by Paul Crilley
As she searched the street, three steamcoaches sped around the corner behind them. The carriages were identical: black, low to the ground, and sleek. They reminded Octavia of the pictures of sharks she'd seen. They weaved through the traffic, heading rapidly toward them.
“Stepp. Load that boiler with as much coal as it'll take! Oh, and hold on!”
Octavia pumped the lever furiously and darted around the hansom. She veered back so she was directly in front of it, hoping the cab would obscure her from view. She needed to get off the main road and find somewhere to hide. She didn't think she'd be able to outrun those carriages.
She turned into the first side street she came across. It was a dark, unlit alley. But she could see traffic on the opposite side. She gave the carriage everything it had, speeding between brick walls with only inches to spare on either side. At one point, she hit a hole in the street, veered slightly, and sparks exploded along the side as the carriage scraped the wall.
A moment later she burst out of the alley. There was a screeching to her left, and the sound of crushing metal, but Octavia couldn't afford to look. She had come out directly next to one of the Ministry carriages. How had it got there so fast?
She looked out the side window, locking eyes with the Ministry driver. Octavia glanced ahead, then bit her lip and turned the wheel sharply to the left, crashing into the side of the black carriage. Octavia turned the wheel again, pushing the Ministry carriage across the street. Then she quickly spun the wheel and moved back into the road.
The Ministry goon looked ahead. He tried frantically to turn, but he was too late. His carriage smashed straight into a street lamp, the metal pole crushing the front of the steamcoach.
Octavia smiled to herself. Not bad.
“If you do that again,” shouted Stepp from the back, “I will personally climb up there and tear your face clean off!”
Octavia's smile faltered.
“A report was sent to the Queen,” said Barnaby. “At first, there was much excitement. Tissue samples were taken from all the royal household. Plus samples were taken from people of national interest, just in case they were ever needed. Sherlock Holmes, for instance. Darwin, Alexander Graham Bell…even Oscar Wilde.”
“Why were you taking all these samples? Did all these people want to live forever? Truly?”
Tweed shrugged. “I don't know. Probably not. Queen Victoria certainly did. She was most keen. But then she found out about the earlier experiments into soul transplants. Horatio must have told you about this. Where the Mesmer reapers destroyed human souls so they could insert alien ones into the body? She was utterly horrified at this. She thought they had sentenced these destroyed souls to some kind of eternal damnation. And the more she thought about the creation of simulacra, the more she didn't like it. She didn't think it was our right to do this. Just because we could, she said, it didn't mean we should.”
“Wise words.”
“She ordered an immediate stop to the simulacra program and the destruction of all the specimens. Obviously, Lucien was not happy with this. Outwardly, he did as he was told, but he managed to hide away some of the simulacra he was growing and carried on his research in secret.”
“And no one knew? No one was suspicious?”
“Possibly. But remember, Lucien was head of the Ministry. He was the Ministry. He could do what he wanted.”
Barnaby paused. “And then came the day we all remember. The day Sherlock Holmes fell over Reichenbach falls. Dr. Watson retrieved his body, you know. He was still alive—barely. Brain damage and the like. He wasn't going to last long. Lucien ordered him brought back to England where he made me imprint on the great man's soul and withdraw it from his body.
“Holmes's body gave up the struggle the next day. But his soul was stored away in an æther cage with the simulacrum Lucien was growing.”
Barnaby sighed.
“Not long after that, Lucien came to me with a new research mandate. He wondered if it would be possible to duplicate souls. To make copies of them.”
“Why?” asked Tweed, surprised.
“That's what I said. Lucien would only say that he was following orders from on high, from above even the Queen.”
“And who was that?”
“I still don't know. Regardless, we worked for many years. The God Machine was rebuilt and upgraded. Lucien renamed it the Lazarus Machine. He found it amusing to cast a biblical name on what he saw as the triumph of science.
“Finally, we got to the state where Lucien wanted to test it for real. On one of the souls he had in storage. He picked Sherlock Holmes.”
