The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle)

by Catherine Webb

  The lights went out in the underground cave of the Machine.

  It was water that made Lyle open his eyes eventually - a long eventually. It dripped down from the ceiling and pooled around his fingertips, and smelt of the river, and that not a pleasant smell. It was the only sound, a relentless drip drip drip drip that, as he listened to it, seemed to get even more insistent. He sat up and felt mortar dust on his eyelids and tongue. He fumbled for the bag at his side and in the utter darkness felt his way to a pack of matches, striking one off the wall in a fat yellow phosphorus flame.

  ‘Any limbs broken?’ he asked in a little hoarse voice.

  In the darkness of the tunnel, shapes moved. Tess picked herself up and felt her head, where her hair had turned the colour of the pale dust that floated through the air, and the colour of the match that illuminated it. Tate crawled out from under her and sneezed, shaking dust out of his coat, only for it to be almost immediately resettled. Scuttle said in a little voice, ‘Tess? I don’t think I like this sorta thing wha’ you do nowadays.’

  Thomas crawled on to his hands and knees, coughing dust from his nose and mouth furiously. The match in Lyle’s hand guttered and went out. He struck another and fumbled in his bag until he found a small metal tube and a pair of pliers. He dropped the match into the tube which immediately went whumph and spouted dull red flame from its top. He cautiously wrapped the pliers round the tube and used them to hold it away from his skin as it hissed and smoked. Without a word he handed the pliers to Thomas, and a large handful of matches and a fistful of frosty glass spheres to Tess. In the darkness, there was no sound but the drip drip drip drip, each drop pock-marking the dust.

  Tess quietly struck a match, and held it to the bottom of one of the glass spheres, which burst into bright white light. Lyle said in his best dignified voice, trying to ignore the coating of dust that covered him head to foot and probably didn’t aid his attempt at authority, ‘Now . . . does anyone here know a way out?’

  ‘We just followed Tate,’ admitted Tess. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘If you followed Tate in here, I’m sure we can follow him out again,’ replied Lyle calmly.

  Scuttle, however, had already lost interest, and was watching the water dripping down, with a growing expression of horror that even Thomas found himself suddenly rapt with. Lyle swallowed and said very quietly, ‘What’s the problem, lad?’

  ‘Water,’ whispered Scuttle.

  ‘In the loosest sense, I suppose so,’ said Lyle. ‘Is this bad?’ Tess had started to turn green; Thomas didn’t dare meet anyone’s eye.

  ‘Tide,’ whispered Scuttle. ‘Tide’s rising.’

  Lyle took a moment to appreciate this, then let out a long breath. ‘Right,’ he murmured. ‘I think it’s time we moved, with some haste.’

  ‘Run like buggery?’ hazarded Tess.

  ‘Language! But yes. I think that might be about it.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Rising

  They run through the darkness.

  It takes a silence and the dull flicker of firelight to realize how far they are beneath the city, how lost from all common sight. It takes an awareness that these shadows really could be endless, that the walls are heaving and the water dribbling in through the cracks, that the dust is the new underground fog, that every other shape might be living or might be dead and there is no time to find out, no way to know, for the full horror to settle in. No one speaks - no one dares. They run, Tate bounding on ahead, and they follow blindly in the flickering dark.

  And here is the Machine.

  Metal bent like a corkscrew, the dripping of chemically dead liquids, as inert now as glass, running down the side of a shattered frame. Edges as sharp as diamond, lines as twisted as a madman’s mind, torn metal shaped like a spider’s web broken in a gale, boiled earth, running water carrying fluorescent traces of oil that shimmer dull purple whenever they catch dying firelight, the glow of embers and the rolling hiss of steam, broken walls and torn masonry, and everywhere the dead glow of tarnished gold burnt black, the jagged shape of a lightning strike etched into clay, melted wires stuck like frozen water in silvery shapes to the walls, icicles of copper and puddles of tin and here or there a running foot looking for a way out in the darkness, stumbling from ember to ember trying to find a light, a sound, an exit, a way up, while all the time the water goes drip drip drip drip dripdripdripdripDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIP through the roof and sloshes into the dust and traces little clean rivulets of shininess down the walls of black dirt and soot as, with a final coughing rumble from somewhere inside its miles of gears and cogs and cables and ideas, the Machine dies. At least, this Machine dies.

