‘What do you know about it?’
‘Enough to find you, which is what Havelock too will shortly do, if he’s got any brains - and, which, regrettably, beneath that lack of imagination, he has.’
Moncorvo entered the room. Berwick leapt back, gun raised, and squealed, ‘What the hell is that doing here?’
Moncorvo didn’t answer. Eyebrows drawn together, he gazed at Berwick as if discovering a bomb ticking down to ignition. Lyle murmured, ‘You would not believe.’
‘Yes? After what I’ve seen these last days, lad, you wouldn’t credit any of what I now believe.’
‘You know, statements like that are always a challenge. All right: this is Lord Moncorvo, in my opinion one of the most evil creatures to walk the earth, a gentleman who attempted to transform his species of tree-loving, mind-altering people into rampaging semi-gods, whom I encountered during this process and had the good fortune of sending to prison as a consequence. This same gentleman was also at the time, unknown to me, spying for his kind on the works of highest government, obtained information regarding the construction of a device which attempts to use magnetism for the destruction of his aforementioned morally questionable race, although as it may turn out, not universally morally questionable, though that too is questionable in itself. To obtain this information I recently broke Moncorvo out having been informed that you,’ Lyle found himself suddenly angry, tired and weary and aching and angry, ‘that you were working for bloody Augustus bloody Havelock in constructing this device and had recently gone underground for reasons unknown and though it pains me to admit it, this same gentleman is at least partially responsible for my being here right now and my getting just a little bit loud! Do you still think that you can outdo me for bizarre and improbable circumstance?’
Berwick thought about it. ‘Nah. I reckon that about caps it.’
Lyle realized he had been shouting. He sagged. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why did you run, Berwick?’ Moncorvo’s voice sounded like uncut stone.
The other man eyed him suspiciously and murmured, ‘Horatio, there’s some things you didn’t mention about your life.’
‘You too,’ conceded Lyle. ‘I’m not sure which of us is more surprised. But good God, why did you agree to build the damn thing?’
He shrugged. ‘It just had the scientific appeal of a good - no, a brilliant idea.’
‘That’s a terrible answer.’
‘It appealed to my vanity, nonetheless.’
‘Why? ’
‘Horatio.’ Berwick’s eyes glowed. ‘The thing is beautiful. The science of it, the maths, the structure, the building of it, the perfect working function, the perfect form, the perfect effect - the Machine is beautiful.’
‘You and I need to talk,’ said Lyle.
And here is the Machine. Every part glows, honed, carved, polished to lock precisely into place with the next part. It is a giant clockwork maze, a thousand intricate little pins hooking into a million intricate little cogs which spin a billion chains and each one works, a perfect function. Even broken down on paper into lines, into pure mathematical formulae, the thing is perfect, every number clicking into place like beads on a rosary, snap equal zero snap equal one; nothing out of place, not a minus sign ignored, not a fraction inverted, but the whole as pure in conception as it is in construction. Even the colliers, who have no grasp of the science that has gone into the pistons that reach up thirty yards overhead, even the porters and the men who pull the handles to release the billows of steam when the pressure climbs too high, even the nimble-fingered women whose job it is to crawl underneath the main hub of the furnaces when the chains get tangled, can sense that it is a work of scientific genius, a work of mechanical art - the Machine is beautiful.
More to the point, as the last whirring hub falls silent and a few sparks drip from overheated wires, the Machine is ready.
CHAPTER 13
Murder
‘What is it?’ asked Lyle, turning the thing over in his hands. It was approximately a foot in length, tube-like, but with a strange bulge at either end that looked as though it fitted into something else. Inside, the thing was made of little gold wires that gleamed in the candlelight from the table at the end of the narrow bed in the small room. Impatiently Berwick waved the papers on which the thing had rested. ‘A regulator, a regulator!’ he exclaimed, and waited for the light of comprehension in Lyle’s face.
Lyle looked confused. As did Moncorvo. Berwick sighed. ‘It’s what they need to finish it: this is the final piece of the Machine.’
‘Well, yes . . .’ Lyle peered at the diagrams on the table, leafing through them. ‘Yes, fair enough, but what is it?’
‘It synchronizes the flow of the current and the detonation of the explosive so that they occur at precisely the same time, in the same space.’
