by Gareth Ward
A motorbike roared past, belching steam from its blunderbuss exhausts. The red-leathered driver bent low over the boiler, gunning the engine.
Nimrod waved a hand in the air. “That blighter’s been trying to get past me since we left the palace. Still, we gave him a pretty good run for his money. I bet he hadn’t reckoned on a race.”
Smog lay heavy over the city and Nimrod hunched forwards, straining to see where they were going. Tall town houses and magnificent stone colleges loomed large through patchy gaps in the pea souper. A hackney cab pulled by horses wearing respirators clattered past and a traction-tram appeared from the murk like a ghost ship, gliding through the night on a cloud of steam.
“Here we are,” announced Nimrod. He pulled back on the yoke and the carriage drew to a halt beneath the portico of an impressive stone manor house.
They disembarked and climbed the steps to the frosted ironglass doors. A porter rang a bell and raised a hand to his pillbox hat. With a muted hiss, the doors opened.
The entrance hall was spacious but cluttered with cased scientific exhibits. To the rear of a reception desk decorated with a multitude of cogs, gears and pistons, a wide central staircase swept up to a balconied second floor.
From behind the metallic desk a disembodied voice with a hint of a Ruskovian accent said, “As always, a pleasure to see you, Mr Barm.”
“And a pleasure not to see you, Dimitrov,” replied Nimrod.
“Ah-ha. Very good, sir.”
A small man emerged from behind the desk. He was no more than four feet tall, including the height of his top hat. A goatee beard neatly trimmed to a point accentuated his angular face.
Nimrod dropped onto one knee and clasped Dimitrov’s hand warmly. “Is Fox Talbot in?”
“Yes, sir, he’s in the Arguementorium.”
“Splendid.” From his pocket Nimrod pulled a gift-wrapped parcel. He handed it to Dimitrov. “A present for the little one.”
Dimitrov smiled – a smile of a genuine affection for the great inventor. “She’s not so little these days. She’ll soon be taller than me, sir.”
“They grow so fast. How old is she now?”
“Nearly four, sir.”
“Excellent, I’ll send something for her birthday.” Nimrod stood and with a wave of his hand marched further into the building. He lowered his voice as they moved out of earshot. “Don’t be fooled by his size, that man is a giant. He saved my life once.”
Sin looked back at the diminutive figure. It appeared no one in this new world he inhabited was quite who they seemed.
The hullabaloo of the Arguementorium reminded Sin of a rowdy Friday night hostelry, but without the aroma of stale beer and vomit. Groups of men, and the occasional woman, dressed in everything from fine evening wear to tradesmen’s coveralls, exchanged forthright views on the latest scientific theories.
The cavernous circular room was furnished with clumps of leather armchairs interspersed with large potted ferns to provide segregated areas for discussion. Scientific tapestries hung on the walls and silk looped in swathes from the ceiling in an attempt to muffle the sound.
Nimrod brushed past the fronds of a fern labelled Pteridophyte – Cyathea Medullaris, although someone had neatly put a line through Pteridophyte writing above it Monilophyte?
Behind the fern an elderly scientist with wispy grey hair argued with a much younger man, whose bushy moustache was waxed into aggressive spikes.
“The formulas are nearly complete, but I must progress to real trials,” said the scientist.
Moustache man prodded the scientist in the shoulder. “You’ll get your money and the workhouse has plenty of test subjects but we need to see results. We don’t care about the rats; we care about soldiers in trenches.”
Across the room, a balding gentleman with overdeveloped jowls waved to them from behind a wooden box camera mounted on a tripod. He removed the lens cover and held up a glass jar. In one half sloshed a pink liquid, in the other half rested a green jelly. He shook the jar vigorously and the chemicals mixed, producing a blinding flash.
The room momentarily quietened then an uproar of complaints arose. Hazy images filled Sin’s vision and he felt peculiarly off balance. He leaned on Zonda’s shoulder for support and they stumbled over to the photographer.