“And you just went along with this?” Tweed could barely believe what he was hearing. The things Barnaby had done—it was as if he were hearing about a different man entirely.
“No, I didn't. At least not at first. But Lucien knew my weaknesses. Just think, he said. If we are successful, where could it lead? Imagine ten Sherlock Holmeses protecting the nation's interests? No crime would go unsolved. And why stop at ten? Why not Sherlock Holmes simulacra in every district and police station? A hundred of them, a thousand of them, all watching over London, over Britain.
“I argued, of course. ‘What of the Queen?’ I asked. ‘And who is she,’ demanded Lucien, ‘to stand in the way of scientific progress? It is not her right. These discoveries have already been made,’ he said. ‘They cannot be undone. It is our duty to follow the research through to the end, to make sure it is done responsibly. Only we can do that. Only the Ministry has the facilities to make sure these experiments are done in a humane way. The Queen argues that doing this is against the will of God? But how could we even make these discoveries had not God allowed us to?’ This was Lucien's argument. ‘We started it,’ he said. ‘It is the will of God that we finish it.’”
“And that was all it took to convince you? Some petty moralizing?”
“Don't take that tone with me. I argued! Of course I did. ‘What if God only allowed us to make these discoveries so we could see we were moving too fast?’ I asked. ‘What if we are meant to realize that discovery for the sake of discovery is not progress, but rather arrogance of the highest degree. That we are like children pretending to be God.’”
“But still you gave in,” said Tweed.
“Yes.” Barnaby sighed again. “The truth is, Sebastian, a part of me wanted to see if we could succeed.
“So what happened?”
“It turned out I was right to be wary. I duplicated Holmes's soul in the machine, then transplanted it into a…damaged simulacrum that had been growing for the past five years. The simulacrum itself was already thirty years old by now due to the accelerated growth.”
“Damaged? How?”
“It was one of the early experiments Lucien had made. There was tissue damage to the face and body. That's why Lucien used it. He thought it expendable.
“Something went wrong. Over the months that followed it became clear that the copied soul was only partially a success. The simulacrum was still brilliant, a genius, but he was prone to fits of anger, psychotic breaks, a lack of conscience. This was a combination I could not take. A man as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes but without the conscience to stop him from turning that brilliance to evil? That was when I realized the Queen was right. We had to stop the research. We had gone too far.”
“But Lucien disagreed?”
“No! He agreed. At least, so I thought. He took the simulacrum of Holmes away, to be destroyed, he said.”
“But he didn't destroy it.”
“No. I later found out he'd simply locked the simulacrum away in a cell. Lucien thought him far too valuable to destroy. Sebastian, he's had this corrupt copy of Sherlock Holmes under lock and key for years. Can you imagine how that must have felt?
“Anyway, that was the last straw. When I found that out I ran, went into hiding. I thought I'd managed to disappear, but Lucien has been using the Holmes copy to do his dirty work. He managed to track me down.”
“Wh
y?” asked Tweed. “What does he want you for?”
“Lucien had cancer. He was dying. Had barely months to live. But he wouldn't let go. He was furious when I fled. Because I had imprinted on his soul I was the only one who could save him. I was the only one who could extract his soul and put it into another body.”
It all started to make sense now. That was why Barnaby was taken alive.
“So…what? He wants you to put his soul into a simulacrum of himself? One he's already grown?”
“No. He tried to grow his own copies, but they all developed the same cancer he was already dying from.”
“So what did he want you for?”
Barnaby reached through the hole in the door and gripped Tweed's arm. “I did it for you, Sebastian. They said they would kill you if I didn't do what they said.”
Tweed stared into the tired, shadowed eyes of his father. “What? What did you do?”
“Last night they blindfolded me, took me to somewhere. Sebastian, they had their own Lazarus Machine…” Barnaby trailed off. “The Prime Minister was there. He was unconscious.”
