by Paul Crilley
Octavia hurried forward. The huge circle of stone dropped just below floor level, then slid along underneath the floor until it disappeared from view.
A gentle ramp led down from the warehouse floor into the tunnel, easily a hundred yards wide.
Tweed appeared at her shoulder and took out his Tesla gun. Octavia reluctantly did the same as she said, “Tweed, I really wonder if this is the right thing to do.”
“Of course it is. We can't go to the police. They'll either arrest us or lock us in Bedlam. And we can't just do nothing. The Queen's life is in our hands, Octavia. We're the only ones who know what's going on. That means it's our responsibility to see this through.”
Octavia sighed. He was right. “Fine. Let's go.”
They descended into the tunnel. A continuous strip of small lights had been attached to the wall, not bright enough to illuminate everything, but bright enough that they could see where their feet were going. The lights stretched far ahead, appearing to come together at a point in the far distance.
“Long walk ahead,” said Tweed.
He was right. They hurried through the tunnel, but even so it took them about forty minutes before they saw any kind of change in their surroundings. Small rooms now opened up on either side of the tunnel. They checked each one, but they were just for storage: dusty crates of drills and hammers, spades and picks covered with tarpaulin…
They kept moving. After another ten minutes, Tweed put his hand in the air.
“What?” whispered Octavia.
Tweed pointed down. The path they had been following through the tunnel was a track gouged out by constant use. But right where they had stopped the track veered into the wall.
Octavia looked up. The wall was brick, just like the rest of the tunnel. Then she started to look to either side, searching for some sort of release mechanism.
“Look around for a hidden switch—a lever or something,” said Tweed.
Octavia turned from where she was already running her hands over the wall, giving Tweed her best “Really?” look.
“Sorry,” he said, and carried on searching on his side of the tunnel.
They searched along the walls and back along the track, eventually finding the switch behind one of the lights on the wall by the simple method of looking for footprints in the dirt. It was too high for her, so Tweed reached up and pushed the button.
A wide section of the wall swung back into a second tunnel. It was just as wide as the first, but less well lit. Octavia could only see three lights along the crudely carved walls, and one of them wasn't working properly. It flickered erratically on and off.
Octavia and Tweed entered the new passage. It carried on for about a hundred yards and ended at an iron door. This time they didn't have to search for any hidden switches. There was a long lever close to the wall.
Tweed released the break on the lever and pulled it toward him. The round door started to move sideways, sliding into the wall of the tunnel.
Bright light spilled out onto the earthen floor. Octavia fingered the Tesla gun, her index finger curling and uncurling around the trigger. Tweed hurried across to her and they moved to the side of the tunnel, where the door was disappearing into the wall.
They waited, the door trundling noisily only inches from Octavia's ear. The white light chased the shadows away, illuminating the passage almost halfway back to the main tunnel.
The door finally drew level with them, then slid neatly into the wall.
The first thing Octavia noticed were the two members of Sherlock Holmes's gang. The thin man with the metal discs over his eyes and one of the others who wore the long smoke masks. Except the mask was now lying on the ground, revealing an ugly, scarred face that blinked at Octavia and Tweed in utter surprise.
They carried a long box between them. It looked as if they were in the process of loading it onto a cart when the door had started to open.
The four of them stared at each other for a frozen second.
Then chaos erupted.
Tweed fired his gun. The bullet of electricity hit the wooden box the two men carried. They flinched and let go. It hit the ground edge first, the wood splintering and falling apart.
Revealing the ancient, withered body of Lucien.
The body slithered out of the shattered coffin onto the floor. The two men dived for cover behind one of the many boxes piled up in the room. Tweed fired again, running forward to take cover behind one of the larger crates just inside the door.
Octavia quickly followed after, hunkering down next to Tweed. He reached around the box and fired four more bolts of lighting. He tried again, but this time the gun did nothing. He cursed and quickly unfolded the small manual lever, winding it round and round as fast as he could to build up a charge inside the weapon.
Octavia peered around her side of the crate. She sincerely hoped that whatever was inside the crate was heavy—heavy and solid. Preferably made from steel.
“Did they have any weapons?” asked Tweed.
“I didn't see any.”
“So…should we rush them?”
Octavia looked at him to see if he was joking. He didn't appear to be.
“What?” he asked. “You just said they didn't have any weapons.”
“I said I didn't see any! That doesn't mean they don't have—”
Octavia saw a shadow moving on the wall directly in front of her. She craned her neck around the crate and saw the man with the scarred face rushing toward them with a heavy metal pole in his hand. Octavia flung her arm out and fired the Tesla gun. Electricity arced out, drawn to the pole. It coruscated along its length, then up along the scarred man's arm, crawling and wrapping around him like a net. The man stumbled to a stop, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. The pole went flying from his hand, spinning through the air and hitting the second man full in the face. The metal discs were ripped from his eyes, the blue light flickering and dying.
The thin man staggered into the wall, making a horrible mewling sound. Octavia looked on in horror. He didn't have any eyes! Dangling from his sockets was some sort of thick wiring, pulled out of his head when the discs were broken off. His head jerked rapidly from side to side, twitching uncontrollably.