“I got your tweet,” said Fox Talbot, handing Nimrod a clockwork carrier pigeon. The bird’s head and body were formed from bulbs of paper-thin ironglass covered with a filigree of iridescent purple metal detailing the pigeon’s features. Constructed from the same metal, the wings and inner clockwork shimmered in the light.
Zonda gasped. “Is my vision still dubious or is that gravitanium?”
Sin blinked, his eyes watering. “What’s gravitanium?”
“It’s the lightest metal known to man. What makes it totally stupendous is when heated it throws off the pull of gravity.”
“So, it gets hot and it floats?”
“Yes, but it was reported scientists only found a few ounces in a meteor crater. Hardly enough to experiment with, let alone make anything useful. That bird is worth a king’s ransom.”
Nimrod placed the tweet into a pocket of his jacket. “So, can you help us?”
Fox Talbot patted the camera. “That’s the purpose of this beauty. It’ll save starting from scratch.” He handed a leather satchel to Zonda. “Lenses, filters and chemicals. I believe you’re the genius behind this idea, so you’d better take charge.”
Zonda slung the satchel’s strap over her shoulder. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re most welcome. Always a pleasure to help photographic entrepreneurs,” said Fox Talbot. He folded up the camera’s tripod and handed it to Sin. “You look like a strong fellow. If I let Nimrod near it, he’ll probably turn it into some sort of fish-tography.”
Fox Talbot’s chuckle was silenced by the scream of a steampistol. Nails ripped through the air and the world around Sin exploded into chaos.
CHAPTER 18
NAILS AND NEEDLES
A Chinasian vase shattered in a shower of pottery. Nimrod crashed to the floor dragging Zonda with him. A metal nail protruded from his leg. Sin dived next to them, seeking cover behind a sturdy leather sofa. More pistol screams rent the air and nails zinged, thumping into the upholstery.
“The penalty for treason is death,” shouted a voice full of malice.
“Steady on, old chap,” said someone from across the room.
The pistol’s shriek filled the Arguementorium closely followed by the thud of a body falling.
“Go,” whispered Nimrod. “It’s me he’s after.”
Sin peeked from behind the sofa. Throughout the Arguementorium startled scientists were either running for the exits, or cowering behind furniture; their raucous discussions replaced by panicked breathing and muted whimpers.
A man advanced towards them. He was suited head to foot in leather and brassanium armour, a black metal mask fixing his features into a hideous sneer. In one hand he brandished a pistol.
The buzz of adrenaline surged through Sin’s veins, his quickened pulse strangely creating a sense of calm. Run or fight? Either way the odds weren’t favourable. Sin tensed, preparing to leap. Zonda held his arm. “Wait.” She rummaged in the leather satchel and pulled out a flash jar. “Close your eyes and get ready to run.” She shook the jar and held it above the sofa.
A pistol screamed and a nail pinged off the jar, sending it tumbling from Zonda’s hand. Sin screwed his eyes tightly shut, every ounce of his being telling him it was wrong to be under attack and not be able to see. The chemicals flared brightly. He leaped up, vision blurry. They were twenty feet from the exit. Zonda and Nimrod would never cover the distance before the man’s sight returned. Sin could flee and save himself, but an image of MacKigh staring blankly into the woods lost in silent regret flashed before him. COG was his new crew. He didn’t see how he could stop a war, but right here he could make a genuine difference. Legs pumping, he sprinted towards the armoured man
. Time slowed. The puffs of steam pluming in slow motion from the assailant’s long-barrelled pistol were quite beautiful except for the deadly nails bursting from their midst. Sin twisted and a nail ripped across his jacket sleeve. He thumped into the man and they tumbled towards the floor. Time back to normal, they crashed into the ground. The man slammed his metal masked head into Sin’s face, knocking him backwards. Pain spotted Sin’s vision. His head felt woozy and his limbs seemed heavy and not entirely his to control. A shadow loomed over him. The man, now on his feet, aimed his pistol at Sin’s chest and squeezed the trigger.
“Urah!” shouted a voice in a thick Ruskovian accent.
