The Constantine Affliction

by Tim Pratt

  “A wise choice.”

  They rode in companionable silence until they approached the great park, when Winnie pointed and exclaimed. “What are they building over there?”

  Ellie peered. “It looks like some kind of a stage… Oh, yes, of course, Bertram Oswald’s Grand Exposition.” Just saying the man’s name, and remembering his cold eyes in the brothel, made her shiver. “It starts tonight, doesn’t it? There’s to be some sort of initial introduction at the park tonight, and then exhibits all weekend, a grand pavilion, and so on.”

  “Ah, yes, I read about the Exposition,” Winnie said. “More modest than the Great Exhibition was, and more wholly devoted to Oswald’s creations alone. He seems like a most arrogant man, though one cannot deny his scientific abilities.”

  Those abilities seemed likely to include the creation and servicing of clockwork whores, but bearing in mind the coachman who might be listening, Ellie did not comment to that effect. Instead she pointed toward an immense pile of brassy metal tubes, all strange curves and arches, being fitted together by a group of workmen consulting printed plans. “Whatever could that be?”

  “Something to change the world, no doubt,” Winnie said. “Perhaps it boils a pot of tea at three hundred paces? Or makes a delicious hot dinner at the press of a button?”

  “That would be a triumph of science,” Ellie said, and they laughed.

  The driver went around the park, away from the site of the Exposition, until Winnie directed him to stop near one of the gates and let them out. This end of the park was full of people strolling the paths, children playing, and other picnickers, but Winnie led them deeper, away from the sunnier well-traveled areas, so they could talk more freely. They spread a blanket and settled themselves beneath a tree, though it was a trifle cool in the shade. The hamper was ingeniously hinged, with multiple compartments, and Winnie set out china plates and silverware. “Tell me your secrets, dear,” she said.

  Ellie looked around to confirm their privacy, then took a deep breath. “Two days ago, in order to obtain a story for my newspaper, I disguised myself as a man—you’ve seen my costume—and gained entry into one of the, ah, houses of specialized tastes…”

  “A clockwork brothel?” Winnie said, dishing out pieces of roast chicken. “Oh, how marvelous, I’ve always wondered what they were like.”

  “They are dreadful,” Ellie said firmly. “Though my perception may have been colored by the fact that I was nearly killed. You see, I was taking an opportunity to look around, and… I walked in on Bertram Oswald. He seemed to be working on one of the machines. And he was unhappy with being seen.”

  Winnie let out a low whistle. “I can imagine why. Those houses may be technically legal, but Pimm says they’re all run by criminals like Abel Value, and for the Queen’s closest confidant to have dealings with a man like that… the consequences could be dire.”

  Ellie nodded, and explained how she’d fled the room, and the manner of her eventual escape from the brothel.

  “That’s dead clever,” Winnie said appreciatively. “Men seldom see anything but the obvious and superficial. Nice to see that tendency used against them. But why haven’t I read this on the front page of the Argus?”

  “Oh, I wrote a bit of fluff about what the brothels are like just this afternoon, but made no mention of my… other adventures. Making accusations against Sir Bertram in print, without proof, hardly seemed prudent. And things are even worse than they seem. One of the men who hunted me in the brothel was present last night while I assisted Lord Pem—Pimm in his inquiries. He recognized me—or, rather, my disguise as Jenkins—and he must have been watching your house. He followed me out this morning.” She told Winnie how Crippen had broken into her rooming house, and been chased away by her landlady.

