Whitechapel Gods

by S. M. Peters

  “You are not him.”

  Aaron looked down to find himself walking across a face that looked much like Scared’s own might have, in days of youth and health.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are not a nightmare,” said the man, whose lips stayed still and frozen, and whose voice came on the wind. “You are a living man.”

  Aaron nodded gently. “Yes.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Aaron knelt above the man. “I am here to free you.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “It’s all right.” Aaron stroked the ice above the man’s face. “You’re the man he was, before his twisted passions took him. You’re the part of him that doubted and was ashamed.”

  “I had terrible thoughts,” said the man. “Thoughts I could not live with. They tortured me every night and every waking hour, until I gave them away to him. I don’t want them back.”

  Aaron nodded. “I know,” he said. “It will be hard, but there will be peace afterwards. I promise.”

  He reached into his pockets, and withdrew the tools he needed. In this dream realm, anything he wished met his hand within the fabric. He tried a saw, an electric arcing device, a quantity of pitch and fire, and finally a hammer and chisel. The ice would not yield.

  Aaron let his mind think on it.

  “How did he do this?” he asked the face. “How did he build this prison?”

  “Do you see the river?” said the face. “The heavenly river.”

  Aaron glanced at the streams of fluid above. “This liquid?” He reached up and touched some. Its white glow lingered on his fingers and skin.

  “It is divinity in a bottle,” said the face. “That is what he said. It is heaven or hell as he pleases. And hell pleases him. How it pleases him.”

  Aaron looked into the glimmering fluid with his vision, seeing the yellow flower that grew in the deepest South Asian jungles, seeing the decrepit, starved monks who would rather smell it than eat or sleep, seeing the tendrils of its scent spin in the human body and mind, until both burned up with wonder. It was the infinite power of a mind unfettered.

  He breathed it in, letting it flow about his astral form until he glowed as bright as a night star.

  I need be a watcher no longer, he thought.

  The ice began to melt around him, and the nightmares growled as they emerged.

  The brass wheel had been jammed open, its metal twisted and locked together by impacts. Oliver stumbled over the threshold and into the temple.

  The Stack was a war zone. Mad crows and machines danced and cackled and cannibalised one another while canaries ran about trying to restore order through reasoning, commanding, destroying. And the Boiler Men marched through the halls, murdering everything that moved.

  Oliver felt it as much as he heard it. Mama Engine’s perpetual fire in his mind had gone cold, as had the sickening pulse in his stomach and bowels that belonged to her diseased child. The open spaces and grand halls had fallen victim to a chill wind. The machines built into the walls stuttered and stalled, pressurised steam leaked from conduits, and the copper wiring strung against the ceiling sparked erratically.

  The black cloaks that he and his guard passed had died in terror, their last expressions frozen on their faces.

  Only twice did they meet resistance. On the first occasion, a pack of gold cloaks blocked their path as their leader demanded that the baron put a stop to the disorder. The Boiler Men had taken two steps in front of Oliver and gunned the cloaks down with cold efficiency.

  The second encounter had been with a crow gnawing a steam pipe, oblivious to the heat scorching the skin from her face. The Boiler Men had dispatched her with the same precision.

  The Boiler Men had obviously been into the temple already. The hundred cloaks that had brought down Tommy lay about the mirrored floor literally blown to pieces. Not a single one moved.

  Oliver’s bodyguards led him across the floor to the edge of the Chimney. The promised lift waited there, a plate of gold and steel mounted on tracks. This vantage brought him close enough to see the individual people in Grandfather Clock’s thrall. The lift started up with a hum and a crackle of electricity, and began to roll sideways down a descending track that spiralled the outside of the chamber, always facing the Chimney.

  The sound of hidden machines was deafening, the stench of ozone overpowering. Oliver forced himself to watch the endless rotating gallery of faces, wondering how many he had known, how many no one had known. So many of them were the child victims of the Chimney gangs, and some had been here long enough that their bodies had rotted away, leaving dry, cracked organs and nerves clinging to bone—yet still they were unable to die.

