Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (5 page)

BOOK: Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1
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“I won't, I won't. Don't worry.”

Tweed stepped through the door and found himself in a huge, shadowy warehouse. Sealed crates covered in oiled leather were piled up around the space. Against the far wall was a long table, and standing on either side of it were industrial-sized oil lamps casting their glow across the floor. Tweed headed toward them, stepping around the table and kneeling on the ground. He'd been here a few times before, so he knew exactly where he was going.

There was a trapdoor in the floor. Tweed heaved it up, and as it lifted away from the stone it was as though he'd opened the door onto a riot. Shouts and yells erupted from the gap, screams of anger and joy. The sound of clinking glass could be heard, and over all that the heavy clanging of metal on metal.

Tweed hesitated, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. He'd only ever been here during the day, when everything was quiet. He wasn't even sure what Harry did here.

Lucky me
, thought Tweed.
Looks like I'm about to find out.

Tweed took a deep breath and descended the steps that led beneath the warehouse, lowering the trapdoor behind him.

The stairs led to a secondary floor space about half the size of the warehouse above. The smoke-filled room was packed with men and women, all of them facing inward, craning over each others’ shoulders to get a better view of something

Tweed gently pushed a sweating old man aside, distastefully wiping his hand on the man's shirt after he'd done so, and saw that the focus of everyone's attention was a boxing ring inside of which fought two automata. As Tweed watched, one of the automata stepped forward and swung its clenched fist, connecting with its opponent with a loud clang. There was the screech of scraping metal and a burst of sparks showered into the fetid air. The automaton stumbled back a step, then braced itself and launched forward with both arms swinging. They connected against the first automaton's chest and
head, a furious onslaught that had Tweed watching in astonishment. Not only because he'd never seen one of the metallic constructs move so fast, but also because they weren't supposed to be able to do that at all. Fighting was impossible for automata, their internal programs filled with fail-safes to stop such behavior. It was one of the reasons the public had eventually accepted them into society, the knowledge that they couldn't attack or fight.

The first automaton fell back against the thick wires that squared off the boxing ring. It raised its forearms in at attempt to fend off the blows, but the furious barrage kept coming.

The cries of the punters grew louder, screams of outrage and anger mixing with shouts of encouragement and drunken joy.

Tweed searched the floor space, wondering where Harry Banks would be. He noted the heavyset men lounging around the walls, their eyes on the crowd instead of the match, ready to step in should anyone get out of hand.

Tweed found his eyes drifting back to the boxing match. There was something bothering him about it, something not quite right. It wasn't just the fact that the automata shouldn't be able to fight, it was something else. Their movements were slightly off. Not much, but enough that a keen observer could spot the difference.

They didn't move like constructs. They moved…

A slow smile spread across Tweed's face. He was surprised no one else had figured out the truth by now. His gaze slid over the screaming, sweating masses, the crowd wavering on the razor edge of hysteria.
Then again
, he thought contemptuously,
maybe I shouldn't expect anything else
.

Tweed shoved his way through the crowd, aiming for a door he'd spotted against the far wall, the only other door in the room. The heavyset man leaning against it straightened as Tweed approached.

“Tell Mr. Banks that Barnaby Tweed's son is here to see him.”

The man didn't move, except for his brows, which contracted slightly to shadow his eyes even more than they already were.

They stared at each other. Tweed was about as tall as the man, but he was under no illusions as to who would come off worse if the man decided to attack. Various insults and wittily clever disparagements flitted through his mind, but he clicked his tongue in irritation and reluctantly forced them aside. Now was not the time for such things.

“Please?” he said.

The man's eyes wrinkled slightly as if he was trying to smile without moving any other muscles in his face. “Didn't hurt, did it, lad? Manners don't cost a thing. You remember that. Piece of advice me old mam used to give me. One moment please.”

The man disappeared through the door, reappearing a few moments later and nodding Tweed through.

