Eliza sighed. “I love you, Wellington Books.” Apparently she had abandoned any attempt to conceal their relationship.
Wellington chuckled, even as he coloured. “How very sweet of you to say, Eliza.”
“Would you two care to find a vacant office, or perhaps a spare storeroom to consummate your budding romance,” Sound said somewhat sharply, “or would you care to proceed to the Archives which is, may I remind you, the purpose of this little outing?”
“Proceed, sir,” both replied, shedding themselves of their tattered overcoats.
While the silence served as reassurance they were alone, it also unsettled Wellington. This was not normal, at least not normal for Miggins Antiquities. There should be teletype machines clacking orders and reports, the voices of agents and associates sharing stories of their adventures abroad. There was, however, nothing. Merely the three of them disturbing a void.
They ascended a small staircase, coming to a stop at a modest wooden door. Sound stepped back as Eliza approached the door with her signature pistols held up. She motioned for Wellington, who slipped his hand up to the handle.
“One . . .” he whispered, “two . . .”
On “Three” they swung the door open and Eliza led with her pistols, her eyes taking a quick assessment of the building’s main foyer. The interior metal doors, much as it was with the bulletproof blinds that had dropped inside the windows, appeared intact. No signs of fatigue or breach. From the stillness and feel of their surroundings, no one was there. In fact, it appeared nothing had been disturbed since the Phantom Protocol order.
“What do you think?” Eliza asked Director Sound, lowering her pistols.
“It would appear that Miggins Antiquities remains secure,” he replied. The man then reached into his waistcoat and produced the clockwork key all agents of the Ministry carried on their person. “Proceed to the Archives, if you would. I have something to retrieve from my office.”
“You have—?” Eliza began.
“My dear Miss Braun, you of all people should know and appreciate the value of travelling light, which is what I had to do once Phantom Protocol was initiated. Now, as I have a moment, indulge me.”
“But there is over fifty years of history in the Archives, and our time is—”
Sound raised a finger to stop Wellington’s words. “As I told you back in Whiterock,” he began as he turned the key, calling the lift, “I have initiated a plan. It has been ongoing since the Ministry retreated underground.” Once the lift arrived, Sound gave a wink to the two of them. “Now, to the Archives with you both. I will be there momentarily.”
Wellington shook his head as they watched the lift ascend up to the director’s office. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“Shall we, then?” Eliza asked, referring to the door to the right of the lift.
Once more, they found themselves in an oppressive, heavy silence. It seemed to reflect the job ahead, waiting patiently in the dungeon of Miggins Antiquities. Wellington knew Eliza understood the weight of what they were doing, but it had to be said.
“This is a generation of work we’re taking apart.”
She looked up from the step she stood on. “This hurts, Welly, I know, but would you rather have those Department pillocks rifling through here? Doctor Sound is right. There are items and artefacts in the Archives far too dangerous for those plonkers to get their hands on.”
“Yes, of course.”
She ascended a few steps and gently placed a kiss on his lips. “Chin up, Welly. We are doing what needs to be done. Not only what’s best for the Ministry, but for the Empire.”
He nodded and took a breath. “Very true.” Motioning ahead, they both resumed their descent as he added, “With all the surprises we have weathered over the weeks, I admit it will be nice returning—even for a brief time—to a place as familiar as the Archives.”
At the base of the stairs, the wooden door opened to the dimly lit entryway where the lift chamber ended. The heavy ship’s hatch looked just as Wellington remembered it before he and Eliza caught the last airship out of London bound for America. He gripped the wheel lock and turned it to one side, disengaging its simple mechanism. The door groaned on its hinges as Wellington pulled, eventually opening on its own accord. He motioned for Eliza to enter. She smiled and inclined her head in silent thanks. She stepped through, and he followed suit . . .
. . . and froze on the platform overlooking the Archives.
“What?” he managed to stammer. “What . . . ? What . . . ?”
Hovering silently over the rows of shelving units were brightly polished spheres, but how they were hovering remained completely and utterly concealed. No props. No steam jets. No thrust of any visible kind. They just floated, the faintest of whines only heard when they accelerated from one point to another. Wellington counted four of them, their surfaces so brilliant they caught the gaslight like mirrors.
When a sphere suddenly floated out from underneath the platform, Wellington and Eliza both stepped back. He had never seen his lover—or anyone else for that matter—draw a pistol so fast. A green light appeared in the centre of the odd flying device, and as it hovered before them Wellington had a moment to study its details. The sphere itself was slightly larger than a lady’s hatbox, and just underneath its featureless surface, lights flickered on and off as if there were some sort of computation sequence carrying itself out. The light passed across Eliza, then Wellington, and then winked out. With a soft whoosh the object flew away, seemingly content with their arrival.
“I think you can put the pistol away, Eliza,” Wellington finally said, making his way to the staircase.
Eliza’s gun did not lower. “Give me a good reason why.”
“They’re not attacking.”
From behind him, he heard the soft click of a pistol hammer easing back to a safe position. “Damn your logic, Books.”