  You will rest tonight, he told them.

  Electricity arced between the Chimney and the copper threads extending out to the far walls. The lift circled the chamber over and over, descending two or three storeys with each loop. As they approached the bottom, Oliver estimated that they must be a quarter mile underground.

  The lift reached its destination, locking into place with powerful magnets. The Boiler Men escorted him along a walkway that extended out into the room to a ring at the base of the Chimney. At the edge of that ring, they found a creature built of bent strips of brass and copper wiring. Oliver looked into its porcelain eyes as it assessed him and realised this was the one that had brought Tommy down.

  It looked inquisitively at the Boiler Men, who did not speak or react, then reached out to a bundle of copper wires wound about a railing. Arcs leapt from its fingers and ran along the wires, jumping between different coils until they vanished into the Chimney. The Chimney reacted with an electric hum and the lowest two rows began to turn. The chairs carrying the Machine’s victims shifted, some sliding up, others down, bringing an empty spot onto the bottom row, then rotating it towards them. In the gaps revealed during these movements, Oliver caught a glimpse of the Chimney’s interior: a spider’s web of interlaced copper balls and wires, alive with wiggling electric worms.

  The bottom row slid to a halt. The creature pointed a single wire finger at the tarnished chair settling in front of them.

  Oliver reached into his pocket and palmed the golden device. The Boiler Men closed ranks behind him, blocking any route of escape. Oliver allowed himself one deep breath, then hung the baron’s cane over the railing and climbed awkwardly into the chair.

  The Boiler Men remained where they stood, blocking Oliver from the other creature’s line of sight. Oliver drew Scared’s device up to his chest, tines pointed inward. He gazed into the eyes of the Boiler Men, looking for answers to the questions he should have asked hours earlier: when was he supposed to activate it? How deep did the tines have to sink? The Boiler Men gave no answer, not in voice or gesture.

  He should wait until he was connected. How would he know when that happened? What if Grandfather Clock stopped him from moving?

  He felt a dull sting as something penetrated his back. He felt acutely the tearing muscle and flesh as the wire curled back on itself and looped between two of his vertebrae. Another punctured his right arm at the shoulder, two more, the base of his neck. He felt these wiggle about as well, finding purchase on bones and nerves that began sparking with pain. Oliver watched his legs and fingers jolt and jerk.

  I can’t wait any longer.

  He drove the device into his chest. The tines poked through his shirt like sewing needles, pricking and penetrating his bruised skin and slipping expertly between ribs.

  A ticking spread to his inner ear, beginning bright and quiet and growing louder and more expansive with each repetition. Images flickered over his eyes: thousands of intersecting gears, beams, and bells tolling, thoughts like rays of light shooting back and forth in an intricate lattice beautiful beyond words.

  He felt a hum and crackle about his chest, and smiled.

  This is from all us lowly coves, you bastard.

  Awareness began to fade from his physical body as the Great Machin
e gobbled up more and more of his mind. Oliver succumbed without struggle, though the relentless pounding wounded him in ways he did not know he could be damaged. The ticking tempered his soul, shaped it into modes of thinking that fell in harmony with Grandfather Clock’s rhythm. It beat him down and moulded him, and Oliver smiled all the while.

  Then a sickening rush filled his chest. White fluid pushing the tines out, healing the punctures. Oliver couldn’t feel his arm, couldn’t see, couldn’t hold the device in him as the child-god’s pus rejected it.

  “It has to stay in!” he cried. Any perception of the chamber vanished, and the words echoed into Grandfather Clock, crushed and tempered and put to use by the machine even as it did the same to Oliver’s own mind. Oliver’s thoughts ended. His mental space became home to the calculations of the machine.

  For an instant, all was in harmony.

