by Paul Crilley
His father, a Mesmer.
His father, a Ministry lackey.
He couldn't understand it. Barnaby hated the Ministry. Hated it with a fierce passion. And now here was this Horatio fellow telling him he used to work with Barnaby inside the Ministry?
Perhaps Horatio was lying, but why? What would he have to gain?
Nothing.
It had the ring of truth.
It would explain why Barnaby had always insisted they keep a low profile; why they never strayed from the overcrowded Whitechapel. Because Barnaby had been in hiding. All this time he had been scared the Ministry would track him down. And it looked like his fears had finally come true.
Tweed heard the front door open and close.
“Darling,” called Jenny, “I'm home!”
She and Carter entered the front room, tossing jackets and scarves onto a chair. Carter glanced around at the rearranged furniture. “Not sure I like what you've done with the place, old chap.”
“Never mind that,” said Jenny. “Did you meet up with him?”
“Did you know Barnaby used to work in the Ministry?” asked Tweed.
Jenny and Carter exchanged confused looks.
“What on Earth are you talking about, dear boy?” asked Jenny. "Don't be absurd.”
“This Horatio fellow says he used to work for the Ministry, said Barnaby did as well.”
Tweed went on to tell them everything they had learned from Horatio. Octavia joined them as he was doing so, adding in details he missed.
When Tweed finished, Jenny and Carter looked dazed.
“We had no idea,” said Jenny. “We met Barnaby when you were just a babe. He's never said anything…” She frowned and turned to Carter, waving a fist in his face. “He better not have told you about this on one of your gentlemen-only pub crawls.”
Carter raised his hands. “This is news to me, my love! I swear!”
Jenny narrowed her eyes and stared suspiciously at him.
“I promise! I didn't know about this.”
Jenny pursed her lips and nodded. “Fine. I believe you.”
“You can all talk this over with Barnaby himself, once we get him out of the Ministry prison,” said Octavia. She nodded at the file in Tweed's hands. “You've been reading that thing for hours. Is it going to help us?”
Tweed hesitated. “It's…It's not going to be easy,” he said reluctantly. “I mean, for obvious reasons, yes? It's the Ministry. They take their security seriously. Plus, we're talking about breaking into the Ministry prison.”
“Tell us,” said Carter.
Tweed ran his hands through his hair and started to pace again. He stopped and turned. “Right. Our first problem is simply getting inside. The Ministry has made it difficult, even for their own people. They have a Babbage terminal at every door. For an employee to gain access to the building the Babbage takes a photograph of the employee's eye and compares the iris against a detailed record stored in its database. Then the terminal reads the fingerprints of the employee, and finally, if he passes the first two tests, he has to repeat his name into a recording device so the Babbage can compare the voiceprint to one stored in its system. Only if all three of these are perfect matches will the door unlock.”
The others exchanged worried glances.
“Oh, there's more,” said Tweed, noting their expressions. “Everyone in the Ministry knows each other. At least by sight. The Ministry makes sure of this so that, should a stranger ever gain access to the Ministry complex, one sighting should be enough to raise the alarm.
“There are over twenty square miles of corridors, offices, warehouses, and laboratories down there. The place is a maze. One wrong turn and you could be stuck wandering around for days.” Tweed held up the file Horatio gave them. “There are maps in here, but they're years out of date. Who knows what's changed since then?” He dropped the file onto the table. “Then there's the prison itself. The prison cells are buried a mile underground. Their positioning and shape are…unique.”
“I don't like it when you say ‘unique’ like that,” said Octavia.
“Neither do I. The prisons are situated in a circle around a huge central shaft. Basically a massive hole in the ground. There are a hundred levels, one beneath the other, and fifty cells on each level. The only access to the cells is by a single elevator that is operated from the top floor of the prison complex. But before we even think about that, we have to somehow find out which cell Barnaby is in, and check if Octavia's mother is being held there as well.”
Tweed glanced over at Octavia as he spoke. He could see she was surprised that he'd thought of her mother.
“We have to find out which cells they're being held in, which means we need access to the Ministry's Babbage computing network. The problem with that is that it's all internal. The serving machines that feed the network are all situated right in the middle of the Ministry complex. So we need to somehow access the serving machines before we go off looking for the cells.”
Tweed folded his arms, looking at their worried faces, and said, “I'm afraid we're going to need some help.”
“No kidding,” replied Jenny.
“Right, listen up,” said Tweed, as the four of them stood before a rundown house on Norfolk Street. “You're about to meet someone called Stepp Reckoner.” Tweed held up his hands to forestall any questions. He was already dreading this. He knew it was going to end badly. “Not her real name. An alias she came up with. Stepp is the one who helped me program the spiders. She's an expert on analytical computers, on Babbages, on Adas—anything computer-related, she knows about it. But the government doesn't like that. They like to control everything about computing machines. Babbage himself isn't allowed to talk about how they work.”
“And you think she can help us get into the Ministry?” said Jenny.
“She's the only one who can. With the amount of Babbage security we're facing, we're finished if she doesn't agree to help. But you have to be careful not to offend her. She's very…touchy.”
