Phoenix Rising (40 page)

She leaned out from their hiding place, firing off shot after shot. Two of the soldiers fell, but Wellington could also hear the shouts of reinforcements moving in to pin them down.

The clatter of a spent rifle sounded but not before the telltale popping from a pair of pistols. Then came the whine, reminiscent of the Mark I's demonstration. He did recall in his “quick glance” at the Mark II's armament that it did include Gatlings of a larger, more imposing make than standard. He heard less and less as the whine grew louder and louder until the cavern erupted with gunfire that tore away at their natural defenses. The stalagmites, though, withstood the onslaught of bullets, but these rocks would not be able to shield them from the Mark II for long.

It was a strange time to be thinking of his father, and yet this might be the last time he had a chance. “
You are embarrassing me, Wellington
,” he had said, loading the pistol with a sneer. “
When I was your age, I had already taken down my first stag. Now get on with it!
”

Eliza's head jerked back sharply, and Wellington's father vanished as she stumbled back and fell hard against the rock floor.

“Eliza!”
Wellington, shouting her name over the gunfire, leapt across the tiny clearing between them and crouched low by her side.

Gingerly he turned her head towards him to examine the head wound. There was so much blood. Far too much for his liking, at first glance. The bullet had—much to his relief—only grazed her temple. The fall and head bump had knocked her out.

“
Wellington Books, you are no son of mine.
” The Mark II Gatlings were spinning up again, but he could only hear the gentle autumn wind of his family's estate. “
Pull the trigger.
”

He had wanted to explain to Eliza why. There was a very good reason Wellington didn't care for guns. It went well beyond his father's passion for them.

The stalagmite exploded around them. On a third assault, there would be nowhere for them to hide.

When he took up her pistols, he smiled at how their grips were still warm. He studied the tiki, the one he had seen in Antarctica in detail now. A Hei-Hei, for those who were calculating, cunning, and committed to a cause. He found the charm comforting then. He still found it so.

Wellington turned back to his fallen comrade.
Not dead
, he reassured himself.
Just resting
. She looked quite striking, so peaceful.
She called me her partner.

Wellington pulled back the hammers of the two pistols. “Stay here, Eliza. I'll be but a moment.”

When he stepped free of the rock's protection, there was the slightest tinge of sulfur to the air he drew into his lungs. He saw the two foot soldiers in full detail, and felled them before they paused in their slow advance. The pair behind them were armed with Gatlings, but to compensate for the extra armament, their collarbones and heads were unprotected and in the open. Again, Wellington fired Eliza's pistols and both men dropped.

Three more infantry were charging him, screaming wildly, their bayonet-strapped rifles thrust forward. Wellington could see in the third soldier's face recognition that their shock tactic had backfired when the bullet drove through his helmet and into his skull. It had been the same quick, surprising death for the other two, as well.

A single shot lightly prickled Wellington's face with dirt and rock. Glancing at a fresh hole in the nearby stalagmite before ducking behind it, Wellington checked his weapons. One pistol had two bullets remaining. The other had three. When the sniper's next shot bit into his hiding place, Wellington leaned his head away from the impact point. He quickly considered the delay between shots, the echo, and the angle at which the bullets removed the rock. His eyes swept around him to stop at the dead soldier he had just dispatched, his rifle lying idly out of reach, and presumably loaded and primed.

The earth trembled underneath him. Another boiler had exploded. “
Tick-tock, Welly
,” he heard Eliza chide.

He stepped out of his hiding place, firing as he moved for the rifle. On his last shot, his heel struck it. Wellington turned, slipping his foot underneath its block and giving it a quick heft. The rifle rose up to his chest where he grabbed, turned, aimed, and fired. The sniper toppled from his hiding place.

Filling the cavern was a low groan of metal joints moving. A hiss of hydraulics and the pounding of massive feet shook the ground under Wellington. The Mark II towering over him had started its turn in his direction, and behind the leviathan another one was powering up.

This would be a far trickier shot and perhaps not as accurate as he would prefer. Not accurate, but not impossible either. The viewport that the Mark II pilots used to see through was a necessity. Along with visibility, it also allowed for air to circulate, lest humans inside would suffocate from their own expended breath. This viewport, sadly, was a vulnerability that Doctor Havelock had to allow if he wanted this dream realised.

Wellington shouldered his rifle, and then paused. His eyes narrowed on the Mark II behind the one closing on him. It was definitely more of a challenge, reliant on circumstances, but would kill two birds with one stone. Or shot, considering present settings.

Reacquiring the viewport of the second Mechaman, Wellington fired two shots. The massive automaton continued forward. He fired again. On the fourth shot, its arms lowered with a long, sudden hiss but the Mechaman still lumbered forward. It made no effort to avoid massive breastplates waiting to be riveted onto other Mark IIs. The plates were suspended high over the assembly line by chains, massive iron works that Wellington had hoped would slow down the second Mechaman. His gamble, however, was not playing to his favour. He then heard the whine of a Gatling reaching its peak, preparing to mow him down.