“Barnaby…”
“I destroyed the Prime Minister's soul!” shouted Barnaby. “It's gone. And I put Lucien's soul into his body.”
Tweed took a step back.
Everything made sense now. That was why they'd seen the Prime Minister at the Clock Tower after they'd witnessed him being kidnapped. It was part of the plan all along. Except it hadn't been the P.M. but rather Lucien now in the Prime Minister's body.
“You're telling me Lucien is now the Prime Minister of Great Britain?”
“Yes! I had to do it, Sebastian! I had no choice!” He choked back a sob. “But there's more. Lucien told me he's perfected the technique to duplicate souls. He says he has big plans for me. That I'm going to help him rule the world.” Barnaby pushed his face against the gap. “Sebastian, we have to stop him!”
Tweed turned away from Barnaby and gripped the railing, staring down into the deep shaft. Everything was coming together, things beginning to make a sick, twisted sense. Lucien wanted immortality, but he couldn't use his own simulacra because every time he grew one, it had the same cancer. So why not pick someone who was powerful, someone who had the position he had always wanted? Prime Minister Balfour was still relatively young. He had a long life ahead of him. By switching bodies, Lucien had extended his life by a good forty or fifty years. And after that? Well, who could know where the technology would be by then. Tweed was sure Lucien would keep at it, keep pushing ahead with the experiments.
And he was using the damaged Holmes to do his dirty work, since everything he was doing was off even the Ministry's books. It never had anything to do with Moriarty. He really was dead, just like everyone first thought.
The Babbage engineers! Of course. They had all worked for the Ministry when they were younger. They must have been responsible for building the original Lazarus Machine. Lucien then tracked them down and used them to build his own version of the machine, hidden away somewhere in London. And Holmes had been murdering them to make sure they couldn't talk.
Lucien had been following his own agenda for years now, decades. And that was why Barnaby was kept alive. He had been the one to imprint on Lucien's soul. Lucien needed Barnaby to effect the soul transfer. He'd done it now either because the sickness had become too advanced or because it had taken him this long to actually find Barnaby.
As Tweed stared down into the blackness there was a sudden noise. He looked up and saw the elevator swinging around, sliding back up the pole to the top level.
“Stepp?” he whispered. “Is that you?”
“Is what me?”
“The elevator just went back up to the top of the shaft.”
“Nothing to do with me. I'm still trying to get the bloody door open.”
“Then there's someone else here.”
“Tweed,” whispered Barnaby furiously. “No one comes down here except for Lucien and Holmes. You have to hide.”
“I'm not going to let them take you.”
“Don't be an idiot!” snapped Barnaby. “I brought you up to use your head. If you're killed we can't do anything. Hide away, then follow us. There's more chance of you rescuing me on the outside than there is in here.”
He had a point. Problem was, there wasn't anywhere to hide. He pushed on the cell next to Barnaby's. Locked. The next one as well. And the next. He threw a quick look over his shoulder. The elevator was descending. Tweed could see a flickering blue light shining from inside the cage. That meant it was Sherlock Holmes with one of his lackeys.
Tweed moved faster. Next door. Locked. Next. Locked. The elevator was almost low enough that its occupants would be able to see the floor he was on, see him running along the walkway. He pushed the next door. Locked. The next.
Open.
The door swung slowly inward, revealing a tidy, unused cell. Tweed quickly slid the panel open so he could see out, then darted in and pushed the door nearly closed, leaving a small gap between the door and the frame.
Tweed peered through the gap, watching as the elevator stopped and Sherlock Holmes stepped off. He was accompanied by the man with the strange discs over his eyes.
“Good evening, Barnaby,” said Holmes. Tweed could clearly hear his voice echoing around the vast space. “Seems to be a bit of a commotion upstairs. Fires breaking out, unauthorized intrusion into the Ministry systems and such. Lucien—sorry, I really should get used to calling him the P.M. shouldn't I?—thinks we should take the precaution of moving you tonight. Just in case it has something to do with your good self.”
“Where? Where are you taking me?”
