Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1

by Paul Crilley

  Octavia nodded, then realized he couldn't see her in the darkness. “Harry mentioned masks?”

  Tweed turned toward her. “Masks, yes. Old-fashioned smoke masks. And odd weapons. Tesla-powered, if I'm any judge. I've never seen anything like them before.”

  Octavia felt the excitement in the pit of her stomach. Tweed's descriptions matched Moriarty and his gang. The ones who had taken her mother. But still, she had to be sure.

  “I'll need a description of the masks,” she said.

  The boy reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He hesitated. “May I?”

  It took Octavia a second to realize he was asking if he could come closer. “Yes. Pass it through.”

  Tweed stepped forward and passed the paper through the window. She leaned down and opened the shutter of a small lamp at her feet and glanced over the detailed sketches, her eyes stopping on the drawing of Moriarty, that strange insect-like mask. She remembered it well, the light glinting from the glass eyes as he grabbed hold of Octavia's mother and dragged her into a carriage…

  She shook herself and glanced up. “You're a pretty good artist,” she said absently.

  “I know. I've studied anatomy, the masters, techniques of sculpting, medical encyclopedias—”

  “I was just paying you a compliment,” Octavia cut in, “not asking for details.”

  “Ah. I see.” He nodded at the paper. “Do you think you can help?”

  “I don't know. I won't lie to you. I've been trying to track down Moriarty and his gang for a year now. They're…hard to pin down.”

  She looked at the sketch again. What is your plan? she wondered.

  “You must have some information on them.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Will you share it? Perhaps we can join forces, pool our resources?”

  Octavia gave a small laugh. “I don't think so. I don't work with amateurs.”

  “Of course, of course. How silly of me. I totally understand. Nothing worse than working with a common layman. You never know how he'll mess everything up, yes?”

  Octavia hesitated. She wasn't sure if Tweed was making fun of her again or not. He was very difficult to read. “That's right,” she said.

  “Then how will I contact you?”

  “Harry. He'll pass on anything I find.”

  Tweed opened his mouth to reply. Then he frowned and looked up.

  “What—?” she began.

  She didn't get a chance to finish because at that moment something screamed out of the night sky, leaving a long trail of smoke in its wake. The object smashed into the roof of the workhouse with a crash of splintering tiles.

  Tweed's eyes widened and he lunged forward, throwing himself through the door of the tiny guardhouse.

  As he did so the workhouse exploded with a thunderous, ear-rupturing roar. The building disintegrated into a huge orange fireball, fragments of brick and splintered glass tearing lethally through the air. A vision-distorting wave of hot air burst through the wooden slats of the hut, knocking Octavia's cap from her head. She squeezed her eyes closed against the heat, but when she opened them again she saw a roiling, burning wall of flame rolling rapidly toward them. Tweed yanked her away from the window. She had a second to register his face, noting that he looked strangely calm, and then the concussion hit them, picking up the hut and flinging it into the air. Smoke and fire engulfed them, swirling around the cabin. Octavia fell onto Tweed's legs, then was flung against the roof as the hut turned end over end.

  There was a heavy splash, then water poured through the gaps in the wood. The explosion had thrown them right out over the embankment and into the Thames.

  At least that took care of the flames, she thought, as the icy, dark water flowed around them.

  Octavia swam through the door before the shed started to slip below the surface. Bits of wood and material from inside the workhouse hit the water with hisses and splashes, giving off tiny wisps of steam.

  Tweed was ahead of her. He swam about twenty feet downstream and used the rusted ladder bolted to the embankment wall to haul himself out of the water. Octavia climbed up after him, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as she fumbled with the rungs. What had happened? Had Tweed led Moriarty to them?

  Tweed leaned over the ladder, holding out his hand to her. Octavia ignored it and pulled herself back onto dry land. They both stared at the burning warehouse. The walls had been reduced to rubble by the explosion. Fire raged through the gutted interior, flinging bright red sparks into the night sky. Octavia could feel the heat from where they stood.

  “Looks like you were followed,” said Tweed.

  Octavia whirled to face him. “Me? Think again, mister. I've been doing this for a long time, you know. I'm careful.”

  Tweed raised an eyebrow at her. “You've been doing this for a long time? You look like you're fourteen years old!”

  Octavia's hand went to her face. Her scarf had fallen off in the water. She sighed. Too late to do anything about it now. “I'm seventeen, actually.”

  Tweed shrugged, as if her age was of no importance to him. “Does that change anything?” he asked, nodding at the fire.

  “It means we have to be more careful. You especially. They must know where you live.”

  “No one followed me,” he repeated. “Believe me, I'd know.”

  “So you think it was totally random that someone fires some kind of missile at the building we were supposed to meet in? How could they know—?”

  She broke off as something occurred to her. She saw the dawning realization on Tweed's face as he thought the same thing.

  “Harry Banks,” he said.

  Octavia nodded. “Looks like it.” She thought for a moment. “I'll kill him.”

  “Violence is not usually the first method I turn to,” said Tweed. “I find it betrays a weak mind. But in this case, I might make an exception.”