The gunman spun and his pistol screamed but the nail flew over Dimitrov’s head. The enraged Cossack lunged with his sabre and the would-be assassin collapsed to the floor.
“Svoloch!” cussed Dimitrov and spat on the dead man’s chest.
Sin let his head fall back to the floor as nausea overtook him. He should be feeling relief or elation at having survived, at having saved Nimrod, instead all he felt was sick. Across the room, over the shocked murmurs of startled scientists, he heard Zonda chivvying Nimrod along and a smile crept onto his face. He’d saved Zonda too, and she was worth fighting for. Maybe when it came down to it that’s what all soldiers felt. Yes, you believed in the cause, but in the end you were fighting for the ones you loved. Loved, where the hell had that come from? He must have smacked his swede harder than he thought.
Leaning on Zonda for support, Nimrod limped over. Behind them trailed Fox Talbot, his face white as an overexposed photograph.
“I told you. The man is a giant,” said Nimrod.
Dimitrov helped Sin to his feet and pumped his hand vigorously. “You are now Dimitrov’s friend and honorary Cossack, sir.”
“That was a close one, what?” said Fox Talbot, his hands trembling.
Nimrod banged his fist against his chest, his breathing ragged as he struggled for breath. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed onto the sofa.
Zonda pressed her fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse. “He’s barely alive.”
“Was he shot?” asked Dimitrov.
“A ricochet caught his leg but it’s hardly bleeding,” said Sin.
Dimitrov pulled the nail from Nimrod’s thigh. Beneath the blood, yellow slime covered the point of the nail.
The sound of rushing feet thudded down the corridor outside. Sin tensed and Dimitrov’s free hand went to his sabre.
His coat flapping around him, Eldritch charged into the room. “Damn it. What’s happened?”
“Poison,” said Dimitrov, waving the nail.
Eldritch hoisted Nimrod onto his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. “We need to get him back to the palace,” he said.
Sin snatched up the camera. Poison wasn’t fair. It was a mean way of killing. Even the Fixer didn’t use poison.
The entrance hall was a scene of devastation. Expended nails littered the floor and two more lifeless assailants sprawled amid cracked ironglass display cases.
“The first one, he is quick and slipped past me.” Dimitrov kicked a body. “The others, not so quick.”
Straining under Nimrod’s weight, Eldritch pulled a mekanika pigeon from the pocket of his coat and thrust it at Dimitrov. “Tweet the palace and let them know what’s happened.”
Dimitrov clicked his heels together and bowed. Eldritch barged through the front doors and thudded down the steps. Behind the town coach, three motorbikes idled, steam trickling from their blunderbuss exhausts. Though each bike was individually customised, they all shared the military robustness of the Royal Enfield Company. Sin remembered the motorbike zooming past the coach earlier that evening. The lead motorcycle was without doubt the very same machine.
Eldritch heaved the carriage door open and lay Nimrod across the back seat. Zonda hurried after him. She pulled some spare cushions from the seat and placed them under Nimrod’s legs. “It’ll help with the blood flow,” she said to Sin in response to his querying look.
“Hang on,” Eldritch yelled.
The town coach lurched and Sin’s head banged against the window. Outside, he saw someone ducking down an alley. Noir? Or at least he thought it was him. A heavy smog swirled around the coach and the chemlights’ reflection from the window made it hard to be sure. Still, the white face and crooked hat were uniquely distinctive. Why was Noir there and why had he not helped? Sin leaned towards Eldritch in the driver’s seat. “Did anyone else come with you?”
“No. Clark, the stablehand, was worried. Nimrod’s not supposed to go out by himself. I rode straight down. It seems I was too late.”
“But who’d want to harm him?” Sin asked.
“Workers’ groups who blame his technology for the loss of jobs. Peace activists who still see him as the warmonger’s puppet. Foreign governments who fear he’ll return to his old ways and give the Empire crucial military technology. Take your pick; the list goes on.”
The carriage swerved around some detritus in the road and the chemlights flickered.
“What about our own government, would they want him dead?” asked Sin.
