by Paul Crilley
Barnaby gritted his teeth. “No.”
Holmes laughed and strolled forward until he was only a pace away from Tweed. He stared deep into Tweed's eyes, then shook his head in wonder.
“How can it not know?”
It? “Know what? What are you talking about?”
“Tell him,” Holmes insisted.
“No, I—”
“Tell him!” Holmes screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.
“I won't!”
Holmes forced himself to calm down. Then he shrugged. “Fine. I will.” He smiled at Tweed. “You, my boy, are me. That is, you are a product, a simulacra grown from the tissue of Sherlock Holmes. You and I? We are the same.”
It took a moment for what Sherlock Holmes had said to sink in. Tweed shook his head. “Don't be absurd.”
“Absurd? Look at me, boy. I am an older version of you. We are identical.”
Tweed looked into Holmes's eyes. He studied the shape of the eyebrows, the forehead, the hairline. He reached up and tentatively touched his own nose, the nose that was the same shape as Holmes's. He mentally erased the lines in the man's face, the creases and wrinkles that age and years of pain had etched into his features, seeing—
—seeing his own face looking back at him.
Tweed took a shocked step backward.
It was true.
Holmes nodded. “Yes. You see? Acceptance. We are one and the same, young man. We are kindred.”
“He is nothing like you!” snarled Barnaby.
Tweed slowly tore his eyes away from the man in front of him, turning to his father. All he wanted in that moment was for Barnaby to refute it, to have an explanation. But the moment he saw Barnaby's face he knew his hope was in vain.
“Barnaby?”
“I…I didn't tell you the whole story, back at the prison,” he said. “Remember when I said Lucien took the corrupted copy of Sherlock Holmes away? That he was supposed to destroy him? I knew it wouldn't end there. Lucien was a man obsessed. He would keep experimenting, prodding and prying into the soul of Sherlock Holmes—into other souls as well!—until he created something even more horrendous and twisted than…than that.” Barnaby nodded in disgust at Sherlock Holmes. The man smiled sardonically and bowed.
“What did you do?” whispered Tweed.
“The only thing I could do. I took the real soul of Sherlock Holmes—not a copy, the original soul I had extracted before he died—and I inserted it into one of the undamaged simulacra of Holmes that Lucien had been growing. But this clone was no more than a baby, newly formed. This kind of thing, it had never been done before. The brain of the child was not developed enough to cope with it. The insertion did something to Holmes's memories and experiences. It wiped everything clean, so to speak.” Barnaby stared at Tweed, tears falling into his beard. “Then I fled with you and raised you as my own son, trying to keep you hidden, out of sight, away from the Ministry's spies.”
Tweed said nothing, just stared at Barnaby in shock as his whole world crumbled around him.
“You are Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian. The real Sherlock Holmes. You have his soul inside of you.”
Tweed shook his head. “It's not possible.”
“It is. I've looked after you, tried to guide and teach you. Why do you think I tried to cram so much knowledge into that brain of yours? Why do you think I trained you so hard in logic, in rational thinking? Over the years, I've seen the brilliance that once defined Sherlock Holmes show itself, but always, always, it was tempered by you, by the person you had become. You are your own person, Sebastian, but something of Holmes still exists inside you.”
Tweed tried to back away, but bumped up against the wall. It wasn't possible. Sherlock Holmes? He was Sherlock Holmes? He was not born but…grown?
It couldn't be.
You have no soul to call your own, said a voice in his head.
It was true. He had no soul. He was like a cuckoo, laying its egg in another bird's nest, only to destroy the other eggs as soon as it hatched and claiming the nest for itself. That was what he had done. He had taken Sherlock Holmes's body, taken his soul, and he had laid his own thoughts and memories on top of the original, claiming it all for himself.
He was nothing.
“Sebastian, please…” Barnaby pleaded.
Tweed ignored him.
