by George Mann
Veronica caught sight of Amelia’s wicker wheelchair. They couldn’t take it—it would slow them down too much and prove too conspicuous—but it sparked an idea. She stood. “Stay here,” she said to Amelia.
Newbury turned to look at her, dropping the lamp stand to the floor with a crash. “Where are you going?”
“Trust me. I’ll be back in a minute.” She ran for the door amidst Newbury’s protests.
Out in the hallway, Veronica searched the floor for her abandoned jacket, but it had already been lost to the flames. The smoke stung her eyes and the heat was an oppressive wall that caused her to take a step back. For a moment, she considered turning back, but she steeled herself to press on. She needed to do this. She needed to protect her sister. Simply getting her away from this place was not enough. In a few days, when all of this was over, people would come picking through the wreckage of the institute, trying to ascertain what had happened. Veronica wanted them to find Amelia here in this room, dead in her wheelchair alongside Dr. Fabian. Or at least, she wanted them to find someone who they thought was Amelia. That way, they wouldn’t come looking. It was clear the Queen knew about the clones. The monarch would no doubt arrange a cover up to ensure that that news didn’t get out. But if they found a body here, with Fabian, still in situ in a wheelchair … well, Veronica hoped that would be enough to persuade them that the original version of her sister had also perished in the flames.
Wrapping her arms around her face, burying her eyes and nose in the crooks of her elbows, she bent low and ran for all she was worth. She cried out as the flames scorched and scalded her, licking at her ankles. Then she was through, out the other side and back in the main hallway, where the staircase had collapsed into nothing but a burning pile of timber.
Veronica coughed and spluttered, hacking on the airborne soot. Which way? She tried desperately to remember. It was almost impossible to get her bearings. The constant pounding was remodelling the house, collapsed walls and flames rendering entire areas of the lower floor inaccessible. Her instincts drove her left, and she ploughed on through the burning wreckage, hot ash searing her flesh where it kissed her arms and face as she ran.
Veronica threw herself around another corner, changed direction to avoid an impassable inferno, and ducked beneath a smoking beam that had fallen through the ceiling above and wedged in the passageway. Then she was outside the room where she had first found the duplicates.
The doorway had partially collapsed. The lintel and frame leaned jauntily to one side like a drunken old man, narrowing the opening. The wooden door itself had cracked under the stress and had evidently been smashed open from the inside. Splinters of it lay on the ground by her feet. What was left of it was hanging open on one hinge, swaying slowly back and forth.
Veronica approached the room and peered inside. Everything was dark. With trepidation, she crossed the threshold, sidestepping to pass through the now narrow opening. Every instinct told her to turn and run, but she knew she had no choice. She didn’t have any time to waste.
Veronica’s eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. The lamps had been extinguished and the only illumination now came from the flames in the hallway, which cast everything in sharp relief. The dancing shadows gave everything a strange sense of movement. She heard breathing in the darkness towards the back of the room and realised some of the duplicates were still there. Perhaps they were afraid, preferring the comfort of darkness to the horror of the real world beyond the door. She couldn’t blame them for that. All they had ever known was darkness and pain and torment. They were nothing but animals, cowering in the night.
Veronica searched the shadows but couldn’t see any of them. If they remained there, they were going to die. She wondered if she should do something, try to shoo them out into the burning house, but she knew they’d die there, too, either in the flames or by the Gatling guns. There was nothing she could do. She forced herself to remember that they weren’t her sister—weren’t even people, in the truest sense—and that she couldn’t save them. Amelia—the real Amelia—was waiting with Newbury, and that was the only thing that mattered. Besides, she didn’t know if she even wanted to save the duplicates. She felt horribly conflicted about the fact that they even existed at all.
