"What do you mean? Dr Wilde..." but the rest of Nash's words were drowned out by the roar of engines. The appalled young man looked up, his face paling still further as he took in the enormity of the airship above him.
There was the clatter of metal on stone as a rope ladder was dropped down, a black-garbed soldier visible in the open hatchway of the docking port above. As the ladder swept past him, the end of it trailing across the lead panes of the roof, Dr Wilde put one arm between a pair of rungs, a foot on another and held on as the airship moved on over the Tower keep.
With the doctor on board, the zeppelin began to rise. Nash looked on in disbelief as it climbed five, ten, fifteen feet. Then the trailing end of the ladder was in front of him and, without really thinking about what he was doing, he grabbed hold.
"I can't be a party to this!" he screamed into the rushing air over the deafening roar of the engines. Dr Wilde ignored him - probably not even aware of the insane actions of his underling - and continued to climb as the airship rose higher.
Not daring to look down, the downwash of the zeppelin's engines forcing him to narrow his eyes, Nash began to climb. He caught up with Wilde at last and clamped a hand around his ankle.
Then the doctor knew he was there and was not pleased by the discovery. "What are you doing, you idiot?" Wilde shouted through the mask, shaking his leg violently. But Nash would not budge willingly. In fact, now that he had caught up with Wilde, he didn't know what to do next.
Clinging on to the rung before him with both hands, Dr Wilde risked lifting a foot off the ladder. Taking the strain with his arms he kicked out at the poor man beneath him.
"Get off!" he screamed as the heel of his shoe slammed into his assistant's cheek. "Get off!" He struck out again.
Nash's nose broke with a wet crack and he reeled, his vision blurring. His grip on the doctor's ankle slackened.
"Get! Off!"
Wilde's foot slammed down on the fingers of Nash's hand and the man let go. His intentions had been insanely courageous, but ultimately suicidal.
No scream escaped his lips as, only barely conscious, Abelard Nash dropped one hundred and thirty feet, only just missing the crenulations of the White Tower. The vaporous billows of the Galapagos serum swallowed his body and deadened the sound of his impact on the cobbles below.
Amazingly the fall did not kill the valiant, yet wretched, man instantly. Even as the de-evolved things that had once been the criminal inhabitants of the Tower of London tore his broken body apart, Abelard Nash was already beginning to resemble something less than human himself.
And all the while the bombs continued to fall. Only someone on board the airship was getting his eye in now.
A fourth bomb smashed into the roof of the Bloody Tower checkpoint, obliterating it entirely in a sheet of flame and concussive white noise. A fifth device thudded into the cobbled alleyway of Mint Street and remained there for a moment, buried up to its mid-line in the foundations of the roadway, before detonating seconds later. A sixth bomb demolished the riverside wall of Water Lane.
The seventh device shunted out through the belly of the gondola missed the gatehouse of the Byward Tower but hit the ground in the culvert beneath the bridge connecting the structure to the outer Middle Tower. The explosion brought down part of the bridge and shattered the foundations of Byward, the tower falling in on itself and breaching the outer defences of the facility.
Somewhere in the distance the wails of approaching emergency vehicles could be heard, although what they would be able to do to help now was anybody's guess. The greatest concentration of emergency services was on standby around Hyde Park and the surrounding streets that night. Those few that would be spared to rush to the beleaguered Tower would be too little and too late to contain the situation.
With a great hooting and caterwauling Dr Wilde's test subjects - no longer men but changed into something more degenerate and primitive - broke free of their prison. The brutal ape-like creatures that emerged from the shattered gatehouse of the Middle Tower wore the garb of prisoners and prison officers alike, burst and torn by the warping bodies trapped within them.
A hairy beast at the front of the brawling pack - stripped to the waist with the faded blue tattoo of a death's-head just visible beneath the thick matting of orange fur covering its torso - rose up on its hind legs and bellowed its savage intent at the sprawling capital. A small red light winking on the iron collar fastened around its neck, with a bellow of primeval fury, the apeman with the shark-like teeth led the rambling degenerate tribe west and into the city.