“This all works rather neatly into my own humble plans, actually,” said Holmes, ignoring Barnaby's question. “I was already planning on moving you tonight. But now it's all official. The final part of the plan is ready, Barnaby. Time for you to go to work.”
“What plan is this? What do you want me to do, for God's sake?”
Clever old man, thought Tweed. Barnaby was doing this for his benefit, hoping Holmes would say something that would give Tweed a clue. But the simulacrum didn't seem to be falling for it.
“You'll see soon enough,” said Holmes.
“I won't. I will refuse to cooperate. You'll have to kill me first.”
“I see. I have to say, I'm looking forward to testing you on that. I've found that people's convictions tend to waver a bit once they lose a few fingers. Tends to clear the mind.”
Holmes took out a small rectangular card from his inside pocket. He held it against the panel to the side of Barnaby's door, then typed a number into the keypad.
Barnaby's cell door swung open. Holmes grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into the elevator.
But Tweed wasn't really paying attention to that. At the same time that Barnaby's door unlocked, the door to Tweed's cell swung closed and the locks engaged with a very solid-sounding thunk. Tweed stared at it in horror then frantically tried to push it open. It wouldn't budge.
Tweed backed up and stared around him at the cell. He was trapped! It must have been some sort of security measure. Before any cell door opens, all the others lock themselves down. Clever. Stopped all the prisoners from escaping at once.
But it meant Tweed was now trapped in a Ministry cell with absolutely no hope of getting out.
“You're what?” shouted Stepp.
Octavia tried to peer over her shoulder while simultaneously dodging the Ministry steamcoach that was trying to shove her off the road. The Ministry carriage clipped the side of an automaton, sending it flying into the air to crash up against the wall of building. Octavia saw the æther cage smash open and the soul flicker and die like smoke wafting into the air.
She angrily spun her wheel, trying to knock the steamcoach off the road, but this driver wasn't as easy to get rid of as the first. He jerked his wheel to avoid Octavia's sideswipe.
“What's going on?” she shouted.
“Sherlock Holmes ha
s taken Barnaby and Tweed's got himself locked inside a prison cell!” shouted Stepp.
Octavia's mouth dropped open in shock. How on Earth did all that happen in such a short space of time? “Can you get him out?”
“I can't access the locks. I think they might be on a different Babbage system than the rest of the security programs.”
Octavia's mind raced. There was absolutely no way they were going to leave Tweed in there. They had to get him out. But how?
The Ministry cab swerved toward her, but Octavia now considered herself a master at the technique and easily swerved aside. She quickly jerked her wheel left, slamming into the steamcoach and taking the Ministry driver by surprise.
She looked forward. They were approaching a tram line that intersected their street. There were no other carriages in front of them, steam-powered or horse-drawn.
Octavia glanced left and saw one of the Ministry goons actually lean out of the passenger window and level a gun at her. Again with the shooting! Octavia snarled in anger and braked hard. The steamcoach slowed to an almost complete stop, eliciting another shout of anger from Stepp. The Ministry carriage shot ahead. Octavia released the brake, pumped the lever, and pushed the steamcoach forward again. By this time the Ministry carriage was slowing down in response.
“Hold on!” she shouted.
Then Octavia winced, prayed, and smashed right into the back of the steamcoach.
There was the terrific crash and squeal of crumpling metal. The front screen shattered completely, glass flying through the air. Octavia was thrown violently forward. She bounced painfully against the steering wheel, then back against the seat. She heard Stepp cursing her name from the back.
Octavia didn't stop. She pushed the carriage forward, still tight up against the rear of the Ministry's steamcoach. They were locked together, the collision bumpers on their carriages entwined from the crash. Octavia peered ahead. She could see a huge, steam-powered tram approaching the intersection. She pumped the lever some more, getting an extra burst of speed out of the steamcoach. The Ministry driver tried to turn, but he couldn't do anything with Octavia pushing from behind. She simply corrected in the opposite direction.