Tweed stepped into a room that took up the second half of the lower level. It looked like it was used mainly as a workshop. Benches lay everywhere, covered with spare parts for automata: glass valves, copper tubing, and wiring. In fact, it looked similar to Tweed and Barnaby's living space.

But that was all background detail. What really captured Tweed's attention as he entered the room was the second boxing ring that took up much of the floor space.

Tweed walked slowly forward, his eyes on the scene in front of him. Two men were strapped into metal frameworks that followed the contours of their bodies. Every time they moved there was the briefest of pauses, then pneumatic hisses and blasts of steam burst from the rigs as their instructions were carried through to the heavy metal frames. As Tweed watched, one of the boxers, a dark haired man who looked like he had been fighting all his life, lashed out and landed a blow on his opponents face. The framework caught the blow, but the other man still staggered backward and fell to one knee.

There was a surge of volume from the room behind him. Tweed had thought it had to be something like this. The movements of the two men in front of him were being transmitted to the automata outside. But none of the punters would know that. They would think they were watching an illegal automaton fight.

“Evenin’ boy,” said a quiet voice at his side.

Tweed spun to see Harry Banks standing next to him. The man barely came up to his chest, his lank, black-grey hair parted down the middle so precisely that Tweed could count his dandruff flakes. But he was a familiar face to Tweed, something he hadn't realized he'd needed to see until right that moment.

“Hello, Harry,” he said. He took a deep, shaky breath. “Barnaby said I should come to you if things went wrong.”

“And he was right,” said the old man. He tilted his head back and squinted up at Tweed. “Come on then. Let's have a chat, eh?”

They sat down in old, tatty chairs and Tweed filled Harry in on the events of the night. The boxing match finished while he told his story, the boxers climbing out of their rigs and limping away to clean up. Soon, only he and Harry remained in the workshop.

When Tweed mentioned Professor Moriarty, Harry pushed himself to his feet and paced nervously away, one hand playing with his lank hair. He turned and walked back.

“You're sure it was him?”

“Well, I
think
so. I mean, they looked like the descriptions that are floating around. Hadn't really believed the stories up till now, though.”

“Oh, they're not stories, lad. It's really him. Seen him with me own eyes.”

“But what does he want with Barnaby?”

“No idea. But I think we can both agree it won't be good.” Harry flopped back into his armchair.

“Well?” asked Tweed.

“Well what?”

“Will you help?”


Help
? What is it you want me to do?”

“Help me find Moriarty,” Tweed replied. “Find out where he's hiding out.”

Harry shook his head. “No chance. I'm not risking coming to the attention of that man. You do
not
want him as your enemy.”

“You mean you're scared?”

“Oh, yes,” said Harry. “I thought I was making that clear.
Everyone's
scared of Moriarty, boy.”

Tweed got to his feet, his face cold and angry. It looked like Barnaby had been wrong about Harry.

But before Tweed could go anywhere, Harry raised his hands in the air.

“Relax, sonny. I'm not saying I won't lend a hand. Just make sure you keep my name out of it.”

Tweed forced himself to calm down. He nodded. “Fine. Of course. If that's what you want.”

“It is. There's someone I know of who might be able to help. Calls herself Songbird. She's the only one who knows anything about this gang. Word is she's been collecting information on them.”

“Why?”

Harry shrugged. “Don't ask me.”

“So what do I do?”

“Go home. I'll make contact and see if it's even in the cards.”

“And if it is?”

“I'll get word to you.”

Octavia arrived at the abandoned workhouse along the Thames two hours after midnight and one hour before the meeting was to take place. It was the best time for keeping appointments such as this. For one thing, she was absolutely sure her father would be asleep, and also, the streets were at their quietest between then and dawn.

She hadn't been sure she'd even come. Not after what happened last night on the bridge. But Harry Banks's note had said it was important, that it had something to do with the professor.

How could she say no to that?

She took up her position in an abandoned guard's shed right on the lip of the embankment, about fifty feet from the workhouse. She could hear the water of the Thames at her back, rolling up against the stone wall ten feet below her. Octavia made sure her hair was piled up beneath her dirty cap and that the brim shadowed her features.