A pile of wreckage lay in the centre of the room. As Veronica walked towards it, she realised it marked what remained of the strange spinning machine she had seen during her last visit. Clearly, the duplicates had rebelled. Cogs, pistons, and metal brackets were scattered all over the floor, and the wheel itself, now devoid of its incumbent clone, had been broken in half, the two halves balanced in the top of the pile so that they jutted out like obscure totems. The weird occult runes that had been daubed around the edges of the wheel added to the impression, as if imbuing the sculpture with an eerie supernatural significance.
Nearby, the figure in the chair was still in situ, strapped, unmoving, as it had been a couple of days earlier. Now, however, it was clearly dead, slumped with its head resting awkwardly to one side. Its eyes were still open and they caught the reflected firelight. Its teeth were bared in a rictus snarl. Veronica shuddered and approached it, careful not to present her back to the murmuring shadows.
She tried not to look at its face as she set about releasing the cuffs. The flesh was icy cold to the touch. She had no idea how long the thing had been dead; she didn’t share Newbury’s ability to discern such things. Nevertheless, it would serve her purpose.
Veronica finished unbuckling the leather cuffs and slid her arms beneath the ghoulish cadaver, hefting it up into her arms. It was lighter than she’d imagined. She kept the face turned away from her, and she tried not to think about the smell.
She heard the creatures—she was still steadfastly refusing to think of them as anything else—begin shuffling about and mewling as they watched her take a few steps back with the body in her arms. “Go on, get out of here!” she shouted at them, but all she heard in response was a frightened chatter and a wail.
Veronica backed up to the doorway and then, realising she’d be unable to simply carry the cadaver through the narrow opening, dropped to her haunches, lying the body on the ground. She then sidestepped through the doorway into the corridor before dropping to her knees and dragging the corpse out behind her by its feet.
Seconds later she was running down the burning passageways again, the duplicate clutched to her, its head flopping about with her movements. All the while, explosives continued to rain down upon the building, shaking what was left of the structure to its very foundations.
She had no idea how long she’d been gone, but when she finally returned to Amelia’s room, tufts of her hair smoking and streaks of soot on her face, there was no sign of Newbury or her sister. Frowning, Veronica struggled over to the empty wheelchair and slid the cadaver from her grip, lowering it unceremoniously into the chair. Once there, she propped it up as best she could and stepped back, admiring her handiwork.
She supposed it wouldn’t fool someone who took the time to seriously examine the body, but anyone searching through the wreckage in a few days’ time would likely find a charred corpse that looked remarkably like her sister, sitting in the remains of a wheelchair a few feet from the corpse of Dr. Fabian.
It would do. It would have to do.
There was a momentary lull in the intensity of the bombardment and Veronica caught the sound of a man’s voice, carried in from somewhere just outside the shattered French doors. She stepped gingerly over Fabian’s body and approached the doors, peering out cautiously into the garden beyond.
Newbury was standing on the patio with Amelia draped in his arms. Before them, sitting astride a gleaming clockwork warhorse, was Enoch Graves. He was dressed like the others, with a neat bowler hat atop his head, a grey suit, and a breastplate of shining steel. He held the red-crossed flag of Saint George in one hand, fluttering in the breeze atop a gilded staff, as if declaring his intent to embrace the old ways of his mother country. The other hand he used to
brandish a Gatling gun in Newbury’s direction. His voice was low enough that Veronica couldn’t discern his words, but she could tell from the glibness of his tone and his wry smile that he was gloating at Newbury. She knew immediately that he intended to let loose with the weapon as soon as he finished his speech.
There was nothing Newbury could do about it, either. With Amelia in his arms he had no chance of even attempting to tackle Graves, and any sudden moves would certainly result in death. At this range, the Gatling gun would shred both him and Amelia apart in seconds.
Veronica stepped back from view, careful not to crunch the fragments of broken glass beneath her feet and draw attention to herself. She felt her temper flare. How dare he!
She wasn’t about to let Graves ruin everything now.