  Then, a black shape appeared to mar the infinite perfection. The ticks and tolls beat against it, but it refused to be made compliant. The shape rushed out, slipping into the empty spaces between Grandfather Clock’s thoughts, and began to devour everything it touched.

  Oliver’s awareness flew back to him. He opened his eyes and saw the chamber around the Chimney blended into the mental realms of the three gods that claimed him. Fires burned everywhere, bells tolled, and electricity crackled, a putrid sea lapped at his soles. In this maddening vision only one thing stayed constant: a Boiler Man, holding the device firmly into his chest while the creature of brass ripped it apart plate by plate from behind.

  Grandfather Clock fell out of rhythm. His million sounds phased away from one another, changing pitch and timbre. The Great Machine collapsed from within as Oliver laughed.

  The poison turned. It suddenly rushed back into him, cutting through his brain and lancing outward through Mama Engine’s connection in his head and her child’s in his gut. Nothingness enveloped him and his laughter turned to screams.

  Chapter 22

  These writings are Holy. They are Divine. And yet they are the words of but a frightened young man, whose life has ended before his appointed time. Read them and despair, for if you have deciphered my scrawl, I fear it is already too late for you.

  —XII. xi

  “No doubt about it, suh,” Heckler reported. “They’re heading for the old entrance to the main tunnel. They must not know the cloaks welded it shut.”

  “They know,” said Bergen. “The seal will not be an obstacle for them.”

  “They’re heading for the women and children,” said one of the half dozen militiamen sheltering with them. He was unshaven and emaciated, and Bergen had never bothered to ask his name.

  Bergen turned to this man. “I told you to lead them away.”

  The man yelled his response. “They don’t care about us. They just ignore us unless we shoot at ’em, and then they bleedin’ kill us.”

  “Then you are not running fast enough.”

  Bergen leaned back against the pillar that gave them cover. It was one of the beams that held the upper concourse in place, being full seven long strides end to end. It was the only one on the block, and the only thing Atlas rifles could not shoot through.

  Bergen knew he had to rest soon. He had fired the steam rifle seventeen times in a half hour and it was beginning to get too hot to hold near his body. The electrical discharges were also starting to make him lose focus. His balance felt off, his vision ticked if he moved his eyes too rapidly.

  But they were women and children.

  Bergen had never cared for such weak creatures. Ellingsly, being weak himself, had loved them.

  Blast.

  “Take your men to a different tunnel entrance and free them,” Bergen ordered the men. “Lead them back to the lift and stay with the wounded. Under no circumstances leave them unguarded. Do you understand?”

  The unseemly militiaman nodded, desperation replaced with equally desperate energy. At least it got the man to run off. The rest followed, leaving only himself and the American.

  “You are my eyes, boy,” Bergen said.

  Heckler nodded and dashed from cover. He bolted across the street and took shelter behind a brick stair leading into a shop across the street. Atlas guns would tear right through it, but there was no other viable vantage point.

  Heckler watched the Boiler Men. Bergen watched Heckler. Heckler held up three fingers, then motioned right to left. Bergen nodded and brought his weapon back up to his eyes.

  Heckler aimed his Winchester. Bergen stepped out around the corner, having to step far from cover to keep his line of fire clear of the support beam, lest the electricity lance back through it.

  Three Boiler Men marched from a street on the right into the line of fire. Bergen thumbed the trigger and thrilled at the rumble of the boiler. He had yet to miss a shot; neither was he disappointed with this one. As his target fell, the other two turned and opened fire with exacting precision. Bullets as large as a man’s index finger tore the street to shreds where Bergen had stood an instant before. The beam thundered as bullets clattered against it from behind, a sound that might reverberate all through the tower. The fire spilled over into the building closest, sending up clouds of plaster dust.

  Ellingsly exulted. Bergen shut him up and signaled Heckler to fire. The lad complied without hesitation, cracking off a single shot and then diving onto his belly behind the flimsy cover he’d chosen. Altas fire ripped up the stair and the wall behind it, shattering the shop window and wooden door frame. Bergen stepped from cover again and loosed his second shot—perfect—then leapt back as the bullets came his way.

