by Coleen Kwan
The slumped figure let out a quavering moan.
“Father!” Her legs wobbled this time as she started forward.
“Don’t yer move!” The man stumped forward, leaving her father with his accomplice. He blocked her path, his looming bulk dripping with rain. “Give us the whatnot, or we’ll throw him over, and yer can watch him dance to death.”
The second man holding her father grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up. The sight of the rope twisted around her father’s neck sent ice through her veins. The other end of the rope was tied around the iron guardrail of the bridge. One shove would send her father over the rail and into certain death. Her stomach turned to water.
“Here it is,” she stammered, holding out the millennium machine. It weighed on her arms like a ton of iron. “T-take it.”
“Set it down, nice and easy, and show me it works. No tricks, now, or yer da gets it.”
“Please, don’t hurt my father.”
She lowered the parcel to the ground and peeled off her gloves. For several agonizing moments her frozen fingers wrestled with the knot before she managed to free the oilcloth. Fat drops of rain fell onto the brass box. Gulping, she opened the lid. She eased her fingers down the side, as Asher had instructed her, and felt for the tip of the vial hidden beneath the ring of magnets. She had to break open the glass tip with her fingers in order to release the catalyst, which would react with the hydrogen peroxide, which would in turn fuel the machine.
“Whatcher doing there?” The goon barged forward, bringing with him the smell of gin and stale sweat. “Hurry up!”
“I—I’m trying.”
Her fingers were too numb and weak. She couldn’t feel anything. Dear God, she couldn’t fail now! She squeezed the vial once more with all her strength. The glass held stubbornly. Somewhere behind them, something rustled in the shadows. The thug cast around, bristling with suspicion.
“Who’s that out there? Yer was supposed to come alone.”
He pulled out a knife and brandished it over her. The glint of the blade strangled the air from her lungs. “I did come alone—”
“Yer a cheat. That ain’t no milleni-whatsit.”
“No, it is. Just—just give me a—” At last the vial finally cracked beneath her fingers. “It’s working. I promise.”
The catalyst reacted with a soft hiss, and then the pistons inside the box began to move. She held her breath as the man craned forward for a better view.
“By gum, lookee that.” He pushed her aside, grabbed the millennium machine, heaved it onto his shoulder, and began to trudge back up the bridge.
Minerva scrambled to her feet. “Wait! You promised to release my father.”
Rain and soot made the road greasy underfoot. She slipped, recovered and pushed forward. The man reached the apex of the bridge, where her father still swayed in the grip of the second man. The two men exchanged a look and nodded to each other. They grabbed her father and dragged him to the edge of the bridge.
Minerva froze in shock. “Father!”
They dropped him over the bridge. A dark silhouette dropped like a stone, a cry splitting the night.
“No—”
Something sliced off her father’s shriek. She ran the last few feet. The men had disappeared. Noises came from either end of the bridge. The two men scrambling in the darkness. Splashing sounds from the river below. Footsteps running on the cobblestones from the other side.
She reached the guardrail and found the thick rope tied to it and stretched taut. She leaned over the edge. In the shadow of the bridge, her father was hanging, choking and gagging, legs flailing, hands scratching uselessly at the rope around his neck. The strangled gasps he made slashed through her brain. They were all she heard as she clawed at the wet rope. That, and the gibberish that tumbled from her lips.
“Minerva! Stand aside!”
She heard the words from down below but couldn’t obey, couldn’t desert her dying father. Her fingers tore at the knot. She’d never undo it in time! Sobbing, she stretched out over the railing as far as she could go, desperate to reach her father. If she could only get a hold of his shoulder, perhaps she could haul him up, take the pressure off the rope until help arrived. Her fingertips brushed against the fabric of his jacket. Almost. Just a few more inches…
Her joints cracked as she thrust out her arms, pushing onto her toes. Her boots slipped, her feet lost all purchase, and suddenly she was falling, damp air rushing past, bruising her cheeks.
“Minerva!”
She saw the bloated, anguished face of her father as she tumbled past him. Then a wall of water smashed her, engulfed her and poured into her eyes and mouth and ears. The iciness shocked her, drove all coherent thought from her. For a few moments, she was too dazed to realize what had happened. Then complete panic shattered through her. She thrashed wildly in the turbid black waters, her lungs screaming for air. Spluttering, she broke through to the surface, only to be dragged under again as her cloak and dress soaked up the water.
The river’s current was running strongly. As she battled up to the air once more, she found herself already some distance away from the bridge. She couldn’t see her father hanging from it anymore. She couldn’t see anything. The water dragged her under again. She strained to untie her cloak, but she knew it was futile. What little strength she had was rapidly draining away. Soon she would cease to fight against the water, would let it carry her down to its murky depths.
The fetid waves closed over her head yet again. She tried to accept the inevitable, but couldn’t help one last struggle. As she flailed her arms, the splash of oars reached her, followed by the bulking shadow of a rowboat. Rough hands grabbed her, hauled her out of the water and threw her on the floor of the boat. Splintered wood grazed her cheek, but she’d never felt anything so comforting before.
“Whatcher do that for?”