  And here is the Machine, picking itself up, patting itself down, feeling inside its coat pocket and finding a revolver, with only one shot fired. After all, while the idea survives, can the Machine ever really die?

  They came to the hall of capacitors, the tree-like clay coffins now dark shadows stretching out in neat rows as far as the eye could see, which in the dark wasn’t very far at all. They went in single file between the columns of silent, identical black shapes, glancing at every turn down each row in search of more shadows. There were things still alive down in the dark, and as they walked the light cast the shadows of the capacitors long across the halls and the voices began.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Help me!’

  ‘Please, is anyone . . .’

  ‘I can’t see . . .’

  ‘Can’t get out!’

  ‘... help ...’

  ‘Is there anyone who can . . . ?’

  As they walked, they grew slower and slower and slower until Lyle finally stopped, head on one side, listening to the voices. Finally he said, ‘We can’t . . .’ and found that he couldn’t finish the sentence. He tried again. ‘No one should . . .’ He stopped. He looked at his feet, then looked up and gave it one last shot. ‘This isn’t a war.’

  As he spoke, shapes moved in the darkness, drifting towards the light. ‘Thomas, Tess - you, Scuttle, whatever your name is - shout. Give them instructions. If they follow us, the light, the sound of voices, we can help them get out.’

  Shadows, people, men, women, drifting forward, some of them covered with thick black streaks where the blood and dust had mixed to paste on their skins. Tess bounced up and down, waving her makeshift torch and calling, ‘Oi! Everyone, this way, coo-eee! We’re goin’ towards a way out, come on! Coo-eee!’

  Thomas held up his torch and shouted seeming just a little embarrassed, ‘Everyone over here! Do try and come here, we’ll help you if we can!’

  Lyle shouted, ‘If you can hear me, try and follow our voices and light, we’re going for an exit. You need to leave here before the tide rises, do you understand me?’

  Scuttle shouted, ‘Erm ... hello! I dunno what’s goin’ on, but we gotta be out of here soon, right?’

  And Tate barked and yapped and galloped around in the darkness, almost the only creature who could see without the light, smelling everything that moved and the river and the dust and the sewers, as though they were colours burning in the sun.

  In the end, Lyle was amazed by how many people there were down there, who drifted or ran or limped or staggered dazed towards the little group with their torches and yelling. He estimated at least fifty, and those were just the faces he could see in the circle of light - behind the bulks of the capacitors, stretching into the darkness were more faces, grey splotches of slightly paler shadow, who followed like hypnotized children the shouting and the light as the group followed Tate and their instincts, until Lyle felt like a herder, moving around the ever-growing group of people as they shuffled through the hot darkness. He wondered if this was what it was like after a battle - empty faces obeying without question, with no alternative but to obey. He hoped not: it wasn’t an image he wanted to dwell on.

  They heard the sound of water running past the ladder up from the Machine, before they saw it - the regular splashing sound of a small fountain or ornate wate
rfall. They then felt it, a lapping of water at their feet, a thin oily sheen over the ground on which they walked. Scuttle muttered, ‘Gotta hurry gotta hurry gotta go now!’ and hastened towards the noise. Somehow the faster movement of one person encouraged everybody else to accelerate above the dead man’s shuffle that had characterized the faces drifting in the gloom. When the torchlight fell on the shaft up to the tunnel, its sides caked with sheets of pouring water, the crowd surged forward without any second thought, people pushing and shoving at each other through the darkness until Lyle elbowed his way to the front, shouting, ‘Hey, you lot! Behave! You’re not going anywhere up there unless you’ve got someone who has a bit of light and knows the way, to show you.’

  Then, to Scuttle’s surprise and horror, he turned and said, ‘That’s you, lad.’