‘Right.’ Lyle carefully put the long tube down and picked up the papers, turning them this way and that. ‘And this makes the Machine work . . . how?’
‘Horatio, I expected more of you,’ said Berwick. He pushed the gun aside, pointing out the interest of a particular drawing. ‘Observe - the precise nature of the timing requires construction of machinery so fine - not to mention an entirely separate circuit through which the control current can run, as a mere fraction of the energy being deployed, so that . . .’
‘This is a bomb,’ murmured Lyle, whose attention had already been seized by another paper. ‘A very, very big bomb.’
‘Take all the explosives of the Crimean War and compress them together and you wouldn’t have as much power as I do inside that chamber.’ Berwick’s face had lit up. ‘It took years to make this.’
‘Years? But you’ve been working on this for . . . what? Five months?’
‘Yes, but it’s been years since they started trying to make the Machine work. I’ve simply provided the key, the know-how, the knowledge of how to control the explosion so that the current passing around the detonation chamber flows at the exact moment of the blast, forcing the magnetic field to collapse and . . .’
‘You make the magnetic field collapse into the explosion and then push it back out again.’
‘Exactly! But bigger, much bigger; the original field is just the field around a current - and what a current! But by exploding it, we can force a wave of magnetism that can travel many miles before dissipating into the background field of the earth’s own magnetic field.’
Moncorvo, if he understood what was being said, showed no reaction. Lyle’s face, however, showed incredulity. ‘But that kind of power! No, and that kind of detonation, I mean . . . the thing must be huge! It must be ... well ... it must be ... no, and there’s no way you could get that kind of energy, it’d take ... oh . .. it’d require . . . so much, I mean just . . .’
‘Billions,’ agreed Berwick in a low, excited whisper. ‘Billions of coulombs, we store them in capacitors, thousands of them, it takes days to charge, each one bigger than a man, and the explosive is actually four and a half hundred explosives compressed together for the detonation. It’s ...’ He shook his head and let out a long breath, ‘beautiful.’
‘It’s a disaster in waiting.’
Berwick shrugged. ‘Maybe that too.’
‘And this regulator thing?’
Berwick picked it up again, and grinned. ‘Ah, well, yes, that’s where it was all going wrong for them, you see? That’s why Havelock needed me.’
‘Why? I’m guessing by the name “regulator” it’s involved in somehow . . . regulating . . . the whole process?’
‘Quite, quite! You see, we can generate a current big enough, we can store it while trying to extract the necessary charge, we can even construct and contain a big enough explosion, although I must admit even I was taken aback a little by the scale of the construction. But in order to collapse the magnetic field, we needed to ensure that the passage of charge through the coil around the detonation chamber is exactly synchronized with the explosion itself. That’s what this does.’
‘This thing?’ Lyle waved doubtfully at the slim tube.
‘Yes!’ Berwick looked quite offended. ‘I mean, obviously, it fits into the larger structure, has its place, but essentially . . . yes.’
‘Havelock asked you to make it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Five months ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you did?’
‘It was an adventure, Horatio, a challenge. How could I resist?’
Lyle hesitated, then shrugged - in one sense, he could understand Berwick’s response. ‘Willpower?’ he hazarded. He saw Berwick’s face and sighed. ‘Nevermind. When suggesting this idea to you, did he ever mention the Machine’s ultimate purpose? ’
‘No . . . not really. He said it was an experimental device for Her Majesty’s Government. I did think about the possible consequences, if that’s what you mean. Strangely enough, the idea that it was going to be used in a war waged against people with an intolerance for high magnetic fields and ferrous material generally, didn’t leap to mind.’
‘Surely not.’
‘You may be used to this world, my boy,’ said Berwick primly, ‘but believe me when I say that even as a child I regarded fairy-tales as simply another way to get me to eat cabbage.’
‘Scientists are a species unto themselves, aren’t they?’ asked Moncorvo. Lyle didn’t feel he expected an answer. He glared at Moncorvo, and turned back to Berwick. ‘I’m assuming you found out about the whole Tseiqin business?’
‘Oh yes. Very much so.’
‘How?’ Lyle’s voice was pained with the effort of restraint.