Veronica hitched up her skirt, revealing her milky white thigh beneath her petticoat. There, held in a leather harness just above her right knee, was a long-bladed knife. She drew it slowly from its sheath and clutched it in her right fist, the blade pointed at the floor like a dagger.
Veronica took a deep breath and peered out again, quickly this time, trying to establish if there was anyone she’d need to deal with besides Graves. There didn’t appear to be. She ran through the sequence of possible events in her mind. It was going to be risky. One false move and Graves’s trigger finger would twitch and spray Newbury and Amelia with bullets. But she had to try—it was this or nothing.
Veronica ducked back into Amelia’s room, treading carefully so as not to inadvertently give herself away. She stayed low as she dashed through the door and along the passageway, trying not to breathe in the thick wreaths of cloying smoke.
The door to the neighbouring room was already on fire. Standing back, she used her heel to kick it open. It shuddered and swung back in the frame, dripping sparks. The fire hadn’t yet spread to the room beyond, but it was nevertheless a scene of violent devastation. The French doors had been shattered by a torrent of Gatling gun fire, which in turn had chewed up all the furniture inside the room as well as the occupant, one of Fabian’s patients, an old woman who was now sprawled facedown on the hearth, an arc of dripping blood decorating the wall above her.
Veronica averted her eyes from the dead woman’s back as she crept towards the garden.
As she’d anticipated, the doors here let out onto the patio behind where Graves’s warhorse was standing, stamping its foot in an impatient gesture reminiscent of its real, flesh-and-blood counterparts. All she had to do now was creep out through the broken doors, sneak up on Graves unseen and unheard, and jam the blade beneath his rib cage, through the small gap in his plate armour just behind the breastplate.
Graves, thankfully, was still orating down upon Newbury, who was in turn keeping him talking, prompting him with questions and encouraging him to elaborate. She imagined Newbury was anxiously anticipating her return, hopeful she’d be enough of a distraction to give him a chance to do something. Well, she’d certainly do that.
With the utmost care, Veronica wriggled out through the shattered remains of the French doors, finding her footing on the flagstones beyond. She glanced quickly in the other direction, reassuring herself that the coast was clear. Then, clutching the knife tightly in her fist, she padded forward towards the mechanical beast and its rider.
“This, Newbury, is only the beginning. We shall build England anew, return her to her former glories. We shall placate the infidel and the Empire shall once again cover the globe!” Graves was spouting his grand rhetoric, the words of a would-be dictator. The words that would be his undoing.
Veronica appraised the situation. She was going to have to jump to strike the blow; the saddle Graves sat on was above her shoulder, meaning he was higher still. To reach him she’d need to pull herself up, her arm extended, and ensure her aim was true. If she missed and struck the breastplate or back plate instead, everything would be over.
She manoeuvred herself carefully around the side of the horse. Thankfully, Graves seemed to be lost to the vagaries of his speech and didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything other than himself. As she drew closer, however, Newbury caught sight of her and his eyes involuntarily widened in surprise. Graves saw his reaction, too, and began to twist around in his saddle, breaking off from his sermon. “What—?”
But Veronica was too fast. She took two strides forward, grabbed hold of Graves’s leg for purchase, and propelled herself into the air, her right hand guiding the blade in an arc. She heard Graves call out in surprise and confusion, raising his arm in an attempt at defence, and then the knife hit home, glancing off the edge of the breastplate and burying itself deep in his side.
Graves screamed in agony and Veronica twisted the handle, thrusting up with all the power she had left in her body. Graves batted at her with his fist, but she continued to drive the blade deeper, twisting it and turning it to maximise the damage, ignoring the blows that were raining down on her back and shoulders.
A second later Newbury was at her side, grappling with the flailing man, trying to pin him in place. The flagstaff fell to the floor as Graves brought his other fist around in a powerful hook, striking Newbury hard across the face, but the knife had already done its work, and Graves didn’t have the strength in him to keep up the battle. Newbury, shaking his head to clear the effects of the blow, caught hold of Graves’s arm and hauled with all his might, dragging the man from the saddle. Veronica rushed to help him, and, a second later, pulled down by the weight of his own plate armour, Graves slipped from the mechanical horse and fell hard against the flagstones.