Then she settled down to wait.

Half an hour later there was movement on the street. A figure walked out of the alley alongside the workhouse. He paused and looked both ways along the embankment. It looked as if her contact had arrived early to check out the meeting place. Sensible.

Octavia leaned forward to get a better look through the empty window frame. The figure was tall, with unruly black hair. He wore a long black coat, and as he turned to survey the street, revealing his pale, sharp-featured face, Octavia frowned in surprise.

The figure in front of her looked to be about the same age as she was. How odd.

He glanced up at the high workhouse walls, then turned in
a slow circle until his eyes fell on the cramped shed in which Octavia hid. His eyes lingered.

Oh, dear.

Octavia moved back until she was swallowed up by the shadows. It didn't do any good, though. The figure started to walk toward her. Octavia whipped out her black scarf and wrapped it around her lower face so only her eyes were visible, and even those were hidden beneath the peak of the cap. She had already charged her Tesla gun. It was safely hidden in her pocket, easily within reach.

How did he know she was in here? She hadn't made a noise, she was sure of it.

The boy stopped three paces away and put his hands in the pockets of his coat. Octavia waited but he didn't say anything, just stood there waiting. She felt her irritation start to rise. He was putting her on the back foot here, and she didn't like that.
She
was supposed to be in control.

Neither said anything for some time. Eventually, the boy cleared his throat and asked, “Busy night?”

Octavia hesitated. “What?”

The boy nodded at the guard's shed, then glanced around the deserted street. “Lots to guard here. Have to keep an eye out for all those criminals out to steal empty buildings.”

Octavia's mouth dropped open. Was he…was he making
fun
of her?

“The meeting was supposed to be in the warehouse,” she snapped.

“That's what I thought. And yet here we are.”

“I don't have to be here, you know,” said Octavia.

The boy stared thoughtfully into the distance, then nodded. “My apologies. It's been rather a long couple of days. Let's start over, shall we? My name's Sebastian Tweed. I don't suppose there's much point in asking your name? Only, I always find it better to know who I'm talking to. Breaks the ice, so to speak. No?”

Octavia didn't answer. She was still trying to figure out what to make of this Sebastian Tweed fellow. He was decidedly odd.

“I thought not,” he said. “The reason I want your help is that my father has been kidnapped and Harry Banks seems to think you are the person to help me.”

Octavia nodded, then realized he couldn't see her in the darkness. “Harry mentioned masks?”

Tweed turned toward her. “Masks, yes. Old-fashioned smoke masks. And odd weapons. Tesla-powered, if I'm any judge. I've never seen anything like them before.”

Octavia felt the excitement in the pit of her stomach. Tweed's descriptions matched Moriarty and his gang. The ones who had taken her mother. But still, she had to be sure.

“I'll need a description of the masks,” she said.

The boy reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He hesitated. “May I?”

It took Octavia a second to realize he was asking if he could come closer. “Yes. Pass it through.”

Tweed stepped forward and passed the paper through the window. She leaned down and opened the shutter of a small lamp at her feet and glanced over the detailed sketches, her eyes stopping on the drawing of Moriarty, that strange insect-like mask. She remembered it well, the light glinting from the glass eyes as he grabbed hold of Octavia's mother and dragged her into a carriage…

She shook herself and glanced up. “You're a pretty good artist,” she said absently.

“I know. I've studied anatomy, the masters, techniques of sculpting, medical encyclopedias—”

“I was just paying you a compliment,” Octavia cut in, “not asking for details.”

“Ah. I see.” He nodded at the paper. “Do you think you can help?”

“I don't know. I won't lie to you. I've been trying to track down Moriarty and his gang for a year now. They're…hard to pin down.”

She looked at the sketch again.
What is your plan?
she wondered.

“You must have some information on them.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Will you share it? Perhaps we can join forces, pool our resources?”

Octavia gave a small laugh. “I don't think so. I don't work with amateurs.”