‘It all happened very fast. I was on Baker Street Station - there was a lab underneath Baker Street, you see. Havelock said it was better to keep the work secret . . .’
‘I’ve been there, flooded that.’
‘Oh, really?’ Berwick didn’t seem too bothered. ‘Well, I was on Baker Street Station, when, without any warning, this group of men ran at me. Just like that. Poof! I didn’t know what to do; I panicked, obviously. One second, perfectly fine; the next second, running people. I can’t really explain what happened - but they attacked me, and some other men came at them. Afterwards Havelock said they’d been set to look after me, but I hadn’t even realized until then that I merited a guard. There was shooting, shouting, all that - I hid under a bench.’
Moncorvo gave a derisory snort. Lyle frowned. ‘What then?’
Berwick hesitated, then said, in a precise, quiet voice, ‘I saw them die. All of them, all the men who’d run at me. I saw their faces on the floor next to mine, I saw them bleed. Their blood was white, Horatio - but I suppose you know about that. It didn’t react to the air, it didn’t turn red, it was just . . . white. And their skin was almost white, their eyes green, and . . . dead. I’ve never seen dead eyes before. They didn’t change in the light, they didn’t crinkle, they didn’t widen; they just stared, right at me, but not at me, through me, like . . . anyway, mustn’t give inanimate objects character, it’s a foolish habit. Havelock said I was in danger, that I couldn’t go home, that I couldn’t leave work, now that completion was so near.
‘I said, “In danger from whom?” He told me that there was an enemy, that my Machine . . . that the Machine was a weapon. He said it was a crusade, a holy war, a war of survival, and that I was the key. We were so close.’
‘Go on,’ murmured Lyle, when Berwick didn’t seem about to move.
Berwick’s eyes became focused on something beyond the room. ‘I am not a soldier. Havelock said that they weren’t human; and their blood . . . is not human, Horatio. But their eyes, when they were dead, were ... sad ... so sad. They . . . say those men were there to hurt me. I didn’t have time to see. They were probably right. I saw them die, they stared at me. Am I going to kill the rest of them? Havelock doesn’t even know how many there are in the city - he guesses hundreds . . .’ Another hmph from Moncorvo, but Berwick didn’t seem to notice. ‘. . . but what if there are more? All those unexplained bodies in the street, struck down by an invisible wave of magnetism, never knowing what the Machine was built for, what it was about. Dead bodies with dead eyes. Would you finish the Machine, Lyle?’
Lyle didn’t answer. Berwick smiled faintly. ‘You are part of this, I suppose.’
‘No,’ said Lyle coldly. ‘I’m not.’
‘Then why are you here?’
Lyle thought about it, then shrugged. ‘People just keep on breaking the bloody law.’
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s the best explanation I’ve got. Somebody shoots someone, somebody else decides to shoot back - how many bodies do you need before it stops being murder and becomes war? That’s about the extent of my reasoning: sorry, I haven’t really thought about it much.’
Berwick let out a sharp breath. ‘Ah. So you are here to stop the Machine.’
‘Pretty much.’ Lyle was surprised to find himself sounding so certain.
Berwick waved the regulator in Moncorvo’s direction. ‘Do you . . . trust these people?’
‘No!’
‘But you still want it stopped.’
‘It’s not science, it’s a crime,’ said Lyle impatiently. ‘You know that.’
Berwick was thoughtful. Eventually he smiled. ‘Fair enough, lad. But you see, I have this problem.’
‘Does the problem wear a top hat and have a voice like . . . oh, I don’t know, the sound silk would make if you polished an iceberg with it?’
‘You’ve met him.’
‘Oh yes—’ After a while Lyle added, ‘You know, not to be crude, but that means you’re right up to your neck in manure.’
‘How, exactly?’ Berwick looked confused.
‘Well, I could inform you that I can protect you from the wrath of Augustus Havelock and hide you and he need never find you despite your having betrayed him and his Machine by absconding with the final part and necessary information to complete it, but . . .’
‘It’d be a lie?’
‘You probably can evade him,’ said Lyle. ‘But I suggest that to do so you move away a lot further than back home to Aberdeen. And you’d never again be able to see or speak to any of your friends or family.’
‘Why’s that?’
Lyle met Berwick’s eyes and said, perfectly reasonably, ‘Because he’d kill them all if he thought you could know of it.’