Tweed finished winding the Tesla gun and leaped to his feet. “Right. Let's get this fini—oh.”
He dropped the gun to his side. “You killed them all!”
“I did not. That,” she said, pointing at the man with the wires in his eyes, “wasn't even me. The other one did it. Anyway, they're not dead. I only shot him a little bit.”
Tweed walked to the big one lying on the ground and poked him with his foot.
“He looks dead.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Octavia joined Tweed, then reached down and felt for a pulse. She frowned and shifted her fingers slightly.
“Problem?” Tweed asked.
Octavia frowned and straightened up. “He must have had a weak heart,” she said.
Tweed hesitated. “No time to feel bad about it now. We're getting close to the end of this, Songbird. I can feel it.”
They hurried through the room and found themselves in an old tunnel. The stonework looked old, the arched ceilings dripping with moisture. There was an aqueduct running along the bottom of the tunnel, but it had been covered over with a metal walkway.
“This looks Roman,” said Octavia.
“If you say so. Looks like bricks to me.”
“Yes, but it's the type of bricks. Well over a thousand years old.”
“Top marks,” Tweed whispered, leaning close. “But I think we should be quiet now. Listen.”
Octavia paused. In the distance she could hear a very slight humming sound. Tweed hurried over the metal walkway into another tunnel. Bright globes were attached to the wall, linked together by thick black wires.
The passage led to a mine shaft that dropped down into the ground. It was nowhere near as large as the one back at the prison, though. There were two elevators: one big, rein
forced one, probably for machinery, and a second, smaller one for people. Octavia and Tweed peered downward. The hole descended into blackness.
“What do you think?” asked Tweed. “Only way down, but the noise might alert them.”
“Not necessarily. If they hear it they'll just think it's those two goons coming back.”
“Good point.” Tweed nodded up at the ceiling. “See that?”
Octavia followed his gaze. There was a metal pole descending into the shaft. She followed its length up to the ceiling and saw it was mounted by a bulbous metal shape.
“A mini Tesla Tower,” said Tweed. “We must be directly under the new clock.”
They climbed into the elevator and pulled the door closed. The only control was a single lever. Octavia was closest, so she pulled it back, and the elevator began its jerky descent.
After descending about a hundred yards, Octavia saw a light below them, coming from an opening at the bottom of the shaft. The elevator bumped to a stop and Octavia made to get out, only to be pulled up short by Tweed.
His face was serious, his eyes dark.
“Octavia, whatever happens in there…I just want to say, all jokes aside, I'm glad we met. And…and I wish we'd met under different circumstances. You're all right. For a member of the weaker sex, that is,” he added, grinning slightly.
Octavia frowned. Why was he talking like that? It was as if he didn't expect to come out alive. She opened her mouth to reply with something witty, but Tweed turned abruptly away and stepped out of the elevator.
He walked to the opening in the wall, his frame silhouetted against the bright light. She could see his untidy hair sticking up, the shape of his greatcoat, and in his left hand, the Tesla gun. Ready for use.
Tweed felt as if the gun were about to slip out of his hand. He tightened his hold on it, curling his sweating fingers around the grip. He could see the other end of the tunnel from where he stood, a large rectangular opening through which emanated a flickering yellow light.
He checked to make sure Octavia was next to him, then he moved slowly forward until he could see into the room beyond.
The low-ceilinged chamber was dominated by machinery. It took up nearly all the available space, connected to the walls by thick, curved pipes from which condensation dripped, forming oily puddles on the floor. Steam hissed into the air, clawing up toward the ceiling, where thick cables twisted around and through even more pipes.
The machine itself—the infamous Lazarus Machine—was an immense brass and chrome monstrosity, an ugly piece of design covered with dials and switches.
Tweed's eyes were drawn to Barnaby. He was strapped into an upright chair, positioned in the exact center of the machine. A metal helmet, so tight as to seem like part of his skin, had been placed over his head. The helmet and chair were festooned with cables. They draped and coiled along the floor and disappeared into the heart of the Lazarus Machine.
Behind and above Barnaby was a large glass globe. Tubes connected this globe to two glass coffins positioned on either side of Barnaby. The right coffin was empty, but on the left, the remaining goon was busy strapping down an unconscious figure. The goon had taken off his smoke mask. He was the exact twin of the one Octavia killed with her Tesla gun.
“Is he in?”
Sherlock Holmes strode into view. He had been hidden in the shadows, fiddling with some kind of control panel on the wall.
Octavia leaned very closely to Tweed, “That person being strapped into the machine!” she whispered urgently. “It's Prince Edward!”
Tweed narrowed his eyes and tried to see the man in the dim light. She was right! It was Queen Victoria's son. What was Sherlock Holmes doing with him?
No matter. They had to put a stop to it. Now.
Tweed leveled his gun, still keeping to the protection of the tunnel. “Put your hands up, Holmes!” he shouted.
Holmes whirled around, darting behind one of the massive pipes. Barnaby stiffened, his eyes searching the shadows. The goon, obviously not one of the clever members of the simulacrum's gang, turned and ran directly at Tweed, letting out a long, guttural howl as he did so.