“It’s possible. Why?”
“‘The penalty for treason is death.’ That’s what one of the attackers shouted.”
“Some in the military take a dim view of Nimrod’s withdrawal from the weapons program. However, I believe the consensus in government is that if the balloon goes up and the Empire is again at war, he’ll do the right thing. That’s why they leave COG alone; it’s a ready-made army of spies to be cajoled into doing their bidding.”
“And will we do the Empire’s bidding?”
“Not if Nimrod has anything to do with it. Although after tonight that may not be a factor.”
Zonda tugged Sin’s arm. “I need your help. He’s having some kind of seizure.”
Eldritch twisted in his seat. “Do you want me to stop the carriage?”
“No. Keep your attention on the road and get us back as fast as possible,” commanded Zonda in an uncharacteristically authoritative fashion. She pulled Sin closer so that he blocked Eldritch’s view and hitched up her skirt. Strapped to her thigh was a small leather case. She flicked it open. Inside were five glass syringes, each containing a different coloured solution. Holding a finger to her lips, she gave Sin a conspiratorial look.
Sin’s eyebrows raised. Sweet, innocent Zonda was apparently neither of those things. She wanted to inject Nimrod, the head of COG, with some bizarre chemical, and she wanted him to be a part of it. He glanced at Eldritch. He was a member of the Committee; someone with power and experience. The right thing to do would be to let him know. Except clearly that wasn’t part of Zonda’s plan. If she was trying to help Nimrod, why would she want to keep it a secret?
Withdrawing a syringe containing a milky liquid, Zonda eased the needle into Nimrod’s arm.
Sin placed his hand on hers and she raised her head. He tried to read something in her expression, some definitive sign. She was either trying to save Nimrod or complete the assassination attempt. But which was it? Her eyes sparkled back at him and he nodded.
Zonda depressed the plunger and shot the fluid into the scientist’s veins.
Sin shuddered. It was done. All he could do now was wait and see if Nimrod lived or died.
CHAPTER 19
KING’S KNIGHTS
The coach slowed to a halt outside the stables kicking up a shower of gravel. A waiting medical team yanked the doors open and the orderlies barged past Sin and Zonda. They attached a clockwork life support to Nimrod’s chest before manoeuvring him onto a canvas stretcher. “Two, six, lift,” shouted one of the orderlies and, with military precision, they carried the stretcher from the coach. Eldritch shadowed them as they marched towards the palace where Lilith waited, deep lines creasing her forehead.
Sin leaned against the coach in a state of shock. The evening had turned from a jolly jaunt into a nightmare. He played over the events in his mind. Could he h
ave reacted differently? Why hadn’t time slowed when the assassin first attacked? It had all happened so fast. Nimrod was shot before he even realised what was going on. And what was Zonda doing with a case of syringes strapped to her leg?
The whinny of a horse punctuated the quiet tick of the coach’s clockwork cooling down. Major C marched from the stables, a harried expression on his face.
Zonda stood to attention and handed him a poison-coated nail. “He was shot with one similar to this, sir.”
The Major’s metallic fingers closed around the nail. “We will talk in the morning, but now I need to be with Nimrod.”
“He’s had an adrenalin injection with a wide spectrum antidote,” Zonda said.
Gears whirred and the Major’s head turned towards Sin. Zonda straightened her dress. “He knows. It couldn’t be avoided. Eldritch doesn’t.”
“Loose ends need to be tied up or removed. Your choice.” The Major marched after the stretcher, his metal boots crunching on the gravel, leaving a trail of dust.
Sin looked from the Major to Zonda, uncertain of what he’d just witnessed. “We need to talk,” he said.
Zonda hastened towards the palace. “No. We need to go to the gym.”
* * *
Sin padded along a balance beam. “What are we doing here?”
Zonda teetered across an adjacent beam. “I need the practice and this give us somewhere private to talk.”
“So talk.”
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“My father works for COG. He’s been training me over the years so I could become a candidate. I loved the technical aspects but it would be fair to say I shirked on the physical side of things.”