In an instant, the relief she’d begun to feel fizzled away. The sullen growl was all too familiar. She’d just heard it a few minutes ago back at the bridge.
“She were drowning.” The second man spoke, his voice surly.
“Yer stupid fool! Yer shoulda left her to drown. Toss her over now.”
“Nah.”
“What, then?” There was a snigger. “You want to dab it up with her?”
“Course not!”
“What’s got into yer, Bates? We done away with the old cove, didn’t we? Why yer going all soft over this bit of skirt?”
The second man growled. “No one said owt about snuffing out a woman. And she ain’t no bit of skirt. She be the lady what fixed me daughter’s arm.”
“She be trouble, is what she is. What yer think the guv’s going to say about this?”
“He don’t need to know nowt. We could just dump her here on the riverbank.”
“No we ain’t! If you won’t let me slit her throat, then we take her back and let the guv decide.”
Minerva had been lying still, feigning unconsciousness while the two men argued, but the mention of throat slitting galvanized her into action. She pushed herself upright and scrambled backward, away from the men.
“You’ll never get away with it.” She managed to untie her cloak and threw it to one side. The river around her was still running swiftly, and she knew she was taking a huge risk, but remaining in this boat with these two ruffians was even more dangerous. She’d rather take her chances with the river.
She jumped onto the stern and took a quick breath, preparing to fling herself into the water. The boat yawed. She teetered on the edge. Before she could jump, a hard blow cracked across the back of her skull. Stars exploded in her head. She toppled down, hitting the bottom of the boat just as darkness claimed her.
Chapter Seven
Asher cursed loudly. The ViperRay sat rock steady in his hands
. Despite the rain and the darkness, despite the sixty-foot distance, he knew he could sever that rope with one blast of his ray gun. But he didn’t have a clear shot, not with Minerva dangling over the railing, trying to reach her father.
“Minerva! Stand aside!”
She didn’t hear him. Kicking and writhing at the end of the rope, Silas let out a bubbling gasp. Minerva lunged desperately and toppled over the railing. She didn’t make a sound as she plunged into the river. For a few seconds Asher’s brain went numb. Then cognition clicked back—he raised the ViperRay and squeezed the trigger. A shaft of blue light shot through the darkness and cut the rope cleanly. A heavy splash followed as Silas’s body hurtled into the water.
Asher flung off his greatcoat, sprinted across the road and jumped into the river without hesitation. With powerful strokes he plowed through the murkiness, emptying his mind of emotion, concentrating on the task at hand. In the choppy, malodorous waters, there was no sign of either Silas or Minerva. When he reached the spot where he thought the current would have swept them, he filled his lungs with air and plunged below the surface.
A Stygian darkness greeted him, more abominable than he could have imagined. He could see nothing. Kicking harder, he drove himself deeper, hoping against hope luck would be on his side this time. His hands groped something solid. He made out an ankle, and then a trousered leg. Hooking his arms around the sinking body, he barreled his way upwards. The body was waterlogged and growing heavier by the second, and his lungs were beginning to burn. He reached the surface gasping for air, the cold beginning to sap his energy. Dragging the man behind him, he wallowed to the riverbank and managed to haul them both out onto the sticky oozing mud.
He was about to dive back into the water when sounds reached him from farther downriver. Through the drizzling rain he saw a rowboat holding two men. The men were arguing, the sound of their voices carrying across the water. He knew instantly who they were. At the back of the boat a third figure suddenly stood up, slender and swaying. Minerva. His chest tightened up. He started to run along the riverbank toward her.
“Jump! Jump now!” he yelled, even though he didn’t think she could hear him.
She turned. The boat wobbled. One of the men grabbed an oar and swung it at her. It cracked across the back of her head, and she fell back into the boat.
No. He stumbled over the debris cluttering the riverbank. A piece of driftwood caught his shin. He sprawled in the mud just as the rowboat picked up speed and disappeared behind a curtain of rain.
No. He punched his fist into the dirt over and over, until the pain penetrated his boiling rage. Finally he picked himself up and returned to the man he’d pulled out.
He lay limp in the mud, his face swollen and bruised, but still recognizable as Silas Lambkin. Swearing loudly, Asher tore the rope from the old man’s neck.
“Silas! Wake up.” He tapped the puffy cheeks.
The man began to cough and splutter, and then he rolled over and retched out a large quantity of putrid river water. His head lolled to one side, revealing a purpling, bloody mass where his ear should have been. Asher gripped the man’s lapels tighter as his emotions roiled out of control once more.
The men who had mutilated this man had Minerva in their grasp. And they had the millennium machine. They had no need to keep her alive. So what would they do with her?
* * *
Minerva came to, wondering what hell she had been thrown into. The first thing she noticed was the darkness, followed closely by the fact she was bound and gagged, and then finally the stench hit her. The sour stew filled the atmosphere, almost as tangible as the dirt floor beneath her cheek. Lifting her head, her repugnance grew as she realized at least some of the odor was coming from her. Every scrap of her dress, every hair on her head, every inch of her skin, was soaked in the foulness of the river. Even the rag lashed over her mouth reeked.