  “Oh, dear.” Seeing Winnie frown was like watching a cloud drift across the sun. “You shouldn’t have come over for lunch. You should have sent a letter with your regrets.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They saw Jenkins go into your house,” Winnie said. “It’s a rooming house, of course, so—”

  “They have no reason to connect Jenkins with me, particularly,” Ellie said—and then the light dawned. Or, more accurately, the darkness fell. She groaned. “Except shortly after sending Crippen off, I went to Lord Pembroke’s house. They know Jenkins is connected to Pimm, and if they see you and I together, they will surmise that I know Pimm as well, and—”

  “And that you know Jenkins. They will assume you were hiding him in your wardrobe, or something similar, when Crippen broke in. Which means Ellie Skye will go from being a complete non-entity to being a person who interests Sir Bertram very much. Moreover, as you are a journalist, they might concoct all sorts of conspiracy theories—that you and Jenkins intend to expose Abel Value, or Sir Bertram, with or without Pimm’s involvement. And while Pimm is protected, to a certain extent, by his fame and his friends and family, you do not have quite so much armor.” Winnie scraped the chicken off the plates and began putting the just-unpacked food away. “Walk away, Ellie. Go to your offices, somewhere with lots of people. I will let Pimm know the situation, and we will be in touch, and find a way to assure your safety until all this can be straightened out. Go, now.”

  Ellie nodded curtly, rose, and started to walk north… but paused. There were people watching them from beneath the nearby trees. She stepped back, and lowered herself again onto the blanket. “Winnie,” she said. “Those women, watching us…”

  “Mmm? Ellie, you should really—” She broke off. “There’s something odd about them, isn’t there? The way they’re standing, so motionless…”

  “I recognize that one,” Ellie said, voice tight. “Delilah. I don’t know if that’s the name of the individual, or just of her… model.”

  Winnie swore, and it was a measure of how afraid Ellie was that she didn’t even feel shocked by the profanity. “They’re clockwork?” Winnie said. “But surely they’re not sophisticated enough to…”

  The clockwork women—there were six of them, rather overdressed for a day in the park, but they probably didn’t have any clothing that wasn’t meant for the bedroom or the ballroom—advanced from all directions, walking with what seemed to be very deliberate steps.

  Winnie picked up her parasol and sighed. “I should have brought the parasol with an air-gun built into the handle. I was expecting a pleasant outing in the park. Not that a bullet hole would stop one of these things. Their movement is so lifelike, are you sure they’re automatons? I think you’re right that Oswald probably designed him, the man is a genius, whatever his other faults. I’d love to open one up and see how it works…”

  “Winnie,” Ellie said. “What do we do?”

  “We can probably outrun them,” Winnie said. “Their shoes are far less practical than ours. But I doubt they’re here on their own. I presume they have a human operator, or at least an overseer. I suggest we make our way quickly to one of the more populous portions of the park.” She stood, holding her parasol like a fencer’s foil, and peered at the approaching automatons, who were now no more than a dozen yards away.

  “Now, now, ladies. No need to run off.” A young gentleman Ellie had never seen before sauntered out from between two trees. He had a cane in his hand, the end resting on his shoulder, and Ellie could easily imagine him swinging it like a cricket bat. He joined the artificial women, who now stood in a circle around Ellie and Winnie. All the clockwork figures were exactly the same height, Ellie realized, just a hair shorter than herself—and their faces were very nearly identical, too, apart from skin tone. The uniformity was eerie. “My employer would just like a word with you.”

  “Is this Crippen, Ellie?” Winnie asked.

  “You wound me.” The man pressed a hand to his chest. His mustache was black and neatly trimmed, his eyes blue and twinkling. “Crippen is a thug. He can’t even follow someone without making a botch of it, apparently, so my employer sent me. My name is Ronald Carrington. I am the
personal secretary of… well. Not Abel Value. Though he and I serve the same master, I suppose.”

  “You work for Oswald,” Ellie said.

  “I couldn’t possibly comment, Miss Skye,” he said, leaning hard on her pseudonym. “Your article about the families of those who’ve suffered the Constantine Affliction moved me, truly. Would you care to come with me now? My employer would love to speak with you about… oh, various matters.”

  “What makes you think we’ll come quietly?” Winnie said.