What he did not consider were these breastplates swinging wildly behind both automatons. Their heavy chains could no longer compensate for the uneven weight distribution, and began snapping like rope. One plate swung wildly into the back of the charging Mark II, helping it along its way into the first Mechaman. The toppling monsters and their great cannons roared in protest, spraying ordnance in every direction. Wellington dashed for Eliza and dragged her back into the safety of the tiny alcove where they had entered from, and stayed low as the Mechamen's Gatlings continued to fire.

Following what felt like a long, languid fall, rivets immediately failed to contain the explosion of the Mark II's internal gyroscopes. After the rumble of rock against metal subsided, Wellington looked over his point of cover. Both Mark IIs' engines were still attempting to run their massive legs but the imposing war machines appeared as helpless as overturned turtles.

No reinforcements came. All that could be seen and heard were alarms, fire, steam, smoke, and a shower of mason work from the estate's foundation.

Wellington looked down at the sleeping Eliza. In the protective alcove of stone, he discarded all of her weaponry, save for the
pounamu
pistols which he replaced in their adopted holsters.

This weekend, she had chosen to forgo her Ministry-issue corset as it would have clashed dreadfully with her evening wear. For her keen sense of fashion, he was quite grateful.

“Time to go, Eliza,” he grunted, hauling her into a Fireman's lift over his shoulder.

CHAPTER THIRTY
Wherein Our Heroes Endure Perdition's Flames

W
ith every step his legs ached, and with every breath the air grew more toxic with smoke and acrid chemicals. The fire was indeed spreading now to the other Mark II Mechamen—it would only be a matter of time before this den of iniquity would be claimed by appropriate fires of hell.

The lift Wellington saw to his left would be a risk, but there were no stairs in sight. There was very little to consider: either die of smoke inhalation while searching for stairs, or chance the lift's cable system failing and sending them plummeting to their deaths. The latter would at least be quick. He tried to push back both scenarios to the furthest recesses of his brain as he threw the winch forward without bothering to close the gate. Their lift shook as if it were a child's kaleidoscope, but still the cables remained taut and the pulleys continued their painfully slow ascent to the main estate.

They were halfway up the shaft when the explosion erupted from the floor below. Wellington moved away from the open back of the cab just as the wall of smoke, flame, and heat slipped around them as would a claw of some great beast reaching in vain to pull them back. The underground facility of the Phoenix Society was giving way to the destruction, and still the winches—with their grinding protestations and snapping cables—pulled them higher.

Light struck his face; and by the time his eyes adjusted, he understood what was behind the screams and shouts assailing him. The manor above ground was also gripped by pandemonium. Servants appeared like rats on a sinking ship, running for the nearest exit, but not before helping themselves to anything that was not bolted or nailed down. Some of the more loyal house staff attempted to preserve the manor's integrity by struggling with the opportunists, or that was what Wellington convinced himself the odd skirmishes were all about. He watched a diminutive kitchen maid grab a small knife from a table setting and drive it into the eye socket of a stable boy. A butler, his wig awry, wrestled with an old man on the stairs, apparently for a pair of fine candlesticks.

Wellington had no time to intervene—he had to even the score and save Eliza.

His reminder of what little time remained came in the form of a long, menacing creak of wood and metal accented by a gentle tinkling of crystal against crystal. Like a ship in a storm, the manor
listed
. The angle was getting steeper with each of his steps. The failure of the manor's foundations was imminent. Shifting Eliza's limp body on his shoulders, Wellington pressed onward towards the main entrance.

Plaster and moulding rained down on them. Servants and weekend guests cried out in panic and blind terror, all of them succumbing to an instinct that transcended class barriers: the survival instict. Perhaps Wellington's expectations had been too high. The Phoenix Society preached a return to propriety and good English values, but he felt none of it as one of the Brethren, a man he recognised from across his place at dinner, shoved him out of the way, knocking both of them into a nearby wall. With a grunt, Wellington regained his balance.

It was odd that he heard it, but clear as fine crystal, a bird call cut through the mayhem. He followed the chirping, Eliza growing heavier with each step, until finally the haze of Havelock's crumbling estate surrendered to sunlight. Wellington could see the outside world, and it appeared to be a bright, picturesque day in the country.
How lovely
, he thought quickly, just as a chunk of moulding fell in front of him. He could also see, waiting in the sunlight, a collection of carriages, tethered mares stomping impatiently and frothing at the mouth. He took in another deep breath—they were nearly there!

The light fixture just above him on the wall exploded. He knew it had not shattered from the stress of the unstable mansion. It had been a single pistol shot.