“I don't see why we can't just get our old crew together and fight our way in,” said Carter.
Jenny put a hand over his mouth. “Shush, dear, the grown-ups are talking.”
Tweed stepped around the rusted gate hanging from its hinges and approached the chipped and damaged door. Appearances were very deceptive, however, and as he knocked, he heard the dull echo of the thick metal sandwiched between the wood.
Octavia came to stand next to him. “Are you sure about this?” she asked.
“You want to find out if your mother is in their cells, don't you?”
“Of course I do.”
“And I want to get Barnaby out of their hands. But I don't think they're just going to hand him over. This is the only—”
He was interrupted as the door was opened by an eleven-year-old girl. She was thin and sickly looking, her head shaved to the scalp. She stared suspiciously at them.
“Um, hello there,” said Octavia. “Is—” Octavia glanced uncertainly at Tweed—“your sister in? Or your mother?”
The girl stared scornfully at Octavia, then turned her dark, shadowed eyes to Tweed. “Who's she?” she asked in an Irish accent. “Your new girlfriend?”
“No,” said Tweed. “But a friend. So behave.” Tweed frowned at her. “You don't look so good, Stepp. Are you sick?”
Stepp waved his concern away and scratched her head. She turned the scratch into a tap. “This is from the lice. The rest…well, I've had a bit of the flu is all. What you want, Tweed?”
Tweed tried to ignore the astonished look Octavia passed between he and Stepp. He also tried to ignore the chuckling from Jenny and the rather confused questions Carter was asking her.
“Need your help. The Ministry has Barnaby.”
“Then say your goodbyes and move on. No way you can get him back.”
Tweed held up the file. “Ah, but we have inside information: security protocols, maps, Babbage model numbers…everything you need to cra
ck the Ministry wide open.”
Tweed grinned as Stepp's eyes lit with gleeful excitement. She stepped aside and swept her hand wide in a theatrical bow.
“Ladies and gentlemen—and you,” she said, glaring at Octavia. “Welcome to my center of operations.”
Stepp's “center of operations” was the basement of the rather rundown house she lived in with her alcoholic father. The man was barely aware of the passing of time, never mind the fact that his daughter was one of the foremost computing mechanics—“mechs”—in London.
Tweed lounged on a tatty couch while Stepp scanned the files. Every now and then she would giggle to herself. Tweed had seen it all before, but the other three, huddled in the opposite corner of the room, looked vaguely worried.
Tweed nodded at a small viewing terminal attached to a brass and copper keyboard. It seemed to be one piece of equipment, instead of the usual separate keyboard and viewing screen. “That's new,” he said.
Stepp glanced up. “Oh, It's the new Ada. Not even on the market yet. Wanted to get into it before everyone else. It's what I use when I'm cutting a system. Very fast.”
“How did you get it?” asked Octavia.
Stepp looked her way. “I have someone who works in the factories. Someone who owes me a lot of favors.”
“So what do you think?” asked Tweed. “Is your reputation as the best cutter in the city well-earned?”
“You know it is, Tweedy.”
Tweed sighed. “What I'm asking, Stepp, is can it be done?”
“Possibly.”
“Then my next question is, will you help?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you agree to leave my punchcards in the Ministry serving computer when you sneak inside.”
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“So I can gain direct control over their systems whenever I want to.”
“Ah, I see. Then I agree.”
Octavia straightened up. “Tweed! You can't do that!”
“Why not? I'm sure Stepp will be a good little girl and use her power responsibly, won't you Stepp?”
“Call me a little girl one more time and I'll chop your fingers off,” growled Stepp.
Tweed sat up on the couch. “Apologies. Slip of the tongue. So, are we on?”
“We're on.”
“When do we get started?”
“What's the time frame?”
Tweed glanced uncertainly at the others. Octavia shrugged.
“Tight,” said Tweed. “Very, very tight.”
“Then we start right now. Here's the first thing you'll need to do…”
“I'm not happy with this!” said Octavia. “Not happy at all.”
“What did you expect?” asked Tweed. “That we wouldn't have to do anything illegal? This is serious stuff, Songbird.”
Tweed twitched the curtain aside and peered out the window of his steamcoach. Despite his words, he was, in fact, concerned about the instructions Stepp had given them. It had all made sense when she explained it, and as far as Tweed could tell, it really was the only way to get inside the Ministry. But still, sitting there watching the evening rush-hour traffic clog up the arteries of the city, he couldn't help but worry.
“It'll be fine,” he said, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. “Just make sure you're ready to do your bit.”
Octavia leaned past Tweed and peered out the window. “Where are Carter and Jenny? Shouldn't they be around?”
“Oh, they are. You only see them if they want to be seen. Don't worry about them. They're good at what they do.”
“Which is robbing people?”
“Exactly,” said Tweed with relish. “The best in the biz. And they've taught me a few of their tricks. Surprisingly, a lot of it is about psychology, about making the mark think something diff—What?”
Octavia was staring at him in astonishment. “Are you seriously about to give me a lecture on the psychology of theft?”
“Well…not a lecture. More a…brief essay.”