  He handed his cane to the automaton on his left, one with great masses of honey-blonde hair. She took the cane, a three-foot length of solid wood, in both hands, and snapped it as easily as Ellie would have broken a twig. “These devices are remarkable,” Carrington said conversationally. “I have no idea why they were made so physically strong. That’s not my area. But, the fact is, they are more than capable of subduing you, should you struggle. Now, let’s just be civil—”

  Winnie smashed him across the face with her parasol, and he squawked like a wounded pigeon and stumbled backward into one of the automatons, knocking her off her feet. They fell together in a tumble of limbs both flesh and artificial. “Run!” Winnie shouted. She hiked up her skirt and attempted to dodge between two of the other clockwork women. They seized her by the arms, and when she opened her mouth to scream, one of them covered her mouth with its dainty palm. Winnie bit down, but the automaton didn’t react at all.

  Feeling she was rather letting the side down, Ellie opened her mouth to shout for help, only to have one of the automatons grab her from behind and cover her mouth, too. Carrington stood up, wincing, and stroking his mustache back into place. “You loosened my teeth, Lady Pembroke. I knew you were of inferior breeding, but I never expected behavior so crass. Will you come peacefully, or shall I direct these fine examples of clockwork maidenhood to render you unconscious? Hmm? Oh, let her speak.” He pointed to Ellie. The automaton removed its hand.

  “I’d quite like to meet Mr. Oswald,” Ellie said, surprised and pleased at how steady her own voice sounded. “Since he is the subject of a major article in tomorrow’s paper. I should interview him for my follow-up story. ‘Sir Bertram Responds to Allegations of Criminal Associations,’ that sort of thing.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to answer all your questions,” Carrington said. “He does love to talk. And you, Lady Pembroke?”

  The automaton uncovered Winnie’s mouth. “This is the part where I’m expected to say something like, wait until my husband finds out what you’ve done. And, it’s true—Lord Pembroke can be ferocious when roused. But I’ll let him concentrate on Oswald. You, Mr. Carrington, should be worrying about what I, personally, will do to you as retaliation for your actions.”

  “Now, now, Freddy,” the man said, and smiled in a nastily insinuating way that Ellie didn’t entirely understand. “That isn’t very ladylike. Come along. We have a carriage waiting.”

  Pimm will find us, Ellie thought. He knew we were going to the park, and he’s good at following clues. But as she was led away, she saw the clockwork automatons gathering up the picnic basket and the blanket, erasing every obvious sign of their presence and sudden departure.

  Very well, then. If they could not expect outside salvation, they would have to save themselves.

  A Man of Parts

  Adam woke, and did not smell fire. Good. That meant Oswald hadn’t attempted to burn the laboratory, which might have sealed Adam’s fate. Such an action would have been profoundly ill-considered—the rooms were filled with explosive chemicals which would have burned uncontrollably, creating a conflagration that would surely have spread far and wide through the attached warehouses and other buildings, not to mention the tunnels. With Whitechapel already sealed off and uninhabitable, another great fire would have done away with most of the East End entirely—which many of London’s upper class would have considered a small loss, probably. Adam had worried that Oswald would consider it an acceptable level of disaster in exchange for destroying all evidence of Adam’s existence, but fortunately the scientist hadn’t followed that course.

  Adam dragged himself to a sitting position, pressing a hand to his chest. Blood oozed out weakly from the hole. The bullet lodged in his chest hurt abominably. He’d have to remove it.

  Oswald had aimed for his heart, but Adam had taken the precaution of adding a second heart, in case his first one were ever damaged—humans had two kidneys, after all, which meant life could continue even if one failed, a redundancy that had always struck Adam as eminently sensible. Oswald had destroyed one heart, but the other was intact and still beating. Adam felt a bit dizzy and lightheaded, from the shock of his injury and the loss of blood. He tore the mask from his face and tossed it aside. Limping to his operating theater, he set up the array of mirrors he used when performing surgery on himself, and sat down on the hard table.

