by Paul Crilley
That wasn't to say they wouldn't kill him once they were done, but chances were he was still alive.
Barnaby had contingency plans. Just in case, as he'd often said, some elderly widow came after him with a pistol disguised as a walking stick. He'd told Tweed that should anything ever happen to him, Tweed was to take the emergency funds and go to Carter Flair and Jenny Turner, two old friends of his. Carter and Jenny were married thieves, their specialty up market hotels. Tweed liked Carter and Jenny. He'd known them all his life, and they were good people. Trustworthy people. That was what he needed right now.
Tweed gathered up the money Barnaby had hidden away beneath the floorboards. He wished Barnaby hadn't been so against weapons. Tweed would feel a lot safer if he had something to protect himself. But Barnaby had always said it was just as likely that you'd be injured by your own weapon as it was you'd injure your opponent. Tweed wasn't sure he agreed, but nothing he ever said could change his father's mind about it.
Tweed took a last look around the room, then turned off all the lights and stepped out into the street once again. It was about an hour before midnight. A faint haze of rain draped the roads and buildings with a dark, reflective sheen, causing oily, soot-scummed puddles to gather on the uneven pavements. Tweed paused on the step and took a deep breath of the damp air, taking in the comforting aroma of oyster barrows, hops, and tobacco: the familiar perfume of their home.
Tweed loved it here. Their house was in East End, on the corner of Goulsten and Whitechapel High Street. There was a saying among the upper classes of London. If you're tired of life, move to Whitechapel, they said. But Tweed saw it differently: If you're tired of Whitechapel you're tired of life. Because no matter what time of day or night, there was always something going on in the East End.
All right, so the things going on were usually brawling, screaming matches between families, singing and shouting from the pubs, and the constant trundle of hackney coaches pulled along by steam-powered automata. But still, that was life—the human experience laid out for all to see, and Tweed would have it no other way.
It wasn't exactly pleasant. He wouldn't romanticize it that much. But it was familiar. Comfortable.
The new world had tried to make its presence felt here. Tesla Towers dotted the landscape of the East End just as they did everywhere else in London. But the new technology never seemed to work. The towers transmitted energy through radio waves, powering nearly every piece of new technology that had sprung up in the past fifteen years, sending instructions to the thousands of new-generation automata around the city. But the technology was still in its infancy, the towers having a worrying tendency to break down, especially when it rained. (Or when it was too hot. Or too windy. Or too cold. In fact, the towers were so temperamental, those who lived in the poorer sections of the city used steam as their primary source of power, and if the Tesla Towers actually worked, it was considered a bonus.)
Tweed could see the Tesla Tower half a mile away, towering high above the surrounding buildings. But it was dark, the blinking lights that indicated a working tower dull and lifeless.
Tweed took another deep breath. He felt better now that he had a course of action. He wasn't the kind of person to just sit around waiting for others to solve his problems. He had to be out there doing it himself. It centered him, made him feel calmer.
Tweed pulled his coat tight around his shoulders and set off.
About an hour later Tweed reluctantly turned into an alley that branched off from Berners Street. He was feeling rather annoyed. Things weren't going to plan. He had gone to Carter and Jenny's house only to find it locked up with nobody at home. No help there. That meant he had to pick the next person on Barnaby's list, a man of even more dubious moral certitude than Barnaby, Jenny, and Carter put together.
Harry Banks.
And on the way there, Tweed had nearly walked right into a quicklime spill on George Street. The driver obviously moved the dangerous product around at night, thinking it safer than carting it through the daytime streets. That hadn't stopped the accident, though. Tweed only just managed to get away before he inhaled the toxic fumes.
He paused in the alley entrance. High walls hemmed him in on both sides. A single gas lamp gave off a weak glow at the far end of the lane, the drizzle forming a glowing halo around the smoky glass.
A figure lounged against the wall about halfway down the alley. He was smoking a rollup, the orange tip flaring to life every time he inhaled.
Tweed cautiously approached, making sure his hands were visible. The man straightened, his arms dropping to his sides. Tweed thought he recognized him. He'd been on the door the last few times he and Barnaby had come here. The man was whippet thin, not much to look at, but Tweed had seen him break a man's arm without dropping the cigarette permanently gripped in his fingers.
Tweed did a quick memory scan. “Marsh, isn't it?” he said.
“Who's askin’?” Marsh squinted through the smoke, studying Tweed's face. “You're Barnaby Tweed's boy, aren't you?” he said, surprised. “What you doin’ here?”
“I need to see Mr. Banks.”
Marsh frowned. “Where's Barnaby?”
“He's hiding behind me—” Tweed clamped his mouth shut when he saw Marsh actually lean to the side to look for his father. He sighed. No point in antagonizing the doorman. “He's not here, Marsh. Something's happened. Something bad. I need to see Harry.”
“I dunno, kid. This isn't the kind of place—”
“Barnaby told me to come here if something ever happened to him.” Tweed straightened up. “You know I'm Harry's godson, don't you?” He wasn't, but Marsh wasn't likely to know either way. “Come on, Marsh. It's important.”
Marsh hesitated, then sighed and opened the door. “In you go, then. But don't blame me if you get your head kicked in, right?”