‘I see.’ Berwick suddenly looked a lot smaller.
‘On the other hand,’ Lyle forced a grim smile, ‘he won’t just kill them out of pique; it’s all about you being aware, about you knowing that poor Aunty Maud was mown down in the street because of you, and nice Uncle Godfrey was drowned as punishment for your sins! There has to be that contact, that awareness.’
‘You’re not painting a pretty picture, Horatio.’
‘I’m painting an honest one.’
‘Where’s the Machine?’ Moncorvo’s question came so suddenly, it caught both Berwick and Lyle off guard.
‘What?’
‘Where is it? It’s a very simple question.’
When Berwick didn’t answer, Moncorvo said briskly, ‘Lyle’s ramblings imply that it would have to be big - exceptionally big - to generate the power you require. But there is nowhere in the city I can think of which could conveniently house such a structure. So - where is it?’
‘It’s a good question,’ admitted Lyle. ‘I’d like to know too.’
‘Underground,’ replied Berwick quietly.
‘Where underground, exactly?’
‘It hardly matters - your kind wouldn’t be able to get within half a mile of it.’
‘I could,’ said Lyle.
A shadow passed over Berwick’s face, an instant of pain. ‘Would you destroy it, Lyle? All of it, not just the key? It would be ... hard, when you see it.’
‘It’s monstrous,’ snarled Moncorvo.
‘It is misguided,’ agreed Lyle. ‘But where is it?’
‘When Bazalgette built the sewers a few years back,’ Berwick�
��s voice was distant, still faint with doubt, ‘he was approached by the government and asked, in the course of his works, to extend an extra tunnel underneath the city itself into a space of the government’s design, a complex capable of housing more of the pumps that he was attempting to build to control the flow of water through the system. He agreed - the money was excellent for the project, even if the secrecy was alarming. At high tide, it is hard to get there: too much of what he built crossed through the old sewers which flow into the river. But at low tide, it is possible to go down into the sewers and follow the signs.’
‘What signs?’
‘Markings on the wall. You wouldn’t notice them if you didn’t know they’re there. Two cogs, one inside the other; they look almost like the face of a clock, if you look right, counting down.’
‘I’ve seen that mark before,’ said Lyle quietly.
‘So have I,’ murmured Moncorvo. ‘Is this thing . . .’ a gesture at the regulator, ‘the only one of its kind?’
‘Yes.’
‘And these papers . . . ?’
‘Are the only things which will tell you how to build it? Yes, there are no copies.’
‘And without it the Machine can’t be completed?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And you are the only one who knows how to finish the design.’
Berwick’s eyes strayed uncertainly to Lyle. ‘I suppose I am ...’
And too late, Lyle realized. He saw Moncorvo, standing next to the table at the end of the bed, standing next to Berwick’s forgotten revolver, and thought, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! and pushed Berwick to one side and made a lunge for the gun. So did Moncorvo, and Lyle knew that if he’d been standing just a bit closer, he wouldn’t have needed to call himself a fool.
Lin Zi, when informed that women were not welcome in the house, had done a number of things. The first had been to let out a profound sigh at the absurd rules of society and their cruel and inexplicable restraint and denial of natural biological incentives, emotions and needs, not to mention the lax attitude of some women within the country towards their God-given rights as social equals to men and failure to capitalize on their obvious advantages in life. The next thing she did was to walk to either end of the narrow, squalid street, smiling politely at all strangers she passed by and causing most to run on in uncertainty and fear, just to make sure that the street was clean. Clean of anyone else who might have an interest in the little house with its little occupants. The final thing she did was to find a drainpipe that wasn’t made of such thin metal or so rusted away by neglect and the secretions of fungus, and climb it hand-over-hand on to the rooftops above the street. She took a deep breath of slightly cleaner, above-street-level air, tried a cautious step and nearly fell over as the tile under her foot clattered away to the ground below. Sighing, she tried another, picking her way on hands and feet across the rooftops until she judged herself to be directly above the room inside which she could hear Lyle, Moncorvo and Berwick talking in low, worried voices. She stretched back on the sloping, slippery tiles, and listened, quite contentedly, to everything that passed.
The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle) Page 18