“Come now, boy,” said Holmes. “Don't mope. You have the soul of a genius in you. In fact…” Holmes stared thoughtfully at Tweed, then shook his head. “No, third time round I think I'd like a different body. Just stand aside so Barnaby can get to work.”
Holmes stepped toward him. Tweed, in a daze, heard a high-pitched whining behind him. He blinked. What was that? It was familiar—
Tweed's eyes widened and he dropped to the floor just as a surge of electricity soared over his head and crashed into the æther cage above Barnaby's head. The glass exploded, showering thick, gluttonous fluid over the Lazarus Machine. Octavia stepped out of the shadows and shifted the gun, moving the stream of electricity all over the machine. Sparks exploded. Dials flew off the machinery, pipes burst their rivets, steam exploded into the air.
Octavia released the trigger. A low, guttural howl broke through the air. It was Sherlock Holmes. He was staring at the machine in horror.
“What have you done?” he screamed. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”
He whirled on Octavia just as she pointed the gun at him. His eyes widened. He flung his arm up and spun behind a conduit just as she fired again. The bolt of lighting surged around and up the metal pipes, illuminating the room in icy blue before fading away.
A second later Barnaby arched his back, his teeth gritted in pain. Tweed peered into the shadows and saw Holmes running through a door in the rear of the room. Tweed scooped up his Tesla gun and sprinted after him.
“Tweed!” shouted Octavia. “Your father!”
Tweed hesitated. He glanced back at Barnaby, the man's face writhing in pain, then back to Holmes's receding form. “You get him out!” he shouted, sprinting around the machine and through the door.
It led into yet another tunnel. At the opposite end Sherlock Holmes was already pulling the door closed on one of four small elevators. He threw a lever and it started to climb rapidly upward. Tweed ran forward. He leaped into the air, trying to grab the bottom of the elevator, but it was moving too fast. He slammed into the wall and slid downward.
Tweed swore and climbed into another elevator. He yanked the lever, starting his jerky ascent. There were no dials on the wooden structure. The lever acted as a simple brake that started and stopped his movement.
Tweed was about fifteen feet below Holmes. He craned his neck back, making sure the man didn't try to escape. Eventually, Holmes's elevator bumped to a stop and he threw the door open and bolted.
A few seconds later Tweed followed suit.
Everything was a blur as he raced after Holmes. A short, earthen tunnel. Then a crudely dug room, more a hole in the earth than anything. Another earthen passage. There was a grinding noise from up ahead. Tweed burst into a final room to find a thick, reinforced door swinging open. On this side, the door was solid metal, but on the other it was covered with rock and stone.
Sherlock Holmes was nowhere in sight. Tweed hurried through. The wall on this side of the room was made from the same rock and stone that covered the door, so when it was closed it would blend in, hidden from sight.
The room led into a basement of some sort, filled with building supplies. A long set of stairs led up into a vast, square room.
Except it wasn't just a room. Tweed felt a breeze on his face and looked around. A huge, square structure soared up above him, the ceiling lost in the dim darkness.
He was in the new Clock Tower.
Sherlock Holmes was in another elevator, moving upward. This one was a metal cage with safety grills all around it. Tweed looked frantically around and saw another one, this one holding a large toolbox and paint.
Tweed sent the elevator upward. Holmes
was already disappearing into the shadows above. As they climbed, Tweed pulled out the gun and checked it. Empty. He wound the lever furiously around, but even so there would only be enough charge left for one shot. He'd have to make it count.
The elevator slid up floor after floor, rising through the different levels of the tower all the way to the top. Tweed dropped into a crouch and leveled his gun as the elevator bumped to a stop.
The four transparent clock faces surrounded him. The rain hammered down outside, the clouds black and threatening. The grey morning light revealed the huge cogs and gears that dominated the space, the machinery that would one day power the clock. Ten bells hung from the roof. They were huge, all hanging in a line, ready to strike the hours for all of London.
No sign of Holmes, though. Tweed stepped slowly from the elevator.