“Of course, of course. How silly of me. I totally understand. Nothing worse than working with a common layman. You never know how he'll mess everything up, yes?”

Octavia hesitated. She wasn't sure if Tweed was making fun of her again or not. He was very difficult to read. “That's right,” she said.

“Then how will I contact you?”

“Harry. He'll pass on anything I find.”

Tweed opened his mouth to reply. Then he frowned and looked up.

“What—?” she began.

She didn't get a chance to finish because at that moment something screamed out of the night sky, leaving a long trail of smoke in its wake. The object smashed into the roof of the workhouse with a crash of splintering tiles.

Tweed's eyes widened and he lunged forward, throwing himself through the door of the tiny guardhouse.

As he did so the workhouse exploded with a thunderous, ear-rupturing roar. The building disintegrated into a huge orange fireball, fragments of brick and splintered glass tearing lethally through the air. A vision-distorting wave of hot air burst through the wooden slats of the hut, knocking Octavia's cap from her head. She squeezed her eyes closed against the heat, but when she opened them again she saw a roiling, burning wall of flame rolling rapidly toward them. Tweed yanked her away from the window. She had a second to register
his face, noting that he looked strangely calm, and then the concussion hit them, picking up the hut and flinging it into the air. Smoke and fire engulfed them, swirling around the cabin. Octavia fell onto Tweed's legs, then was flung against the roof as the hut turned end over end.

There was a heavy splash, then water poured through the gaps in the wood. The explosion had thrown them right out over the embankment and into the Thames.

At least that took care of the flames, she thought, as the icy, dark water flowed around them.

Octavia swam through the door before the shed started to slip below the surface. Bits of wood and material from inside the workhouse hit the water with hisses and splashes, giving off tiny wisps of steam.

Tweed was ahead of her. He swam about twenty feet downstream and used the rusted ladder bolted to the embankment wall to haul himself out of the water. Octavia climbed up after him, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as she fumbled with the rungs. What had happened? Had Tweed led Moriarty to them?

Tweed leaned over the ladder, holding out his hand to her. Octavia ignored it and pulled herself back onto dry land. They both stared at the burning warehouse. The walls had been reduced to rubble by the explosion. Fire raged through the gutted interior, flinging bright red sparks into the night sky. Octavia could feel the heat from where they stood.

“Looks like you were followed,” said Tweed.

Octavia whirled to face him. “Me? Think again, mister. I've been doing this for a long time, you know. I'm
careful.”

Tweed raised an eyebrow at her. “You've been doing this for a long time? You look like you're fourteen years old!”

Octavia's hand went to her face. Her scarf had fallen off in the water. She sighed. Too late to do anything about it now. “I'm seventeen, actually.”

Tweed shrugged, as if her age was of no importance to him. “Does that change anything?” he asked, nodding at the fire.

“It means we have to be more careful. You especially. They must know where you live.”

“No one followed me,” he repeated. “Believe me, I'd know.”

“So you think it was totally random that someone fires some kind of missile at the building we were supposed to meet in? How could they know—?”

She broke off as something occurred to her. She saw the dawning realization on Tweed's face as he thought the same thing.

“Harry Banks,” he said.

Octavia nodded. “Looks like it.” She thought for a moment. “I'll kill him.”

“Violence is not usually the first method I turn to,” said Tweed. “I find it betrays a weak mind. But in this case, I might make an exception.”

“I—” Octavia saw something over Tweed's shoulder. “Oh,
bother,”
she said. “That's not good.”

A group of figures had emerged from the alley to the rear of the ruined workhouse. Even from this distance Octavia could see the blue spark of electricity arcing around the hat of one of the figures. The tallest of the group, Moriarty, shouted instructions at the others, pointing in Octavia and Tweed's direction. Octavia fumbled for her gun, but it wasn't there anymore. It must have fallen out of her pocket in all the excitement.

“Run?” said Tweed.

“Run,” Octavia agreed.

BOOK: Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1
12.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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