The Silver Phantom rounded the corner of the Tower and sped away along Byward Road. Having cleared the gap between the separating sections of the bridge and smashed through the barriers on the other side, the car and its three jolted passengers had pulled up outside the Tower as the zeppelin passed over the prison complex.
It had been immediately apparent that there was nothing they could do that would make any real difference to the catastrophe engulfing the prison. Instead they pulled away, Ulysses seizing the opportunity to get ahead and warn the authorities at Hyde Park of the impending danger. Then, suddenly, he had a novel idea.
"Nimrod, stop the car!" he commanded. His manservant reacted in an instant, slamming on the brakes hard.
The Phantom slewed to a halt on Byward Street, west of the Tower, a steam-powered vegetable delivery van honking its horn as Nimrod blocked the road. Ulysses leapt out and ran round to the boot of the car.
"Sir, is this really the time?" Nimrod shouted from the driver's window.
Simeon was bouncing up and down on the back seat in unrestrained excitement.
Ulysses had opened the boot and was rummaging through the eclectic mix of objects that cluttered the back of his car.
"Trying to win us an advantage," Ulysses called back, tugging aside a tarpaulin and rooting around in the compartment next to the spare wheel.
The airship was heading towards their position now, pulling away from the Tower as it continued on its inexorable journey westwards across the capital.
"Sir, I don't think we have anything that can bring down a zeppelin," Nimrod stated with grim finality.
"I'm not planning on bringing it down." He said, and then he found what he was looking for. "Yes! I knew that this was still in here!" he lifted out a heavy metal cylinder.
"Oh no, sir, you don't mean..."
"Look, don't worry about me," Ulysses said, slamming the boot shut and flashing Nimrod a devilish grin. "I've told you before; I'm making this up as I go along. You just worry about getting to Hyde Park before that dirigible does. Find Allardyce, or whoever's in charge there. Warn him. Tell him the Queen is in danger. Here," he said reaching into a jacket pocket and taking out a slim leather card case. "You'll probably need this. Now go!"
Nimrod didn't question the command but, trusting to his employer's instincts, drove off at speed, leaving a fumy cloud of exhaust in his wake.
With Nimrod, Simeon and the Phantom speeding away in the direction of Hyde Park and the festivities being held there, and with the armoured zeppelin of the Darwinian Dawn heading towards him at cruising speed, Ulysses secured his cane in the belt of his trousers before hefting the dull grey barrel of the launcher onto his shoulder. Jerking his shoulders to adjust its position, he sighted the approaching airship.
Ulysses closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Letting the breath out again in a controlled manner, he focused. It was a conscious effort to slow his heart rate and calm his adrenalin-agitated system, a technique he had learnt from the monks of Shangri-La. All the while his extra-sensory awareness screamed, his heightened fight or flight response setting every nerve ending tingling, trying to prepare him for whatever might befall him next.
Ulysses had the aft section of the airship's gondola caught in the cross hairs.
"Steady," he told himself, letting the dirigible come even closer still. "Steady."
He tracked a spot on the gondola's hull, moving with it, until the airship was dir
ectly above him. And only then did he pull the trigger.
With a firework whoosh the rocket-grapple launched, the claw hurtling skyward, a high-tensile cable uncoiling from the chamber behind it in a spinning whirl. Through the cross hairs of the launcher's sights, Ulysses watched as the grapple struck the side of the gondola and snagged around an engine mounting, locking shut like a gin-trap.
With the grapple locked tight, the winding mechanism inside the launcher kicked in, motor screaming as it wound in the slack on the cable. Hanging onto the launcher handle, muscles tensed, Ulysses' feet left the ground and the breath was snatched from his lungs as he was carried upwards into the smoggy London night sky. The winch continued to wind him in as the zeppelin continued on its inexorable flight across the capital towards Hyde Park and the downfall of the British Empire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
State of Emergency
The tornado howl of the engine in his ears, Ulysses clung on as the grapple-winch wound in the last few feet of cable bringing him within reach of one of the gondola's landing struts. Buffeted by the wind, with London spread out below him like an illuminated street map, he reached up with his left hand and grasped hold of the strut. Now, how was he to get inside?