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Scuttle.

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ Lyle told him. ‘You look - and smell, may I say - as if you know the tunnels. Get everyone out.’

  ‘Oh, I know that voice ...’ said Tess. ‘It’s that bathtime kinda voice.’

  ‘Teresa . . .’ began Lyle firmly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You go up with Scuttle, Thomas and Tate. You get to the surface, and you make sure everyone gets out.’

  ‘An’ I’m guessin’ as how you’re gonna stay down here till the last person’s up so they don’t get left behind, right?’

  ‘Something like.’

  ‘Well, that’s just stupid!’ she began.

  ‘Tess!’ Lyle looked tired in the torchlight, his skin white, his eyes heavy. ‘There’s something I need to know.’

  She hesitated, mouth moving silently as she worked it out. Then, ‘Oh.’

  ‘What . . .’ began Thomas.

  ‘Make sure everyone gets out,’ repeated Lyle. ‘And hurry. I’ll see you at the top.’

  For a moment, Tess thought about arguing. The moment passed, and she was glad it did. ‘Right,’ she announced, turning to the grey faces in the darkness, ‘you heard the mister, get your lazy ars ... bottoms ... up the ladder chop chop toot sweet!’

  ‘Tout de suite,’ corrected Thomas automatically.

  ‘That too, come on!’

  And to her surprise, they obeyed, like children, following her instructions and climbing up into the gloom of the sewers.

  Thomas had to carry Tate through the sewers, ahead of the shuffling tide of people. The water was too high for Tate to walk through, and it was moving fast. He held Tate under one arm and a burning torch in the other made of chemicals that, if anything, smelt as bad as the sewer itself, while the water tugged and pressed against his knees, and kept rising. He followed the shadow of Scuttle through the dark, and Scuttle followed the rats, an exodus of black bodies scampering and swimming and paddling upwards through the darkness, little black shapes brushing against Thomas’s legs as they paddled by him, bodies gleaming with water clinging oily to their skin. Walking through the water was hard, every step an effort, swinging from the hips to get some kind of momentum going against the pressure pushing back at them. Behind him kept coming the tide of people, pushing and scrambling through the shadows in the dark of the tunnels, their faces frightened and angry and dazed and confused; so many, of such variety, all turned dust-white. And still the water kept rising, above the knees now, pushing against his thighs as he waded forward, straining to keep going, the top of the water scummy with dead things and grease driven up from the bottom of the sewer. The ground beneath his feet was unsteady too: Tess kept slipping on patches of slime and pitching into the water. Thomas had to grab her, and pull her along with the same hand that held Tate, while ahead Scuttle whispered in a hushed voice that echoed down the tunnel, ‘Gotta get out gotta get out left at the end and run gotta get out!’

  Lyle waited at the bottom of the ladder until every last face had climbed up, and watched them all, and examined every feature, and didn’t see what he was looking for. He waited thirty seconds longer, staring into the darkness, then he called out, ‘If anyone’s still down here . . .’ and stopped himself. If anyone’s still down here . . . what?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and turned and started to climb the ladder, bowing his head against the weight of water sloshing over the side from the sewer above. When he got to the top he had to climb up through waist-high water, clinging to the side of the tunnel for support, ears filled with the rush of it. He struck a match against the wet stones and watched the phosphorus ignite, casting a dull yellow flame. He staggered through the water, pushing and pulling along those people who were running the risk of falling behind, muttering, ‘Come on, just a little bit further,’ although in truth he had no idea how much further it was. The water was cold, which was almost a relief after the stifling heat around the Machine; but after a while it was more than cold, it was a numbness that caused him to shiver and made his already tired limbs even heavier as he struggled to wade onwards.

  Another match guttered and Lyle fumbled in the darkness, lifting above the water line the scant handful of matches he had in an effort to keep them dry. In that moment of darkness towards the end of the line, he heard a splashing, and a voice call out, ‘Can someone help me? Is anyone there?’