The closer they descended to the Archives, the more the other odd devices came into view. Wellington was certainly acquainted with automatons. Clockwork or steam powered, they were popular devices in most upper- or even middle-class homes. Families had one or two tucked away for either menial tasks, such as sweeping or mail retrieval, or, for the more affluent, acting as guards for their estates.
These automatons, however, were entirely different: featureless and silent with the exception of a soft hum whenever they lifted or moved a crate. It seemed each shelving unit was assigned its own pair; and these mechanical beings had been busy devices as they had already catalogued, packed, and stored someplace the records and artefacts from the higher shelves.
He wondered how they had reached them, when he and Eliza were given a demonstration. One of the silver automatons let out a low whine, and then the square base on which it rested lifted off the ground. Like their spherical brethren, these automatons had the ability to hover. Also like their flying counterparts, they gleamed in the light of the Archives lamps, as if made of fluid steel, an incredibly high sheen akin to silver.
“Excellent!” came a voice from behind them. “The Staff are making admirable progress!”
Doctor Sound practically glowed with satisfaction as he drew closer to them. He was carrying with him a wide, slender suitcase. If he were to open it, Wellington hazarded a guess, it would easily cover a small dinner table.
A soft whine caught his attention, and he turned to see one of the silver automatons approaching quickly, deftly manoeuvring between Eliza and himself to approach Sound.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the automaton spoke, using a purely synthetic voice that sounded as smooth as cream.
Dear Lord, Wellington thought, it speaks! And it sounds completely human!
From underneath its bright sheen, lights faded in and out as the device reported, “We have successfully secured forty-two percent of artefacts, prioritizing those identified as hazardous. Shelves between
1840 and 1862 are completed.”
“Very good. Make sure to store this by central command,” Sound ordered, passing the large suitcase over to the thing. Wellington found it quite unsettling as the doctor, on account of the automaton’s reflective surface, appeared to be addressing himself. “Then return to your duties with the Archives. We still have no inkling how much time we have remaining.”
“Yes, sir,” it replied before quietly floating away with the item Sound had rescued from his office.
Wellington watched in fascination as the hovering device descended the stairs, suitcase clutched in one metallic claw-like hand. It then ducked under the low clearance of the open hatch and disappeared. Moments later, two others emerged from . . .
It was the Restricted Area. That’s where these things were coming from.
“Doctor Sound—” Wellington began, wishing his eyes could pierce the metal hatch to discern whatever was behind it.
“I’m over here, Books,” he replied drily.
Wellington started, and something about seeing Doctor Sound in front of him dissipated the wonder that had overcome him.
Yet it still made no sense. “Doctor Sound, what—” He stammered out again, “What—” And all he found himself capable of was motioning around him. “What—?!”
“This is the contingency I spoke of back in Whiterock. I can assure you, the Staff are handling the Archives with the utmost care.”
“I’m sure that’s part of Wellington’s concerns,” Eliza said gently as if she were translating from another language. “I, for one, would love to know what the hell these things are! The Mechamen Havelock had at his estate were amazing, but these are astounding!”
“Yes!” blurted Wellington. Leave it to Eliza to verbally slap him back to coherency. “What are these things?”
“I told you: the Staff,” Sound answered. Wellington went to demand more, but the director held his hand up. “Now is not the time. I need you to secure your work area . . .”
“So many secrets!” Wellington turned to see Eliza glaring at the director. He had seen his partner arguing with Sound before, but something about this whole scene in the Archives appeared to have shaken her. He’d been too busy with his own concerns to consider Eliza’s emotions. “When are you going to let us in on them?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Sound said, blinking at Eliza as if she were some raging schoolchild.
“I am talking about what you said to Prince Edward,” Eliza continued, drawing herself up to her full height. “You told him you were going to tell his mother he was dead, and it’s obvious you didn’t do that.”
Wellington was surprised to see the usual kindly expression dissolve from the director’s face. His eyes became as still and dark as stones. “I sometimes have to tell people what they need to hear. Bertie wanted to be assured he was safe, and the Queen . . . Well, I needed her to be off balance.”
Wellington and Eliza stared at their director as if for the first time, but it was the New Zealander who recovered first. “You’re not the jovial fat man everyone thinks you are,” she said quietly.
Sound pressed his lips together for a moment before answering. “You have no idea, Miss Braun, you have no idea.” Then, just like a switch had been turned, he smiled and clapped his hands together. “Now, if memory serves, there is a small incinerator attached to your analytical engine. I promise you, any remaining mysteries will be explained to you, but at a later date. Now, if you will excuse me . . .” and Sound gave a tip of his cap—which looked a little odd as it was still the tattered headwear of a fisherman—before heading for the Restricted Area.
Wellington felt paralysed from head to foot—even his vocal chords seemed to have been effected. His questions were answered, but only led to more questions. This was his domain. His Archives. What in God’s—
“You heard the director,” Eliza said with a sigh, seemingly resigned to the menial task ahead. “Despite it all, we have a job to do.” She paused, her jaw clenching for a moment. “We’ll have to trust that Sound has all this under control.”