  “I—” Octavia saw something over Tweed's shoulder. “Oh, bother,” she said. “That's not good.”

  A group of figures had emerged from the alley to the rear of the ruined workhouse. Even from this distance Octavia could see the blue spark of electricity arcing around the hat of one of the figures. The tallest of the group, Moriarty, shouted instructions at the others, pointing in Octavia and Tweed's direction. Octavia fumbled for her gun, but it wasn't there anymore. It must have fallen out of her pocket in all the excitement.

  “Run?” said Tweed.

  “Run,” Octavia agreed.

  They sprinted along the embankment, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and their pursuers. Tweed glanced over his shoulder as they ran. At least it was easy enough to spot them coming. Even from this distance he could see the flickering blue light arcing around the top hat of the one he'd come to think of as “the Gibbering Man.”

  Tweed frowned, trying to get a good look at him. The odd little man wasn't simply running, but loping along on all fours with occasional leaps into the air, moving like a chimpanzee Tweed had once seen at a circus.

  That's a bit…disturbing.

  Tweed turned back to face front. As he did so the man released a high-pitched howl, followed by his odd, gibbering laughter, which echoed around the empty dock.

  The girl turned her head at the sound, glancing at Tweed with eyes that glinted with excitement.

  Odd. Tweed would be the first to admit he had limited experience with the opposite sex. Most of his interactions had been with friends of his father's, and they weren't what you would call “sophisticated.” Salt of the earth, true enough, and he wouldn't hear a bad word said against them, but they were slightly…rough. But from what he'd gathered from books and plays, girls didn't usually look happy when being chased by gangs of insane killers.

  Another thing Tweed couldn't help noticing was that the girl's eyes were very large. Was that from her mother's side? Her father's? Normally, he would have been quite interested in asking her about that—studying the science of heredit
y was one of his hobbies—but he thought that perhaps now was not the best moment for such questions.

  And then she did something quite extraordinary. She grinned at him. Then she turned her attention back to the path ahead.

  “Are you drunk?” he shouted.

  She glanced back at him. “What? No. Don't be absurd.” She grinned again. “Why? Are you offering?”

  Tweed opened his mouth to respond, but the girl put on an extra burst of speed and pulled away from him. Tweed put his head down and caught up with her just as they arrived at the eastern end of Thames Street.

  “This way,” the girl said, turning right. “We can double back along Russell then onto Trinity Street. There's a church there. People.”

  Tweed saw her plan. Their pursuers might look scary in their masks, but they couldn't exactly walk around in public with them on, could they?

  The problem there was that they might just decide to kill everyone, like they did at Samuel Shaw's house.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I've seen what they do to witnesses. We need to hide.”

  The girl hesitated, indecision plain on her face. Finally, she nodded and they ran across the wide road and into Isambard Wharf. There were lots of buildings there, huge factories and storage sheds built flush with the water's edge so that supplies could be unloaded onto the dock for the building of Brunel & Company's airships.

  Tweed ducked behind one of the brick storage sheds. The girl joined him, trying to take the spot closest to the edge so she could peer around the corner. Tweed frowned at her.

  “Do you mind?” he whispered fiercely.

  “Not at all,” she said, kneeling down and slowly slipping her head around the corner to check for pursuers.

  Tweed sighed. How tiresome, he thought, leaning over her to get his own look. As he did so there was a flash of blue-white light. He and the girl jerked their heads back just as a stream of lightning flew past the building and hit up against the double doors of a factory behind them. The doors exploded inward, flying off the huge iron hinges and spinning into the dark interior of the massive building. A strange metallic taste filled Tweed's mouth as he stared at the empty doorway.

  “We should probably try to avoid getting hit with that,” he said, “if at all possible.”

  “I agree.”

  They moved back along the wall of the building until they came to an opening. Tweed ducked inside, noticing for the first time the tracks that had been laid into the cobbles at his feet. He checked along the embankment and saw the tracks headed into the distance, but with secondary lines veering off into each of the warehouses and sheds that occupied Isambard Wharf.

  Inside the shed, the floor was cut by a deep rectangular gouge that let the waters of the Thames inside, allowing crates and supplies to be more easily unloaded from ships.

  “So,” said the girl. “Thoughts?”

  “More than you can possibly imagine. Here. Help me with this.”

  Tweed hurried to the back of the shed, where a large cart rested on the tracks. He felt around the sides for the brake lever and yanked it back. Then he started to push it forward. It was heavier than he thought. The thing barely moved.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “Give us a hand.”

  There was a low chugging sound, then the container lurched forward, yanking free of his hands. Tweed straightened up. The girl stood on the other side of the track, watching as the flatbed chugged around the bend in the track and out through the open door.

  “Steam power,” she said.

  “Well, yes, obviously,” said Tweed, brushing his hands together.

  The girl's eyes widened. “Oh. You didn't think we should be on that, did you? I personally thought that would be an atrocious idea, so I didn't bother to ask, but it strikes me how you may have thought that was how we should escape.”