  ‘Hold on!’ He managed to isolate just one match, struck it, looked in the darkness and saw a shadow that had somehow managed to fall behind him in the dark, half-bowed over, head nearly touching the water, leaning against a wall for support as if at any second it might break under its own weight. Lyle struggled back towards it, took it by the shoulders and murmured, ‘Come on, we just need to . . .’

  The upward swipe caught him squarely in the throat with the butt of the gun, trailing water as it came up to hit. Lyle, his fall cushioned by the rushing tide, was flung backward, barely managing to keep afloat as his head exploded in pain. His lungs caught fire as every part of his throat tried to constrict all at once. He clawed at his neck and tilted his head back to try to get air, the match falling from his fingers and landing in the water, still burning though beneath its surface, reflecting a dozen strange shimmers on to the walls. Havelock marched down on Lyle, ramming the soaking gun into his chest and hissing, ‘I don’t know if it’ll fire, Horatio, but it will be an interesting test to find out.’

  Lyle wheezed and tried to speak and couldn’t.

  ‘Is it really worth dying so you can save them?’ demanded Havelock.

  Lyle pressed his head back against the tunnel wall and felt the water cold against his middle, and tried to slow his breathing. ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘Then why do it?’ boomed Havelock in the darkness.

  ‘It’s not . . . who the Tseiqin are,’ hissed Lyle, his voice like the dust in his mouth. ‘It’s who I am, who we want to be. More than a war, Augustus. More than this.’

  ‘Fool,’ hissed Havelock. ‘I should let you live so you can see the day that they burn your books.’

  ‘You should let me live for a much better reason than that,’ whispered Lyle.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It isn’t necessary to kill me.’ Havelock hesitated, just for a second. Lyle smiled grimly. ‘Oh, and because there’s someone who’d like to have a word with you.’

  Havelock didn’t seem to understand. So Lin, standing calmly in the rushing waters, tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Hello, you nasty evolutionary specimen, you.’

  Havelock spun round and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Lin’s smile widened, her white teeth shining in the dark. ‘I do believe that your weapon is soggy. Good word, “soggy”; should be used more often. As for that nasty magnetic field your Machine was giving off . . .’ she sighed and shook her head. ‘Sometimes I have to remind myself of the beauty of the polka, if I want to recall humanity’s good side.’

  Havelock swung the gun towards Lin’s face. She caught his arm by the wrist and twisted it easily, bending him round and back until his fingers opened and the gun flopped into the water. She looked at Lyle and said, as the match finally guttered out, ‘Is there anything in parti
cular you want done, Mister Lyle?’

  Lyle shook his head, and felt stupid; but Lin saw well enough. She smiled and turned to Augustus Havelock. ‘Now, sir,’ she said, ‘your death is a necessary one. But then . . .’ She drew in a long sigh of contemplation. ‘All deaths are necessary deaths, all people must age and decay and make stupid mistakes that really are wince-making to contemplate, and die. You will die, Mr Havelock, and I will die, and your people shall die, and my people shall die, and the empire will fade and ideas will fade and in a hundred years people will look back on you, and their strongest impression will be that you wore a funny kind of hat. Your death is necessary, and mine is necessary, and Lyle’s is necessary so that, frankly, we can all move on with life and change and learn and be ourselves, unique to our own time and place and ideals and so on and so forth. Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, Miss Lin.’

  ‘I imagine you would have used shorter words,’ she said nicely.

  ‘You play with thoughts, Miss Lin. It’s just a difference.’ Lyle’s voice, quiet in the darkness, asking a question.

  Lin sighed, switching her attention. ‘Mr Havelock, you are lucky; perhaps, just for today, life has more to offer than its conclusion. ’

  And though it was dark, Augustus Havelock looked up and saw nothing but bright green eyes, filling his world, filling his thoughts, and could hear nothing but a voice like wind chimes, and knew only that he would do anything for those eyes, because they were beautiful.

  In the dead of night, just south of Piccadilly Circus, something goes bump.

  A cat squeals and runs away, as much from the smell as anything else.