The Restricted Area was even more tantalising, though. Wellington for the first time could simply walk to the end of his Archives and look to the other side of the hatch. Yet duty called.
Shooting one final, lingering glance in that direction, Wellington joined Eliza at their shared desk.
The logical part of his brain knew that the effrontery and violation of Sound’s odd technological wonders removing his work from their particular places was but a trifle compared to how many agents had been killed by the Department. However, the emotional part of him was screaming in horror. Wellington took his glasses out of his pocket, wiped them on his jacket’s sleeve, since it was all he currently had to hand, put them on his nose, and stared about one last time, taking it all in: the partners desk that he had been forced to share with Eliza only a year or so ago, the spot where the analytical engine he’d created had rested, the door from which he had first seen the mess that had been left by the last archivist, and the distant storage room where he’d led Eliza to an array of cold cases.
All these details suddenly held extra significance, and he found a strange little knot in the back of his throat. Clearing it, Wellington flipped a switch on the housing of the analytical engine, and the lid to the secondary heating element that doubled as an incinerator slid open. He and Eliza began going through the desk drawers, unlocking them and sifting through any of the papers left behind.
Most of them immediately were fed to the flames. Significant amounts of what he found on his side had already been entered into the analytical engine, but he also found his very first report to the director about the Archives. It contained some rather jaded remarks he had written about his predecessor, Augustus Whitby—the bounder who had abandoned his post without any notice.
Considering the disarray of the Archives, he had written, Whitby must have been an utter prat. He gave a tiny snort at that. I should burn this, he thought, in case the Department releases these notes to the public and Whitby comes after me with a solicitor in tow.
He folded the copy of his report and stuffed it into his coat pocket. A little memento.
“Eight years,” he whispered to himself as he dropped the paper into the incinerator. “It was eight years ago, and this place changed me.”
“It changed us both,” Eliza said, looking up from her side of the desk. It almost sounded as if it were a reluctant admission. “Coming down those stairs, I thought this place would be the end of my career.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No,” she said with a warm smile. “It was the beginning of something better.” After keeping her gaze on him for a moment, she opened one of the last drawers and gasped. “There you are.” She lifted up a throwing knife that was, apparently, in her side of the desk. “Remember this?”
Honestly, all of Eliza’s sidearms, save for her pounamu pistols, were hardly distinguishable. That knife, however, Wellington recognised straightaway. “The knife that forever robbed us of the Lost City of El Dorado.”
“Perhaps some things are best left in mystery,” Eliza replied with a shrug and a smile.
“Perhaps . . .” Wellington said, his thoughts trailing off as he caught sight of the automatons Doctor Sound referred to as “the Staff” trundle off more crates into the Restricted Area. “What do you suppose is back there?” he asked Eliza, indicating with a slight jerk of his head in that direction.
Eliza shot him a sharp look. “Well, my, my, my . . . look who is all curious now? I thought that was my area of expertise?”
“Whatever do you mean, Miss Braun?” It was easy to fall back into old habits in the middle of the Archives.
She waggled her finger at him. “Think of all the times that I asked you about what could possibly be back there, and you told me in varying ways to mind my own beeswax.” He felt a blush
steal over his face at that. She blew him a kiss. “I do wonder what you care about more, me or your beloved Archives.”
“It depends on the hour of the day or night,” he replied with a wink. Being around Eliza was quite beginning to lighten his mood, even in this dark time when everything seemed out of sorts.
She poked out her tongue at him, passing two handfuls of paper to him for the incinerator. “Well, I am sure I cannot guess what we might find there. I thought Blackwell and Axelrod were creating the most dangerous items back there.” She glanced at the Restricted Area. “I could have been wrong . . .”
Both of them were interrupted from their musings when Doctor Sound appeared out of the hatch, followed by an automaton and one of the spheres. Eliza shared a glance with Wellington, hastily checking the back of the final drawer of her side of the desk before observing their impending arrival.
Doctor Sound reached them just as Eliza was stretching her back. “So, how go my intrepid archivists?” he asked, patting the spot where his pocket watch rested.
Wellington felt himself straighten ever so slightly, as if Sound were one of his superior officers in the cavalry. “We are almost done here, Director. Most of this paperwork has been previously catalogued in the engine. Except for—” Wellington pulled out the desk’s small extension that had his list of codes for the analytical engine. He gave the extension a yank, and it snapped off in his hands. “This. I should have this on hand at Whiterock.”
“Well done.” Sound looked over to the accompanying automaton and motioned to the desk. “So, Miss Braun, I am in need of your talents.”
The automaton gently placed a strange silver box on the desk and pressed a solitary button that opened the crate with a hiss that resembled a steam release, but Wellington was convinced from its odour it was a different sort of gas. A platform from the bottom of the case rose to the top, and Eliza’s eyes widened in delight.
Two blocks, similar to the size of bricks, only grey in colour, sat on the platform. Embedded in the blocks were small mechanical devices of a fashion. The third device was some sort of hub with a numeric display and a small numeric keypad.
The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel Page 25