Octavia shook her head in dismay. “You are so odd.”
“I resent that!”
“Do you deny it?”
“Well, no, but I still resent it.”
“Just pay attention please.” She nodded out the window. “Are you sure that's the right building?”
Tweed glanced across the street. The building was unremarkable. A bland set of stairs covered in pigeon droppings leading up to a black door. The building was three stories high, with small, square windows facing out onto the main street. It certainly didn't look like the main entrance to the most feared government ministry in the country.
“That's the address Horatio put down. What about him?” he added, as a well-dressed man exited the building and trotted down the steps onto the pavement. He put on a hat and lit a cigarette before walking away from the building.
“No,” said Octavia. “Too smartly dressed. Too good looking. He'd be missed.”
Tweed squinted at the man. He wouldn't call him good looking. Definitely average. “You think he's good looking?” Tweed asked doubtfully
“Indeed. He looks like an actor.”
“Any specific actor, or is it simply the fact that a person gets up onto a stage and repeats lines someone else wrote for them that you find so attractive?”
“What about her?” asked Octavia, blatantly ignoring Tweed's question. A middle-aged woman was leaving the building, buttoning up a jacket against the blustery wind.
“No,” said Tweed. “I'm not comfortable doing this to a woman.”
They waited for another ten minutes. Finally, an extremely tall man wearing a creased suit with a—Tweed leaned forward to get a better look—coffee stain down the front of his shirt, exited the building and clattered down the steps. He bumped into a passing pedestrian, spun around as he muttered an apology, then started to move in their direction.
“Perfect,” said Tweed. “Get ready with that thing.”
Octavia pushed a button on a large gramophone that Stepp had loaned them. The smooth sound disc started to spin. Octavia picked up a long hose attached to the device and held the listening horn next to the open window.
“Ready,” she said.
Tweed hopped out of the carriage, checking how close the man was. He walked away a few steps, then turned around as if he'd forgotten something. He patted his jacket and walked along the pavement, searching the ground. When he drew level with the carriage he paused and looked up. He had timed it exactly right.
“Theodore?” he said to the tall man. “Theodore…Smith?”
Smith? Really? That was the best he could come up with?
A look of surprise flashed across the man's features. He tried to step around Tweed, shaking his head as he did so.
“Theodore,” pressed Tweed. “It's me. Bartholomew. How are you?”
The man finally stopped walking. “I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is not Theodore.”
“Of course it is. Theodore from Oxford. We met at that coffee shop, after the opera? We drank wine and absinthe and then your wife came and dragged you away. I bet you were in trouble, eh?”
“I assure you, sir. I have never been to the opera in Oxford. Plus, I am not married.”
“Of course you are. Theodore Smith. Married to Jessie. Two children. How are the little tykes?”
“I have no children. Now if you will please let me get by…”
“No children? Really? But you and Jess—”
“Sir! My name is Maximilian Horton. I am not married. I do not have children. I have never been to the opera. I have most certainly never drunk wine and absinthe with you. Now, good day to you!”
Tweed smiled. “Sorry about this.”
Maximilian frowned. “Sorry about wha—?”
Jenny and Carter appeared from out of the crowd of pedestrians buffeting them on all sides. Jenny smiled at Maximilian. “Max! Baby! How you been?” She grabbed his arm and stu
ck the needle of a syringe into his bicep.
Carter grinned at the man and supported him on the other side as he slumped into their grip. Jenny was babbling on, laughing, leaning across Maximilian to speak to Carter as they smoothly moved him to the back of the carriage. Tweed hung back to make sure no one was taking an untoward interest in them. He needn't have worried. Everyone was too busy going about their own business to take any notice of what looked like three friends laughing and chatting together.
Jenny and Carter managed to get Maximilian into the back of the carriage and pulled the door shut. Tweed hopped into the driver's seat, pulled his smoke goggles down, and set off into traffic, heading back to Norfolk Street to pick up Stepp and her equipment.
Phase one complete. Only…Tweed tried to count how many phases were left, then gave up after he got to ten, feeling the depression start to creep in. How in the name of all that's holy were they going to pull this off?
Tweed pulled the back door of the steamcoach open to find Stepp glaring at him, clutching her precious computing equipment to her chest while trying to hold the rest down with her feet.
“You drive like a drunken baboon!” she snapped. “This is delicate machinery here.”
“Sorry.”
The back of the carriage was rather crowded. Stepp, Jenny, Carter, and Octavia all squashed together in the cramped space, plus Maximilian curled into a ball on the floor. Tweed had to find alternate routes to their destination because the carriage wouldn't make it up any hills.
“Is he still alive?” asked Tweed.
Maximilian's knees were pushed up to his chest, his head twisted to the side as if his neck had been broken.
“He's fine,” said Jenny. “Not our fault he's so tall. He'll have a stiff neck, that's all.”
They climbed out of the carriage one by one, stretching cramped muscles, then pulled Maximilian out, laying him on the damp cobbles. Tweed glanced at the mouth of the alley, where it fed onto the busier street, but the nightly autumn mist had rolled in as they were driving, drifting across the streetlights and turning people into half-seen ghosts.