Revolted, she struggled against the rope tying her hands behind her back, but the bonds held. Her throat muscles strained as she started to gag, but she managed to contain herself. If she vomited, she ran the risk of suffocating. She pulled herself into a sitting position, wincing as the lump at the back of her skull pulsated with pain.
She was in some kind of mean shack with crumbling walls and a makeshift roof that let in more rain than it kept out. A lone tallow candle cast a spluttering, stinking light over her cramped surroundings. Bundles of rags littered the dirt floor, and a heap of battered kitchen utensils filled one corner. A crooked three-legged stool was the only piece of furniture.
She was in the slum courts! The realization pierced her with biting panic. Just a couple of days ago she had flown over these slums in Asher’s dirigible. She’d peered down at these rotten shanties and pitied the people forced to live in such diseased squalor. And now she was a prisoner here, tied up like a hog for market.
Tamping down her dread, she shuffled over to the corner and began to feel about for some sort of knife or cutting implement. With her hands tied behind her back, she couldn’t see what she was scrabbling through, but eventually her fingers found the jagged edge of a broken glass bottle. She clutched the fragment tight and began to saw through her bonds. It was torturous going, made even more harrowing by the thought of the abductors returning before she could finish, but eventually the ropes fell from her stinging wrists, and she was able to rip the noisome gag from her mouth.
Gasping, she leaped to her feet and banged on the door. The hovel was decrepit, but the door was stout and firmly locked from the outside. She hammered the wooden boards and yelled until she was hoarse, but no one came. People lived cheek by jowl in these slums. Scores of neighbors would have heard her, but none dared come to her rescue.
Her legs gave way, and she slumped to the ground with a sudden moan. Her father was dead. She’d been captured by his murderers, and Asher had no idea where she was. No one was going to save her. She was on her own. The fear she’d been trying to keep at bay came surging up like acid in her throat. She crawled into the furthest corner and curled herself into a tight ball. After a few minutes she began to rock herself, blanking her mind to what lay ahead of her. Gradually, despite the cold and the chafing dampness of her dress, she found herself nodding off.
She lost track of time. She didn’t know how long she’d been dozing when footsteps tramped just outside the door. Her breathing stalled as she scrambled awake. Her captors were coming to get her. What would they do to her? Violate her? Cut her throat and throw her in the river?
A key rattled in the lock before the door creaked open. Several men crowded inside, bringing with them a large lantern. The brilliance of its light blinded her. She raised an arm, squinting as she tried to make out who the enemy was.
“Grimlock, is that you?” she called out, forcing her voice to remain steady despite her terror. “You’ve gone much too far this time. I demand you let me go at once.”
“Well, this is a problem, make no mistake,” the man behind the lantern said, disgust apparent in his voice. “And she’s not tied up like you said.”
“She’s a cunning bint.”A man spoke, the thug from the bridge. “I told Bates she were trouble, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Bates is nowt but a half-wit.”
Minerva drew in a sharp breath. That vinegary voice was so familiar! “Mr. Monk? Surely it can’t be you…?”
The man lifted his lantern higher to get a better look at her. “Aye, Miss Lambkin. If only I could wish you a good evening.”
It was him. Dressed in his customary well-worn black greatcoat and top hat.
“Mr. Monk! Are you acquainted with these ruffians? Have you any idea what they’ve done tonight?” She stepped toward him, fuelled by her rising anger. “I demand you—”
He lifted his malacca walking stick and poked it against her chest, halting her progress. “Enough.”
Here in
the slum courts, Mr. Monk looked in his element, his cadaverous features suited to the mean surroundings. She glanced at his cane and then at his hard eyes. A chilliness emanated from where the tip of his cane prodded her and spread through her body. “Oh, mercy, I never would have believed it. You kidnapped my father? You?”
“You think I’m not capable?” Mr. Monk sniffed, glowering at her.
“But—but I don’t understand. Why you? Are you in cahoots with Mr. Grimlock?”
“Grimlock! That idiot. Of course not.” Mr. Monk stumped his walking stick. “He has all the cunning of a bullock. I work by myself. The millennium machine is mine and mine alone.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “You stole it just because my father is late on his payments? Isn’t that rather petty?”
“Petty! Your father pleads poor, but he’s a scheming scoundrel, and now I have his invention. The greatest invention of the century. That ain’t petty. Soon I’ll have a millennium machine powering every one of my mills. And when I’ve mechanized all my mills, I’ll be able to do away with half my workers too. That’ll be even more satisfying, laying off that louse-ridden lot. Nothing but trouble, these lazy ingrates.”
Minerva shivered. “You’re a monster. You pay these poor people a pittance and force them to work in hellish conditions, and yet still you’re not satisfied.”
Monk stamped his walking stick. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged. “Ingrates, every one of them. Always bleating for more money. They used to be grateful for any scrap of work I could throw them, but not anymore. Now they’re getting too picky. And all thanks to that interfering friend of yours, Mr. Quigley.”
Minerva stared at him. “Mr. Quigley? What has he to do with you?”
“He stopped the potato blight, didn’t he? Now half the Irish are packing up and going home.”
“And you’re complaining because you can’t exploit your workforce as much as you used to.” She let out a laugh. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop laughing at the irony of the situation.