  Adam had developed great control of his own bodily systems over the years. For the most part his autonomic system ticked on independently, but he could assert conscious control as necessary—that was how he was able to shut off all sensation from his injured leg and move with great speed when necessary, though it took a conscious effort. With concentration, he deadened the nerves in his chest, and, working with mirrors and harsh electric light, he cauterized a number of blood vessels and removed his now-ruined heart, dropping the shredded organ into a metal pan. The empty place in his chest made him melancholy, seeming entirely too symbolic, but he had neither time nor energy to do anything about that space right now. He settled for sewing himself up and bandaging the wound, tying yards of fabric around his chest. The lost blood was a problem. Adam was more robust than ordinary men, but even he could die if his body’s vital fluids were sufficiently depleted. He had recently considered replacing his blood with the artificial substance he used for his reanimated cadavers, but was unsure of the long-term effects of such a transfusion, and so his heart still pumped ordinary human blood, though of a dozen intermingled types.

  For now, he’d settle for eating lots of rare meat to replenish his lost iron. The hungering dead locked away in their chamber would have to go hungry today—he would feast on the kidneys and other offal he’d purchased for them from the stockyards.

  After he’d eaten, and felt somewhat refreshed, he limped around his laboratory, to see what damage Oswald had done. Most of Adam’s notes had been left behind—that was a blow, actually, to find that his research hadn’t been worth stealing—but his prototype for the new battery was missing. Oswald was more comfortable with mechanical innovations anyway.

  The door to the main tunnel, which led to the neighboring cellar, would not open, and was seemingly blocked from the other side. Adam wondered if Oswald had filled the opening with rubble or had it bricked up. The entry to the house above was also impassable, the trap door utterly immovable even for someone of Adam’s considerable strength. More bricks? “Sealed in like Fortunato,” Adam murmured. “For the love of… God.” Or so Oswald doubtless hoped. Why burn the laboratory when all access from the outside world could be sealed off? And that way, if Oswald ever had cause to return for Adam’s research or equipment, he could bring a few men with pickaxes and do so. Several of Adam’s other secret tunnels—including ones he would have sworn Oswald didn’t know about—were also sealed, and all from the outside, suggesting that Oswald’s attempted murder and successful entombment had not been hasty decisions, but carefully planned ones.

  But Adam had learned long ago to make plans of his own, and secondary plans, and tertiary ones. In one corner of his laboratory, surrounded by other industrial detritus, there stood the huge, rusting boiler from what must have once been an immense steam engine. Adam put his shoulder against the boiler and pushed it aside, a feat no ordinary man could have accomplished on his own, and revealed another trap door. Once Adam satisfied himself that the door opened, and the way down the iron ladder was clear, he let the door fall closed again. Only then did he return to his work table and take th
e cloth off the apparatus that held Margaret’s brain.

  He reconnected the tubes that supplied air to the speaking tubes—then froze. In his haste when Oswald arrived, he had failed to disconnect the wires that connected Margaret’s sensory apparatus. Which meant…

  When he reactivated the speaking device, at first he thought it was malfunctioning—but then he realized the sound was simply inarticulate wailing. “Margaret,” he said. “Margaret, are you all right?”

  The wailing ceased. “Adam? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard such terrible things! I thought I heard—a gunshot.”

  “Yes. My… visitor… fired on me, but as you can hear, I survived.”

  “Are you injured?”

  Hearing such concern in the voice of a woman who’d lost her entire body was strangely heartening. “Not grievously. I will be fine. I am sorry you were frightened.”

  “Did he really mean the terrible things he said? That he hopes to… to do something awful to the Queen?”

  “He is an evil man,” Adam said. He did not, himself, believe in such concepts as “good” and “evil” in absolute terms, but a more nuanced explanation would be exhausting, and he was still very tired. “I am also sorry I did not attend to you immediately—I had to see to my own wounds, and make sure there was no further danger.”

  “Will he return?” Margaret asked.

  Adam shook his head, then remembered she couldn’t see, and smiled ruefully at his own foolishness. “I do not believe so. He has attempted to seal me inside my own laboratory, to make this place a grave, but fear not, there are still means to escape.”

  “This is not… a proper hospital, is it?” she said.

  “No. No, Margaret. I am a physician, an expert in anatomy, but I do not work in a hospital. I had a private patron who funded my research.”

  “Mr. Value,” Margaret said. “He was my employer, too, or he employed my employers. Is that why I was brought to you? Because you work for Mr. Value?”