Wellington turned to see their assailant covered in soot, blood, and earth. Bartholomew Devane, provided he lived through this, would never again be the dashing gentleman he fancied himself to be. The entire right side of his face was covered in gore, much of it dried and clinging to flesh that had been caressed by fire. The arm not holding the pistol hung mangled by his side. Still, even in his condition, the man-thing smiled; and that normally cold, predatory smile of Devane's was even less attractive now.

“Leaving so soon, old boy?” His voice had also been ravaged by the destruction of Havelock's underground lair. It was grating, rough, and painful to Wellington's ears. He wondered how hard it was on Devane. Or was he relishing in his agony? “I was denied by your partner there but a moment ago. She seems to be in a far more agreeable state at present.”

The manor suddenly jostled as if something had struck it. They both fought to keep their balance when Wellington felt a sharp pain in his foot. He looked down in alarm as a hot stinging sensation wrapped around his right foot. He couldn't move it. Something
underneath
his right foot was holding him there.

With a desperate, agonizing tug, Wellington yanked his foot free, fighting the knee's wish to sink to the floor. He was still standing, but now the stinging rippled up his right leg.

A spoke, belonging to a cog Wellington guessed would have to be the size of his head, protruded through the floorboard where he had been. Its dark tip was now decorated with his blood. Then he saw another wheel protruding in front of Devane. Another two behind him. At various spots across the cherrywood floor, gears, cogs, and what appeared to be the outer hatch to a boiler all cracked through.

“For the love of God, Devane, look around you!” Wellington shouted, his legs starting to tremble slightly. In the corner of his eye, he could see a tea tray begin to roll on its own accord. “The main boiler has to be reaching critical at any moment, and the manor's foundation is failing. Perhaps you would you care to indulge in this melodramatic moment of revenge outside?”

Over the sounds of silverware jangling and wall fixtures falling, Wellington still heard the hammer of Devane's pistol locking into a firing position. “Here will do just fine, although I might just enjoy myself with your ‘blushing bride' there on the lawn. Being a colonist, she probably fancies herself an outdoors type.”

“Enough, Devane! The Phoenix is dying! It is—”

“It will be over,” he interjected, “in just a bullet or two.”

Wellington closed his eyes tight. He wouldn't blame Eliza for dragging him out of the Archives. She'd been right. She had been right all this time. Wellington would not regret it. This had been one ripping good time.

Thank you, Eliza. I'm sorry.

The shot rang out sharp and loud, and he flinched slightly at the air rushing out of him. Wellington waited for more pain to come, for the feeling of blood cooling on his skin, for the impact against the floor, and for the despair that would consume him at seeing Eliza dragged outside by Lord Devane for his own concupiscent whims.

None of it came.

Opening one eye, Wellington saw Devane there, his arm still outstretched, the pistol still in his grasp. He opened his second eye when tiny crimson droplets fell free from Devane's lips. The sidearm fell, but Devane was not done. Wellington could see awareness in the man's face. Devane knew he had been shot, but by whom? He turned to the adjoining corridor from where it had come.

Olivia Devane's arm was steady, as was her hand. The pistol firm in her grasp was primed and ready again, but she was hesitating. She said nothing as she closed the distance.

“Darling,” he gurgled as he stretched his good arm out to her. “Come to me. A farewell kiss, for all the lovely memor—”

The second shot pushed him backwards tripping over one of the protruding cogs, sending him with a hard crash to the floor. Wellington assumed revenge was behind the other three shots Olivia put into him, regardless of the fact he was most assuredly dead.

“Come along, Lady Devane!” Wellington shouted, adjusting Eliza again as the mansion gave what surely must be its dying shudder.

“You don't understand.” Olivia was free, but her eyes were vacant. “I have one bullet remaining.” She pulled the hammer back. “Mustn't let it go to waste.”

He never got the opportunity to protest as the barrel slipped into her mouth. The back of her head decorated the painting behind her with a splatter of deep red, textured with flesh, hair, and bone. The painting had been an original from the Realist movement. That irony did not escape Wellington.

With the pain of his foot driving him on and keeping him alert and aware, he growled and made for the open door of the Havelock estate, now leaning ten degrees to its left. His feet struggled against stone torn from the sagging mansion, but still he kept going, Eliza across his neck and shoulders threatening to take him down. He did not stop after he cleared the manor's entrance. He did not stop when he heard the brick, stone, and wood crumble, groan, and tear. He did not stop when his feet were digging into the gravel and rocks of the causeway. Even when his own cries and the gentle crunching underfoot yielded to the deafening explosion, Wellington Books kept moving.

He finally collapsed at a grove just off the causeway. Here the grass was thick and soft, and it cushioned Eliza when he fell. Catching his breath, Wellington forced his gaze back to where the manor stood and watched with morbid fascination as the earth opened and devoured Havelock Manor and any trace of the Phoenix Society.