Ulysses looked around him, scanning the exterior of the armoured gondola for an easy access point. An arm's reach away, in front of the undercarriage was an emergency release handle.
Adjusting his grip around the landing strut, his eardrums aching at the pressure of the whirling propeller roar, he released the grapple-launcher and swung himself under the hull of the gondola, grabbing hold of the pull-release. He pulled the handle away from the riveted hull and, with a hiss of escaping air, a panel swung open.
He hung there for a moment, feeling a twinge in his right shoulder, the wind whipping around him, tugging at his jacket, as he considered the precipitous drop beneath him. Then, with a supreme effort, he swung out beneath the gondola, letting go of the landing strut and grasped the lip of the open hatchway. Fingertips scrabbling for a better purchase, he seized hold of a cable bundle, just as the sweaty fingers of his left hand lost their grip on the release handle. He winced, gritting his teeth against the pain flaring in his right shoulder and, for a moment, Ulysses swung from the open hatchway by one arm, the fatal drop waiting below him.
Then, at last, his left hand found a hold and he hauled himself up into the belly of the gondola, puling the hatch shut after him.
Crouched next to the access panel, Ulysses quickly took in the criss-crossing girders ahead and behind him. He was in some kind of service and maintenance sub-deck. Knotted cabling ran the length of the space and the roof was too low for him to stand upright.
Inside the roar of the engines became a background thrumming that he could feel vibrating through his body. The tight space was hot with the smell of rubber glue and oil. To his right a metal ladder led up to a hatch. This, he deduced, must lead into the main body of the airship's gondola carriage. He listened at the hatchway, trying to filter out the background noise of the engines. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary so, pistol in hand, he opened the hatch. Poking his head through he found himself looking at a narrow corridor, with a wheel-locked door at the far end. Without further hesitation, Ulysses pulled himself up and into the main body of the zeppelin.
His sixth sense flared even as he heard the metallic click of a door opening.
Inspector Maurice Allardyce surveyed the great and the good of the empire of Magna Britannia. Minor royalty, nobility, politicians, philosophers, academics, scientists, industrialists, philanthropists and self-made millionaires of one kind or another, all gathered together under the glass roof in the second Crystal Palace.
The Bolshevik in him wanted to rise up and overthrow the bourgeoisie oppressor. This part of him despised them all. In his eyes they had all got to where there were, and continued to enjoy the position they were in, by taking advantage of the downtrodden working classes. Men like that were the bane of his life, just like Ulysses Quicksilver had been. Allardyce prided himself on being a 'common man', rising from a humble working class background, his father a navvy at the cavorite works at Greenwich, to become an Inspector of Her Majesty's Metropolitan Police. He had not taken advantage of anyone to get where he was today.
But cut Maurice Allardyce in half and you would have seen the words 'Royalist' and 'Patriot' running right the way through. Again, it was Allardyce's working class roots that had bred in him a fierce devotion to the crowned head of Magna Britannia. He had been brought up to respect the throne of England and all that it stood for even though, ironically, it was the House of Hanover that had taken advantage of and kept entire nations - and now most of the globe - downtrodden beneath its colossal heel. But then Allardyce's logic gave up long before ever reaching such conclusions. He liked to keep things simple - black and white, right and wrong - which was one of the reasons why he had become a policeman and another reason why he despised men like Ulysses Quicksilver.
As a servant of Her Majesty's police force it was his duty to protect the Queen and all Her Majesty's guests. On this most grand and important of occasions, the responsibility for seeing that the monarch came to no harm had been laid directly upon him. When he had been given the news of this latest assignment he had almost burst with pride.
Pride that he felt now as he looked across the vast expanse of the Crystal Palace's interior. It was bedecked with glittering chandeliers strung with the lights of thousands of candles, and was laid end to end with tables covered with miles of cloth, hundreds of floral arrangements, ice sculptures, and thousands of pieces of cutlery and crockery. All this to feed twelve hundred guests at a gala dinner that was the culmination of a day of empire-wide festivities, parades and celebrations. In London alone these had included a fly-by by Her Majesty's Royal Airship The Empress, and the unveiling of the colossal statue of Britannia. Ninety feet tall and wearing draped white robes with her traditional regalia of Corinthian helmet, trident, spear and Union flag-bearing the hoplon shield, this striking statue had been designed by the world-renowned Italian sculptor and artist Eduardo Michelangelo.