Tweed fired. Electricity surged out of the Tesla gun and smacked into the man's chest. He stumbled to a stop, smoke drifting up from the wound, then he sagged to his knees and flopped forward onto his face.
Tweed swallowed nervously, staring at the man's body.
“Sebastian, what do you think you're doing?” said Barnaby. “Get out of here. There are others—”
“The others have been dealt with. Everyone left is in this room,” said Tweed.
“Then I must congratulate you,” said Sherlock Holmes from his hiding place.
“I also know about the Tsar,” said Tweed. “I saw him meeting with Lucien. Or should I refer to him as the P.M. now?”
There was a pause. When next Holmes spoke he really did sound impressed. “You surprise me, boy.”
“I surprise a lot of people,” said Tweed. He crouched down, trying to see past the pipes, hoping for a clear shot. Nothing. “One thing I don't understand,” he said, moving to the other side of the tunnel. “What does Prince Edward have to do with the Tsar? How does he fit in?”
“Oh, he doesn't,” said Holmes gleefully. “Lucien and Nicholas, they've been plotting for years, you see. Lucien is a loyal subject of Mother Russia. It is Nicholas who has been secretly funding Lucien's research.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Tweed. “They plan on assassinating the Queen and blaming Germany.”
“Indeed. And then the Prime Minister will team up with the Russian Tsar and declare war on Germany for this horrendous act of war. Over the next few years, Russia will slowly increase her influence over Europe while Britain, seemingly trying to prevent a world-wide war, will in actuality be handing more and more strategic power over to our ‘ally,’ the Tsar.”
“And then?”
“The Tsar has his own lab in Russia. He has been growing copies of himself there for years. Barnaby will be forced to duplicate the Tsar's soul and place these duplicates inside his simulacra. They will then be placed strategically throughout Europe and Britain, where they will be well-placed to eventually take over the British Empire in the name of the Romanovs. With Lucien's help, of course.”
Tweed took a moment to digest all this.
“It's a pity it won't happen,” said Holmes cheerfully. “All that planning gone to waste.”
“Why?” said Tweed. “Why won't it happen?”
“Because I do not wish it to.”
Tweed looked around the room. There was no sign of Lucien or Nicholas Romanov. It could be that they were busy with preparations for the banquet, but that was still hours away. If this was part of the plan, surely they would want to oversee it.
“You have your own agenda,” said Tweed, as understanding dawned. “You're going to hijack their preparations.” Tweed glanced at Prince Edward. “Barnaby imprinted on you back when he was working at the Ministry. You need him to eject Edward's true soul so you can take over his body. No great loss to you. The one you have doesn't seem as though it's working too well. I think the mask is for more than just disguise.”
“That is true. I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe of late,” said Holmes. “More defects in the process. Please. Continue.”
Tweed thought about it. “You're going to kill everyone. The P.M., the Tsar, and the Queen?”
“And Parliament—with a rather large bomb detonated by a rather small Tesla-powered remote device.”
That threw Tweed. “Parliament? Why?”
“Why not? Once they are all out of the way, Prince Edward will return to the palace with a believable story of escape and bravery. About how it was all a plot by the Ministry to gain more power. With the Queen dead, I will become King. A few new laws to make sure the same thing does not happen again. A few more laws later—reducing the power of the government while increasing the power of the monarchy—and before you know it I will be the most power
ful figure in the Empire. A position to match my intellect.”
“The people won't stand for it.”
“Of course they will! Their own government, trying to kill the royal family? They will demand it. My only regret is that I won't be there to see Lucien die. That animal kept me locked up for years. And he thinks he can simply set me loose to do his dirty work? That I would just go along with his orders? He deserves to die.
“You've had your little bit of fun. You know what's going on. That's fine. I feel you've earned that much. But now I must insist you step out of the shadows and put down your gun.”
Tweed laughed. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Barnaby let out a scream of pain. He arched back in the chair, his arms straining against the shackles holding him in place. A second later it was over. Barnaby slumped in his chair.
“That is why.”
Tweed hesitated, then indicated that Octavia should remain where she was. Holmes didn't know she was here. Perhaps they could use that to their advantage. Tweed stepped out of the tunnel and tossed the gun onto the floor.
Sherlock Holmes stepped around a large conduit, moving into view through a cloud of steam.
He didn't have his mask on. The left side of his face was even more horrific when seen up close. His throat was covered in pustules and weeping wounds. His lips were flaking off, the skin covered in open sores. Tweed thought he could even see into his mouth through a gangrenous hole in his cheek. He heard the ragged, painful breathing of the man, and he couldn't help but feel a slight stab of pity.
Holmes moved closer. There was an odd expression on his face. He was frowning, peering at Tweed, studying his features.
Finally, he let out a bark of laughter and glanced at Barnaby.
“It all rather makes sense now. The tenacity. The cleverness. Does he know?”
Tweed hesitated. Know what?
“Does the boy know?” pressed Holmes. “Don't make me hurt you again, Barnaby.”