Veronica heard a terrible crack as Graves hit the stones headfirst. She looked round to see his body slumped by the horse’s hooves, the neck snapped so that the head was staring up at the house from an unusual angle. Blood was trickling from the nostrils. His bowler hat had come to settle a few feet away in a brackish puddle. She felt relief course through her body and realised she was trembling.
Newbury put his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Are you alright?”
She nodded. She had no time to think about what she had done. “Where’s Amelia?”
Newbury led her around the front of the clockwork stallion, which was waiting, motionless, as if somehow lost without its rider. Her sister was sitting on the edge of the lawn, watching her with panicked eyes. She looked incredibly pale in the dull afternoon light.
“Where did you go, Veronica?” she said urgently. “You left us!”
“I had to take care of something,” Veronica replied pointedly. She looked back at the Grayling Institute as the roof finally gave way, caving in on what remained of the building. Black smoke was billowing out of the windows, and hot ash filled the air like winter snow. The explosions had come to a stop. She wiped her face on her sleeve and realised the futility of the gesture when she saw how filthy her clothes were.
“We don’t have much time,” said Newbury, glancing nervously along the garden to where the rest of the mounted men would be waiting around the corner. “We have to find a way out of here before they find us.”
Veronica glanced at the crumpled body of Enoch Graves, and then at the mechanical warhorse over Newbury’s shoulder. “I think I know just the thing,” she said, unable to contain her smile.
Newbury followed her gaze and caught her meaning almost immediately. He returned her grin. “Come on!” he said, rushing to collect Amelia.
Together, Veronica and Newbury hoisted Amelia up into the saddle of the bizarre steed. It stirred to life beneath her, activated by the weight of a new mount. Its glass eyes blazed a deep crimson, and its internal mechanisms began to whirr and hum.
Newbury cupped his hands to create a step for Veronica, and she leapt up behind Amelia, allowing Newbury to pull himself up at the controls. He briefly fumbled with a brass lever, and then the machine kicked into motion, lurching forward and nearly sending them all sprawling to the ground.
“Hang on!” Newbury yelled back at her, before pressing a s
eries of buttons hidden in the crease of the beast’s brass mane. Then they were off again, this time breaking into a steady gallop. Veronica held on to Amelia as Newbury guided the clockwork beast around the corner, reaching for the Gatling gun on the pivot by his left leg. He swung it up into position, depressing the trigger just as they burst out onto the driveway, showering the small army of mounted men with a vicious spray of bullets.
The projectiles pinged off their steel armour, but Veronica saw a number of them slump forward in their saddles, caught by the shower of metal cases, blood coursing from numerous impact wounds in their faces. A few of them managed to raise their weapons and return fire, but it was already too late. Newbury, Veronica, and Amelia charged away down the driveway on their stolen mount, leaving the crumbling, smoking pile of the Grayling Institute—and the now-leaderless warriors of the Bastion Society—far behind them.
CHAPTER
27
THREE DAYS LATER
Veronica was tired of the rain.
She was tired of the vicar and his inexorable preaching, and she was tired of all the subterfuge and lies. She was tired, too, of her parents, who had done nothing but patronise her since their arrival at the church, showing nothing in the way of real compassion or grief. Their youngest daughter was dead as far as they were concerned, and all they seemed able to display was relief. To Veronica it was the most appalling show of their inhumanity. In many ways, it demonstrated to her mind that they were no better than Fabian, or Enoch Graves, or even the Queen. She felt herself welling up in frustration, and she let the tears come. It was a cathartic release, and it helped create the illusion of reality, giving the paltry crowd the impression that her sister’s funeral was not the sham that she and Newbury knew it to be.