There was a rush of movement to his right and Holmes darted out from behind the machinery, running straight for one of the clock faces. There was something on the floor there, a small metal box. It looked like the transceiver Tweed had in his steamcoach.
The trigger for the bomb.
Holmes was going to detonate it now, to cause what damage he could.
“Stop!” Tweed shouted.
Holmes froze, then turned around to face Tweed as he stepped forward, the gun leveled in front of him.
“Don't be stupid, boy,” said Holmes. “Fight against me, you fight against yourself.”
“I'm not the same as you,” said Tweed.
Holmes laughed. “How can you even argue? We are exactly the same. That's the whole point. Come with me. I'll teach you how to think. I have those memories. I am Sherlock Holmes. I'll teach you how to observe, how to reason. How to make use of that mind. I'll make you great.”
Tweed said nothing.
“What can Barnaby give you? What has he given you? The life of a pauper? A life spent hiding away? Scamming people for money? Do you honestly think that's good enough for the likes of you?”
Holmes moved slightly, heading for the switch. Tweed followed him with the gun.
“Barnaby lied to you,” the villain went on. “Your whole life he's kept the truth hidden from you. You deserved to know your origin. You deserved to know where you came from. He didn't respect you enough to tell you. I respect you, boy. Just from speaking to you for ten minutes I can see the brilliance in you. The potential. I can make you the greatest thinking machine the world has ever seen.”
Tweed's hand lowered slightly. He felt…lost. Confused. For the first time in his life he didn't know what to think. It was true. Barnaby should have told him. Tweed should have known his true heritage. To keep that from him…It wasn't right.
“Use your head,” said Holmes. “Don't feel guilty about wanting more. Feelings are for the weak. You have a brain that is better than everyone else's. Use it. Think about it rationally.”
Think about it rationally.
His whole life, Tweed had thought about things rationally. Had used his head. Had analyzed everything. Reasoned things through.
Then he met Octavia. What was it she had said? You can't break everything down into patterns and logic, Sebastian Tweed. Sometimes you just have to have faith and feel life. Experience it.
“Claim your true name, boy. Sherlock Holmes. That's who you are. With our intellects we could rule the world if we so choose. No one would be able to stop us.”
If this had all happened a month ago, before he'd met Octavia, who knew what decision he would have made. But Tweed realized she was right.
“My name,” he said grimly, raising the gun, “is Sebastian Tweed.”
Holmes stared at him for a moment. Then he snarled and made a dive for the detonator.
Tweed fired. The weak bolt of electricity hit Holmes in the leg. He spun around with a shout of pain, staggered, then carried on moving toward the box. Tweed pulled the trigger again.
Nothing happened. The Tesla gun was empty.
Holmes was only a few feet away from the detonator. Tweed threw the gun down and raced at him. Holmes saw him coming, tried to move faster, but his injured leg slowed him down. Tweed was ten paces away. Holmes lunged forward, his fingers stretching out for the button. Tweed screamed in anger and launched himself into the air, colliding full into Holmes and lifting him off his feet. They flew through the air and crashed into the clock face.
It exploded outward in a thousand glittering fragments, soaring out over the Thames. Holmes and Tweed fell from the Clock Tower. Rain lashed Tweed's face. He spun and tumbled through the air, still holding onto Holmes. He saw the water rushing up toward him. Then the Clock Tower receding above him. Then grey sky, the rain.
Holmes screamed, “Not again!”
There was fear in his voice. Real, genuine, primal fear. And as Tweed heard the words, he felt it too, a sudden panic, the flash of a waterfall, of plummeting, falling, smashing into water like a brick wall. Rocks, blood, darkness…
Tweed looked into Holmes's eyes. There was an instant, a brief moment where there was the slightest connection between them. Understanding.
Then Tweed released Holmes, letting go of his jacket, separating from the man.
Tweed smacked into the water. It was freezing, yanking his breath from his body, pulling it from his lungs. Down he went, like a piece of lead dropped from the sky. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing. Which way was up? He moved his arms, trying to swim, but he suddenly felt as if he were swimming downward. His lungs strained. He needed air.