“I won't, I won't. Don't worry.”
Tweed stepped through the door and found himself in a huge, shadowy warehouse. Sealed crates covered in oiled leather were piled up around the space. Against the far wall was a long table, and standing on either side of it were industrial-sized oil lamps casting their glow across the floor. Tweed headed toward them, stepping around the table and kneeling on the ground. He'd been here a few times before, so he knew exactly where he was going.
There was a trapdoor in the floor. Tweed heaved it up, and as it lifted away from the stone it was as though he'd opened the door onto a riot. Shouts and yells erupted from the gap, screams of anger and joy. The sound of clinking glass could be heard, and over all that the heavy clanging of metal on metal.
Tweed hesitated, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. He'd only ever been here during the day, when everything was quiet. He wasn't even sure what Harry did here.
Lucky me, thought Tweed. Looks like I'm about to find out.
Tweed took a deep breath and descended the steps that led beneath the warehouse, lowering the trapdoor behind him.
The stairs led to a secondary floor space about half the size of the warehouse above. The smoke-filled room was packed with men and women, all of them facing inward, craning over each others’ shoulders to get a better view of something
Tweed gently pushed a sweating old man aside, distastefully wiping his hand on the man's shirt after he'd done so, and saw that the focus of everyone's attention was a boxing ring inside of which fought two automata. As Tweed watched, one of the automata stepped forward and swung its clenched fist, connecting with its opponent with a loud clang. There was the screech of scraping metal and a burst of sparks showered into the fetid air. The automaton stumbled back a step, then braced itself and launched forward with both arms swinging. They connected against the first automaton's chest and head, a furious onslaught that had Tweed watching in astonishment. Not only because he'd never seen one of the metallic constructs move so fast, but also because they weren't supposed to be able to do that at all. Fighting was impossible for automata, their internal programs fill
ed with fail-safes to stop such behavior. It was one of the reasons the public had eventually accepted them into society, the knowledge that they couldn't attack or fight.
The first automaton fell back against the thick wires that squared off the boxing ring. It raised its forearms in at attempt to fend off the blows, but the furious barrage kept coming.
The cries of the punters grew louder, screams of outrage and anger mixing with shouts of encouragement and drunken joy.
Tweed searched the floor space, wondering where Harry Banks would be. He noted the heavyset men lounging around the walls, their eyes on the crowd instead of the match, ready to step in should anyone get out of hand.
Tweed found his eyes drifting back to the boxing match. There was something bothering him about it, something not quite right. It wasn't just the fact that the automata shouldn't be able to fight, it was something else. Their movements were slightly off. Not much, but enough that a keen observer could spot the difference.
They didn't move like constructs. They moved…
A slow smile spread across Tweed's face. He was surprised no one else had figured out the truth by now. His gaze slid over the screaming, sweating masses, the crowd wavering on the razor edge of hysteria. Then again, he thought contemptuously, maybe I shouldn't expect anything else.
Tweed shoved his way through the crowd, aiming for a door he'd spotted against the far wall, the only other door in the room. The heavyset man leaning against it straightened as Tweed approached.
“Tell Mr. Banks that Barnaby Tweed's son is here to see him.”
The man didn't move, except for his brows, which contracted slightly to shadow his eyes even more than they already were.
They stared at each other. Tweed was about as tall as the man, but he was under no illusions as to who would come off worse if the man decided to attack. Various insults and wittily clever disparagements flitted through his mind, but he clicked his tongue in irritation and reluctantly forced them aside. Now was not the time for such things.
“Please?” he said.
The man's eyes wrinkled slightly as if he was trying to smile without moving any other muscles in his face. “Didn't hurt, did it, lad? Manners don't cost a thing. You remember that. Piece of advice me old mam used to give me. One moment please.”
The man disappeared through the door, reappearing a few moments later and nodding Tweed through.
Tweed stepped into a room that took up the second half of the lower level. It looked like it was used mainly as a workshop. Benches lay everywhere, covered with spare parts for automata: glass valves, copper tubing, and wiring. In fact, it looked similar to Tweed and Barnaby's living space.
But that was all background detail. What really captured Tweed's attention as he entered the room was the second boxing ring that took up much of the floor space.
Tweed walked slowly forward, his eyes on the scene in front of him. Two men were strapped into metal frameworks that followed the contours of their bodies. Every time they moved there was the briefest of pauses, then pneumatic hisses and blasts of steam burst from the rigs as their instructions were carried through to the heavy metal frames. As Tweed watched, one of the boxers, a dark haired man who looked like he had been fighting all his life, lashed out and landed a blow on his opponents face. The framework caught the blow, but the other man still staggered backward and fell to one knee.
There was a surge of volume from the room behind him. Tweed had thought it had to be something like this. The movements of the two men in front of him were being transmitted to the automata outside. But none of the punters would know that. They would think they were watching an illegal automaton fight.
“Evenin’ boy,” said a quiet voice at his side.
Tweed spun to see Harry Banks standing next to him. The man barely came up to his chest, his lank, black-grey hair parted down the middle so precisely that Tweed could count his dandruff flakes. But he was a familiar face to Tweed, something he hadn't realized he'd needed to see until right that moment.