As he was checking on the positions of the Peeler-drones and their human counterparts stationed around the perimeter of the palatial dining room, Inspector Allardyce became aware of the commotion halfway down the hall to his right. The guests seated close to this spot were turning round in confusion and annoyance. Swearing like the navvy's son he was Allardyce hurried to intercept the constable-droid now approaching him. The Peeler-drone's black carapace had been polished especially for the occasion to give it that 'just off the production line' look.
"What is going on, Palmerston?" Allardyce demanded.
"Is that Allardyce?" an imposing, grey-haired older man was asking as he pushed his way out from behind the constable-droid. "It is imperative that I speak with you, sir."
"And who the bloody hell is this? Did you let him in here? What's wrong with you? Is your Babbage unit on the blink, you useless piece of scrap?"
"I have a dire warning to impart, Inspector," the man was insisting. He was wearing an outfit befitting a gentleman's butler.
"How did you get in here?" Allardyce demanded. The butler flipped open a leather cardholder. "You're not sodding Ulysses Quicksilver that's for sure!"
"No, inspector. My name is Nimrod."
"Somebody take that off him at once!" Allardyce snapped. No one had thought to revoke Ulysses' security clearance since his widely reported demise, and the slowly chugging administrative machine was yet to deal with the aberration.
As a Peeler-drone moved to obey, something that looked like a gorilla in a dinner jacket flung out an arm and lifted Constable Palmerston off the ground, one meaty hand gripping the robot's neck.
"And what the bloody hell is that?" Allardyce shrieked, pointing at the man-beast lurking at Nimrod's shoulder. Fully half the diners were looking in the direction of the rumpus now.
"He," Nimrod stated pointedly, "is my associa
te, Simeon." Curiously, the Neanderthal didn't look entirely out of place in his black suit, shirt and tie.
"And for the umpteenth time, who exactly are you, Mr Nimrod?"
"I am Mr Quicksilver's personal manservant."
"Well, you are incredibly poorly informed for someone who was once in that dandy's employ. Hadn't you heard? Quicksilver's dead!"
"Look, we haven't got time for this, Inspector. The queen is in terrible danger. There has been a mass breakout from the Tower."
"The Tower? Are you mad as well as stupid? That's a maximum-security facility. The only way anyone could break out of there would be if someone on the outside blasted a hole in the wall."
"Such as someone with a zeppelin carrying a payload of explosives like the ones that you and your men recovered from the Underground, you mean?"
Doubt suddenly seized hold of Allardyce then.
"Mr Nimrod, you are under arrest. Constable Palmerston, would you..."
"Is there a... problem, Inspector?"
Allardyce froze, hearing the icily calm voice behind him. He turned, suddenly flustered. "No, Prime Minister, no problem at all."
Uriah Wormwood peered down his nose at Allardyce from behind steepling, porcelain-fine fingers and arched a quizzical eyebrow in the Neanderthal's direction. "Only her majesty is preparing to address her loyal subjects."
"Yes, Mr Wormwood sir, of course, sir. I was just about to have this felon and his monkey escorted from the premises."
"Very good, Inspector. Carry on."
"Prime Minister!" the belligerent butler suddenly shouted, the carefully judged tone of his voice cutting through the hubbub of the excited diners. "Mr Wormwood, sir! I have a message from Mr Ulysses Quicksilver."
The Prime Minister suddenly froze and then turned quick as a striking snake.
"What message?" he asked in an icy hiss that dropped even a few degrees more.
"Her Majesty is in terrible danger, sir. The Darwinian Dawn are on their way here now in an armoured airship having engineered the release of the maniacs from the Tower of London. They also have a payload of explosives like those used in their earlier bombing campaigns, only ten times more powerful. You have to get the Queen to safety, sir!"
Pax Britannia: Unnatural History Page 22