Tweed closed his eyes again and calmed his mind. Then he opened them and blew one single bubble of air out of his mouth. He watched as it bobbed away from him, then he followed it upward.
He exploded through the surface of the Thames with a gasp, sucking in air. He looked around frantically, but there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. No body bobbing in the water. No figure swimming away. Just…nothing.
There was a shout from up above. He looked up and saw the distant face of Octavia peering down at him. He waved weakly, then spread his arms out and let himself float on his back.
They had done it. They had stopped Sherlock Holmes.
And now they had proof of Lucien's plan. They had the Lazarus Machine. They even had Lucien's body. They could tell the Queen what had been planned. The authorities would have no choice but to believe them now.
He supposed that meant he should start swimming.
Four days later Tweed and Octavia waited in a large drawing room, watched over by a frowning man in a black suit, who by the looks of it thought they were going to steal the silver and run off with it at any moment. The man looked vaguely familiar to Tweed.
The sofa was firm and slightly uncomfortable. Tweed shifted his backside and looked up at the huge paintings mounted on the walls, the elegant sideboards covered with flowers.
He frowned down at the floor, then peered into the corners.
“What are you doing?” whispered Octavia fiercely.
“No dust,” said Tweed.
“What?”
“There's no dust.”
“Of course there's no dust. It's Buckingham Palace!”
“It's not natural.”
“Don't be silly. Have you and Barnaby spoken yet?”
“No.”
“Don't you think you should?”
“No. Anyway, it's not just me. He hasn't forgiven me for leaving him in the chair while I chased after Holmes.” Tweed was silent for a while. “I don't know who I am, Songbird. I don't know how much is me and how much is him leaking through. I can't trust my own thoughts.”
“Of course you can. You are who you are. What do I always say?”
Tweed thought about this. “‘Tweed, you're an idiot?’”
“What else?”
“‘Stop being so annoying?’”
“Yes. And also, don't analyze everything. You are who you are, Sebastian Tweed. For better or for worse.”
Tweed pushed himself to his feet and went to look out the large window. The parade gro
unds stretched out below him. Guards dressed in red jackets and helmets were…doing whatever it was guards did. Guarding things, he supposed. He had been rather surprised to receive the summons this morning. Actually, that was an understatement. He had been very surprised. Yes, they had told their story to an endless number of government flunkeys, but he hadn't actually expected a summons from Queen Victoria herself.
He swiveled around and walked the perimeter of the room, coming to a stop before the servant. He squinted at the man, who definitely looked familiar. He was in his fifties, bald, oddly small nose, with red marks around the nostrils. Frown lines creased his forehead and eyes, eyes that also seemed slightly inflamed and red. Tweed leaned forward and sniffed.
The man recoiled. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Tweed stepped back, running his eyes over the man's clothes, his shoes, his clasped hands. He locked eyes with the man again.
The door opened.
The servant blinked in apparent relief and turned to attend.
It was the Queen.
She swept into the room, waving the servant away. He left and closed the door behind him. Octavia shot to her feet, and Tweed hurried back to the couch to stand next to her.
Queen Victoria was a lot shorter than Tweed had expected. There was a determined expression on her face, but Tweed didn't think it necessarily had anything to do with them. He thought it was just how she normally looked.
She sat down on the couch opposite them.
“Sit,” she commanded.
Tweed and Octavia did as they were told. Octavia fidgeted nervously, clenching and unclenching her hands. It was making Tweed nervous. He elbowed her, but all she did was elbow him back, harder.
“My people have spent a very long time talking to both yourselves and Mr. Barnaby Tweed,” said Queen Victoria. “And from all that has been said, I gather I have you two to thank for my life.”
Tweed said nothing. Neither did Octavia. It hadn't exactly been a question.
The Queen turned her hard gaze on Tweed. She studied him intently.