  “Don't be absurd,” said Tweed, striding to the door and peering after the cart as it picked up speed. “It was a diversion.”

  The girl joined him. The cart was over two hundred yards away by now. As they watched from the shadows their pursuers came sprinting into view, running after the cart.

  The two with the identical smoke masks came first. Then came the man with the two discs that shone light directly into his eyes. The Gibbering Man came next. He stopped, then raised the metallic weapon he carried. A burst of lighting shot out of the metal tube and arced through the air. But it didn't get far, grounding into the metal tracks instead, crawling and sputtering across the line. Tweed and the girl quickly shifted their feet to make sure they weren't touching the metal. The Gibbering Man cursed, then shoved the metal weapon into a holster on his back and set off after the others.

  The girl waited for a moment, then got ready to move. Tweed grabbed her by the arm. She whirled to face him, but Tweed hastily raised a finger to his lips and gently inclined his head outside.

  A moment later, Moriarty strode into view. He walked with his hands behind his back, the tails of his long black coat flaring out behind him like a cloak.

  They waited until the cart veered around the far end of the huge factory, the masked figures scurrying after it, Moriarty taking a more sedate pace. Then they slipped outside and moved quickly back along the wall to their original hiding place.

  Tweed looked back the way they'd come. It was a lot of open ground. They'd have to move fast if they wanted to get clear.

  Then he frowned, hearing a distant putt-putt sound growing louder. The cart was coming around the factory, already heading back in their direction.

  Which meant their pursuers would be coming back as well. They'd never make it to cover in time.

  The girl grabbed his arm and they ducked through the still-smoldering doorway of the factory just as the cart sped around the corner and shot past them, leaving behind a cloud of steam.

  “They're going to figure out it's empty any minute now,” said the girl. “I suggest we hide.”

  They turned and moved deeper into the building.

  The front room was a greeting area, with comfy sofas and a small table on one side of the room and a huge mahogany desk on the other. Unfortunately, the tasteful decoration had been somewhat ruined by the lightning gun. One of the front doors was now embedded in the rear wall of the room, while the second had smashed into the base of the desk, shattering the dark, polished wood.

  There was only one exit. They hurried forward and pulled open the door.

  As it moved inward, Tweed felt the swish of air against his face. A cavernous space opened up before them. He stepped forward and found his eyes drawn up.

  And up. And then up some more, all the way to the roof some three hundred yards above him.

  Tweed tore his eyes away from the distant roof. The factory floor itself took up the entire half-mile length of the building. Glass-enclosed lanterns were spaced every few yards along the wall, the tiny circles of orange light they gave off almost completely useless in the vast, shadowy workshop.

  In the center of the factory floor, supported by huge iron girders coated with flaking red paint, was a massive, unfinished passenger zeppelin.

  Only half of the airship had been covered with material, the metal framework of the second half left visible for all to see. The ship looked half naked, as if they had interrupted it in the process of getting dressed.

  “Plenty of places to hide in here,” said Tweed. “Come on.”

  To their right a set of stairs lead up to a gantry that circled the factory. There were more gantries bolted to the walls, giving access to every level in the factory all the way to the roof. Tweed ran up the stairs, but his footsteps clanged on the metal grating. He paused, then decided to just keep on going. There was less chance of being seen at the top.

  They clambered up the stairs until they arrived at the top, then moved quickly along the suspended grating. Tweed kept looking over his shoulder as they ran, fearing that he would see the silhouette of Moriarty stretching across the floor, attracted by the noise.

  About
halfway along this walkway was the first of many ladders that led into the interior of the zeppelin's structure. From here Tweed could see long metal grills crisscrossing inside the airship, linked together by long planks of wood for use by the builders as they constructed the airship. To their right was a long, glass-fronted control room.

  “In there?” the girl suggested, inclining her head to the control room.

  Tweed craned his head all the way back. “Up there,” he said.

  At the very top of the airship skeleton, a platform hung from the roof of the factory. The platform looked about thirty yards long, and it hung from a system of pulleys that allowed it to move the entire length of the factory.

  “You're crazy,” said the girl.

  “Why? If they come up here the first place they'll look is in the control room. But you can barely see that platform.”

  It was true. The platform was painted black, blending in with the shadows around the roof. Tweed had only seen it because he was thinking of hiding on one of the scaffoldings that had been erected inside the airship's skeleton.

  “You first, then,” said the girl. “And if you fall, don't grab for me on your way down. This is your idea. You don't have to take me with you.”

  Tweed climbed up the ladder and ducked beneath the curved metal of the zeppelin's frame. There was a paint-spattered plank of wood at his feet. Another was laid across it. The planks made up a temporary floor, crisscrossing each other so that the builders could easily move to any section of the zeppelin they wanted to. About ten feet above his head was a second level, identical to the first.

  He moved carefully along the wood until he arrived at a ladder, then climbed to the next level. There was another floor of criss-crossed planks above him. He checked over his shoulder to make sure the girl was managing. She stood directly behind him, impatiently gesturing for him to move ahead. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. From what little he'd seen of her she didn't seem the type to linger at the back of the line.