled around in alarm. Someone cried out. The spider was dropped to the ground and Tweed saw blurred feet rushing around.
He swore and ran outside. The street was empty.
Then the screaming started.
It must have taken Tweed only ten seconds to cross the street, but by the time he reached the front door the screams had already stopped. He peered carefully into the front hall. No one around. He crossed the threshold and entered the sitting room.
When he saw the body of Samuel Shaw lying at his feet, one arm stretched out as if reaching toward him, Tweed staggered to a halt. His eyes flickered around the room. Victor was still tied to the chair, but his head was burnt beyond recognition, his mouth wide open in a soundless scream. Smoke drifted up from inside his mouth, as if his breath were misting on a cold winter's day. There was no sign of Moriarty or his gang, but a second door leading out of the sitting room stood open. The other guests sprawled amidst shattered glasses and spilled brandy on the far side of the room, wisps of smoke curling up from the horrendous wounds burned into their bodies.
Tweed rushed forward to check the corpses. But a moment later he straightened up and frowned.
Barnaby wasn't among them.
He looked around in confusion. Where was he?
Tweed heard someone swearing outside. He hurried over to the window and flicked aside the net curtain. Moriarty and his gang were reentering the metal container, and two of them dragged a kicking and swearing Barnaby between them. Moriarty pulled the metal door back into place and the box started to winch back into the sky.
Tweed didn't hesitate. He sprinted outside and headed straight for the container. It swayed back and forth on the chain, and Tweed could hear muffled shouting from inside as Barnaby struggled with his kidnappers. He leaped into the air and grabbed hold of the thin ledge around the base of the container. The cage dipped, but hopefully they would attribute it to Barnaby's struggles.
Tweed waited, but no one sounded the alarm.
He had gotten away with it. Although, what it was, he had no idea. What, exactly, did he plan on doing? Barnaby would disapprove. Acting without thinking, he would say. Bad form, lad. Bad form.
London receded below him as the cage rose slowly upward. The airship started moving as well, heading up toward the lanes of airship traffic that ferried people across the city.
It was actually quite beautiful, thought Tweed distantly. He could see the soft glow of automata as they stalked their heavy way through the streets, the white light of their æther cages combating the orange glow of streetlights. It would actually be quite peaceful if it weren't for the loud thrum of the airship engines and the screech and rattle of the chain winching the container upward.
Tweed's hands started to ache. He was grasping the metal lip with nothing more than his fingertips, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold on.
As they rose higher the wind started to buffet him, swinging his legs back and forth. He could feel his fingers slipping. He looked down. The houses were tiny. If he fell now a red smear on the cobbles would be all that remained of Sebastian Tweed.
He needed to come up with a plan very quickly. Very quickly indeed.
His attention was distracted from the vast measure of distance between his feet and the ground by the sound of the chain slowing down. He arched back, peering upward. The container was sliding into the base of the airship. Tweed watched as the top of the cage fitted snugly inside the gap.
In fact…
He looked at his fingers gripping the edge of the container floor, then up at the airship. There was only the tiniest of gaps between the container and the hole.
So, next question: Fall to his death with his fingers attached, enjoying a very brief period of non-pain, or fall to his death with no fingers, screaming all the way?
Tweed frantically searched the underside of the airship for something he could use. A few feet away was the nearest of the connecting struts that circled the gas-filled balloon. Tweed curled upward and braced his legs against the bottom of the box. Just before it slid all the way into the dirigible he pushed off with his feet and sailed backward through the air. His arms flailed upward, connecting with the strut. But the weight of his body ripped one side of it free. He dropped, then jerked to a stop as the other end held firm. Tweed swung back and forth on the broken arm, buffeted by the wind.
The dirigible rose above the airship lanes. It entered a cloud bank, and heavy moisture clung to Tweed's hair. He reached up, slowly stretching his hand to see if he could grab one of the other struts. He was tall, but not quite tall enough. Typical. The one time when his height would have benefited him, and it did nothing but mock his efforts.
Then the strut he was holding snapped.
He plummeted through the clouds. Water and mist whipped past his face, tickling his skin. The wind roared in his ears. He forced his eyes to stay open but all he could see was white and grey.
He burst out of the bottom of the clouds. Clear air was all around him. He could see London, the horizon. And—
Tweed had only a second of stunned surprise to see the huge transport dirigible rising rapidly toward him before he slammed into the balloon with enough force to burst the air from his lungs.
He bounced, then started to slide down the curve of the gas bag. He scrabbled frantically with his hands, grabbing hold of the thick wire that held the bag in shape, feeling it cut into his skin.
He slowed, then stopped moving. He waited to make sure nothing else was about to snap or break, then pulled himself back up to the very top of the cigar-shaped dirigible and flopped onto his back. He stared up at the moon as he struggled to regain his shaky breath.
Well.
That just happened.
Tweed sat up. The balloon was huge, one of the massive transport dirigibles that Brunel & Company had recently started building. Huge steam engines at the rear acted as a backup for the Tesla power, pushing it ponderously through the sky, the turbines giving off a deep throbbing that vibrated through the whole airship.
Tweed cast his eyes upward, but Moriarty's zeppelin had vanished somewhere into the bank of clouds. Tweed had lost them.
But on the plus side, at least Barnaby was still alive.
Which meant Tweed still had time to find him.
As he absently drummed his fingers on the thick canvas, wonde
ring exactly what his father had gotten himself mixed up in, a second dirigible rose into view alongside him, drifting into a higher lane of traffic. A small boy stared out of one of the portholes, clearly bored out of his mind.
When he saw Tweed lounging on the top of the airship, his mouth dropped open in shock.
Tweed raised a hand and waved at him. The boy hesitantly waved back, and a moment later his dirigible was swallowed up by the clouds.
Octavia Nightingale sat next to the fire in a large, wingback chair and attempted to focus on her stitching. Her father would approve. It was a lady-like pursuit, something he was always encouraging her to take more of an interest in.
It was also fiendishly difficult and incredibly boring. She squinted at the stitches, tilting the black cloth toward the fire so she could get a better look at her handiwork. She still couldn't see much. She clicked her tongue in irritation and glanced across at Manners, standing at attention next to the door.
“Manners, come here, please.”
The automaton moved smoothly toward her. It was the newest model, released only last month. Only the best for her father. She stared at it in distaste. The constructs seemed to be getting more human with every iteration. Octavia wasn't sure she approved. She liked her tools to look like tools. Manners even had articulating facial expressions. It could smile slightly and blink. Unfortunately, it didn't quite know when it was appropriate to use these newfound abilities. Having an automaton tell you it was time for bed with a frozen, creepy smile on its face was quite an alarming experience that had Octavia's fingers itching for her Tesla gun.
“Manners, stand there.” Octavia pointed to the carpet directly in front of her. When the automaton had done as instructed, Octavia lifted the protective cover that some of the newer models had over their æther cages. The white light of the soul that powered the construct shone through the thick glass, casting a clear, bright glow across her handiwork.
Octavia had always found it incredibly disturbing to think that most of the automata in the city were powered by human souls. Many decades ago, some government department discovered that it was easier to use human souls extracted from the deceased and trapped inside special “æther cages” to power automata. The discovery was quickly embraced. Finally, an answer to the insolvable problem of delivering instructions to automata out in the street without them having to trail miles upon miles of wires behind them to receive their commands. And the supply of souls? No problem. The Crown offered to “rent” the souls of the deceased from their families, an offer that was enthusiastically embraced by the lower classes.