  Only three targets remained for six rounds. Bergen could hear their footsteps clearly now. He peeked from cover to see the two stragglers join with their only remaining comrade and begin their inexorable march up the nameless street.

  He checked Heckler. The lad rose covered in dust and rubble, his cover gone and another volley impossible to evade. The Boiler Men did not fire. As before, they ignored the threat as soon as it ceased to actively harm them.

  Bergen let the rifle cool a minute while Heckler dashed back to the beam.

  “They’re walking away,” he said, then tapped the support beam lightly. “There ain’t too many of these between here and the tunnel.”

  “I will not need them,” Bergen said. He placed the weapon’s thick barrel on the street and leaned it on the beam. He stretched and flexed his shoulder. “This weapon can fell them at any range.”

  Three more shots to be a hero in truth, as well as in words.

  He reached down for the weapon, and spotted black and glistening fluid pooling at its base. With a sinking heart he crouched and turned it to see the top. A bullet had struck it just behind the barrel, peeling away part of the casing, mangling one of the magnetic coils and penetrating into the interior. Bergen could only surmise that the fluids drizzling out were the chemicals from the battery.

  “It’s useless,” he said. His lip trembled. “Fuck.” He rose and gave the weapon a savage kick. “It’s bleeding useless.” He stomped on it, then kicked it again.

  “Bergen,” Heckler said. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re lost,” Bergen said. “I can’t save them now.” He stomped the rifle once more, then turned and swung his knuckles into the support beam.

  Heckler caught his arm before he could strike a second time. “We can’t give up, suh.”

  “No?” Bergen snapped. He threw off Heckler’s hand and whirled on him. “We have no explosives left, boy. We have no weapons that can hurt them.”

  Heckler drew back, confusion on his face. “But…we have to try.”

  “By all means, go and die, then,” Bergen said.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “Drill this through your skull, boy,” Bergen said, jabbing a finger at his own. “I’ve failed. I’m useless now. If you want to martyr yourself, that’s your business.”

  Heckler stood dumbfounded. Bergen turned and pounded the beam again, welcoming the pain.
A failure. A coward. His face flushed with rage and shame. His insides shook with the pressure of emotion. He’d failed these people who might have accepted him. He’d failed this young lad, who, for a scant hour, had trusted him, even admired him.

  He pulled his Gasser free and spun on the vacant buildings across the street, arms wide. “I’m tired of jumping at shadows, boy! Let’s have this out.”

  He heard Heckler sprint up the street after the Boiler Men and did not care that he had left.

  The shadows moved in an arch where a door hung broken on its hinges. The door swung inward with a squeak.

  “I’m a sporting man,” Bergen called. “I won’t start shooting until you hit the street.”

  Pennyedge shot out of the arch immediately, running low, a wide-bladed knife in his right hand. Bergen’s first shot went wide as Penny dodged right. His second caught the boy in the shoulder and spun him. Penny cracked into the pavement like a sack of bricks, but rolled and was up on all fours before Bergen could finish him. His third shot ricocheted off the street.

  Penny moved like a monkey, bouncing and scrambling to gain ground. Bergen held still, all concentration in his aim.

  His fourth shot cut a chunk out of Penny’s left thigh. The boy stumbled to a tight crouch and Bergen sighted on his face.

  The boy sprang, powering himself entirely with his right leg, causing Bergen’s fifth shot to take him through the stomach. Bergen had a flash of bloodshot eyes and fever-red skin before Penny landed on him.

  Bergen managed to knock the knife arm aside but lost track of it when Penny’s fingers clawed his face, plunging into one eye and the soft spot beneath his jaw. Bergen brought the Gasser’s heavy butt down on the side of Penny’s neck. Penny choked and whirled aside. Bergen shot him a final time as his hands released, though he did not see where.