“Hello, Harry,” he said. He took a deep, shaky breath. “Barnaby said I should come to you if things went wrong.”
“And he was right,” said the old man. He tilted his head back and squinted up at Tweed. “Come on then. Let's have a chat, eh?”
They sat down in old, tatty chairs and Tweed filled Harry in on the events of the night. The boxing match finished while he told his story, the boxers climbing out of their rigs and limping away to clean up. Soon, only he and Harry remained in the workshop.
When Tweed mentioned Professor Moriarty, Harry pushed himself to his feet and paced nervously away, one hand playing with his lank hair. He turned and walked back.
“You're sure it was him?”
“Well, I think so. I mean, they looked like the descriptions that are floating around. Hadn't really believed the stories up till now, though.”
“Oh, they're not stories, lad. It's really him. Seen him with me own eyes.”
“But what does he want with Barnaby?”
“No idea. But I think we can both agree it won't be good.” Harry flopped back into his armchair.
“Well?” asked Tweed.
“Well what?”
“Will you help?”
“Help? What is it you want me to do?”
“Help me find Moriarty,” Tweed replied. “Find out where he's hiding out.”
Harry shook his head. “No chance. I'm not risking coming to the attention of that man. You do not want him as your enemy.”
“You mean you're scared?”
“Oh, yes,” said Harry. “I thought I was making that clear. Everyone's scared of Moriarty, boy.”
Tweed got to his feet, his face cold and angry. It looked like Barnaby had been wrong about Harry.
But before Tweed could go anywhere, Harry raised his hands in the air.
“Relax, sonny. I'm not saying I won't lend a hand. Just make sure you keep my name out of it.”
Tweed forced himself to calm down. He nodded. “Fine. Of course. If that's what you want.”
“It is. There's someone I know of who might be able to help. Calls herself Songbird. She's the only one who knows anything about this gang. Word is she's been collecting information on them.”
“Why?”
Harry shrugged. “Don't ask me.”
“So what do I do?”
“Go home. I'll make contact and see if it's even in the cards.”
“And if it is?”
“I'll get word to you.”
Octavia arrived at the abandoned workhouse along the Thames two hours after midnight and one hour before the meeting was to take place. It was the best time for keeping appointments such as this. For one thing, she was absolutely sure her father would be asleep, and also, the streets were at their quietest between then and dawn.
She hadn't been sure she'd even come. Not after what happened last night on the bridge. But Harry Banks's note had said it was important, that it had something to do with the professor.
How could she say no to that?
She took up her position in an abandoned guard's shed right on the lip of the embankment, about fifty feet from the workhouse. She could hear the water of the Thames at her back, rolling up against the stone wall ten feet below her. Octavia made sure her hair was piled up beneath her dirty cap and that the brim shadowed her features.
Then she settled down to wait.
Half an hour later there was movement on the street. A figure walked out of the alley alongside the workhouse. He paused and looked both ways along the embankment. It looked as if her contact had arrived early to check out the meeting place. Sensible.
Octavia leaned forward to get a better look through the empty window frame. The figure was tall, with unruly black hair. He wore a long black coat, and as he turned to survey the street, revealing his pale, sharp-featured face, Octavia frowned in surprise.
The figure in front of her looked to be about the same age as she was. How odd.
He glanced up at the high workhouse walls, then turned in a slow circle until his eyes fell on the cramped shed in which Octavia hid. His eyes lingered.
Oh, dear.
Octavia moved back until she was swallowed up by the shadows. It didn't do any good, though. The figure started to walk toward her. Octavia whipped out her black scarf and wrapped it around her lower face so only her eyes were visible, and even those were hidden beneath the peak of the cap. She had already charged her Tesla gun. It was safely hidden in her pocket, easily within reach.
How did he know she was in here? She hadn't made a noise, she was sure of it.
The boy stopped three paces away and put his hands in the pockets of his coat. Octavia waited but he didn't say anything, just stood there waiting. She felt her irritation start to rise. He was putting her on the back foot here, and she didn't like that. She was supposed to be in control.
Neither said anything for some time. Eventually, the boy cleared his throat and asked, “Busy night?”
Octavia hesitated. “What?”
The boy nodded at the guard's shed, then glanced around the deserted street. “Lots to guard here. Have to keep an eye out for all those criminals out to steal empty buildings.”
Octavia's mouth dropped open. Was he…was he making fun of her?
“The meeting was supposed to be in the warehouse,” she snapped.
“That's what I thought. And yet here we are.”
“I don't have to be here, you know,” said Octavia.
The boy stared thoughtfully into the distance, then nodded. “My apologies. It's been rather a long couple of days. Let's start over, shall we? My name's Sebastian Tweed. I don't suppose there's much point in asking your name? Only, I always find it better to know who I'm talking to. Breaks the ice, so to speak. No?”
Octavia didn't answer. She was still trying to figure out what to make of this Sebastian Tweed fellow. He was decidedly odd.
“I thought not,” he said. “The reason I want your help is that my father has been kidnapped and Harry Banks seems to think you are the person to help me.”