Fiendish Schemes

by K. W. Jeter

  “Dower . . .” A whisper touched lightly upon my senses. “Over here—”

  Either my recent misadventures, compounded by the truncheon’s impact, had completely disarranged my reason—or I had arrived in some more fortuitous mode of existence, in which to merely wish something was the same as having it delivered upon the proverbial silver platter. For upon looking up toward the apparent source of what I had first believed to be an auditory hallucination, I beheld the very face of my tormentor, peering in at me through the cell door’s iron-barred window.

  “Stonebrake . . .”

  “Keep it down, man.” In the dim light afforded by the corridor’s lantern, I saw him turn his face away, then look back toward me. “We don’t want them to overhear us.”

  Of whom he spoke was but one more mystery laid upon the others in towering proportion. I squinted in his direction, attempting to ascertain beyond doubt that he was of actual substance and not a figure conjured from my disordered imagination.

  “That being the case . . .” I decided to accept the man’s existence on a provisional basis. “Perhaps it would be better if we did not speak at all. What with there being few pleasantries we could exchange at the moment, which would be worth whatever risk it is you speak of.”

  “Are you feeling quite all right?” Stonebrake pressed his face closer to the bars, studying me with some apparent perplexity. “You seem unnaturally calm. I confess that I had anticipated some ill temper on your part—given the circumstances.”

  “Why should I be angry?” I rose from the bunk and stepped to the door, bringing my face as close as possible to his. “I’m sure it’s all some sort of misunderstanding. And yes, you’re right: we do need to keep our voices down.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way toward me. . . .”

  So relieved was Stonebrake, he did not notice my reaching through the bars at the side of the aperture.

  “And yes, it is a misunderstanding. Of a sort—”

  His words were cut off by the simple fact of my suddenly grasping the back of his head and, with as much violence as I was capable, slamming his face against the bars.

  “Miscreant!” To the best of my recall, I spoke not that word but one of a cruder variety, albeit of approximately the same meaning. “Do you really imagine me so foolish as to listen once more to you? Whatever further scheme you might be hatching, the chances of my being inveigled into it are nil.” Having taken him by surprise, I was able to bring his face sharply against the bars again. A satisfying blossom of red burst from one nostril. “It’s not as if your previous ones have worked out so wonderfully, is it?”

  “For God’s sake, leave off—” He managed to extricate himself from my grasp. “Of what do you imagine that you have to complain?”

  “Complain? I’ll give you complain.” Reaching through the bars to the full extent of my arm, I futilely attempted to once more ensnare his head. “I’m in prison—or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Technically, not so.” Stonebrake stanched his bleeding nose with a pocket handkerchief. “One can only be imprisoned upon a successful prosecution by the state—and so far, you haven’t even had formal charges laid against you.”

  “So this is not prison?” I glanced around my bleak confines, then back to him. “I must confess, then, that whatever it is, I find the difference between it and actual prison to be vanishingly small.”

  “A mere matter of perception.” Stonebrake examined the bloodied cloth in his hand, then applied it to his nose again. “It only seems to be that way to you. In fact, you are housed several levels below the Houses of Parliament, in the ancient cellars of Westminster Palace. That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “I’d be freer to see it so congenially, if I were standing where you are. Rather than in here.”

  “Soon enough,” he replied, “you won’t be where you currently are. That is why we need to talk, while there is time.”

  “Upon further reflection, perhaps I would prefer to remain where I am.” Our brief altercation, while initially gratifying, had left me both physically exhausted and emotionally enervated. “I can only imagine that whatever place to which I might be spirited would somehow be even worse than this. It’s not exactly as if you possess a shining history in this regard.”

  “I assure you, Dower, there are worse places—”

  “You would know.”

  “And I am endeavouring to save you from them.”

  “By handing me over to the police?” I gazed at him in astonishment. “On whatever trumped-up pretext you related to them? Please—spare me any further kindnesses on your part.”

  “You fret yourself needlessly,” said Stonebrake. “Your arrest was nothing.”

  “A statement easily made by you.” I rubbed the back of my own head, feeling the tender knot that the constable’s truncheon had raised there. “I assure you, it felt substantial at the moment.”

  “Do move on, Dower. It was no more than was necessary. All part of a greater plan.”

  “Everything is, according to you. Plans within plans, within schemes, all without apparent end.”

  “Yes, yes; whatever you say.” He spoke with even more apparent haste. “This is hardly the occasion for such petty bickering. If you’d but listen to me, you’d realize that you are in nearly as grave a danger as I am.”

  “As you are?” An involuntary laugh escaped from me. “You might recall that I’m the one in prison—or whatever this is, that my mind is supposed to be so much more at ease about.”

  “Try to keep some perspective on the matter, Dower. You are at risk, at the most, of being summarily executed.”

  “Good God.” I felt the blood drain from my face, as tepid water rushes downward when a bathtub plug is removed. “Is that likely?”

  “There’s a good possibility,” Stonebrake allowed. “For our schemes to advance, we needed to set forth on admittedly treacherous ground. But do bear in mind, that if such were to happen—and I imagine that a hastily convened military firing squad would be the probable arrangement along those lines—all you would endure would be that demise, and by virtually the same means, that not too long ago you were attempting to engineer for yourself. Whereas if our joint endeavours were indeed to run aground, I would have all my hopes and dreams of wealth dashed to pieces.”

  “Yes, of course. How selfish of me not to regard the state of your bank account as the greatest good to be achieved in this world. Obviously, my life pales in comparison.”

  My sarcasm had no apparent effect on him; he might not even have perceived it. For myself, I was increasingly annoyed by having my earlier attempts at self-destruction constantly thrown in my face as a debating point. Having once engaged in that sort of activity, it would seem that one is henceforth at a disadvantage in negotiation with others. If Stonebrake were typical in this regard—and I had no reason to believe he wasn’t—the assumption is made that one has little or no interest in avoiding a volley of bullets into one’s vital organs. This, I believe, is essentially a self- serving position on the part of not just someone such as Stonebrake, but the population in general.

  “I’m glad you see it that way.” Something unseen rattled inside the door as Stonebrake spoke. “A helpful attitude will facilitate what we so urgently need to do.”

  To my further amazement, the cell door swung inward, creaking on its ancient hinges as it did so. Revealed through the opened doorway was the great iron key that Stonebrake held in his grasp.

  “Thank God!” I sprang to my feet. “Disregard whichever of my previous comments you choose. Let us make haste—”

  “Not so quickly.” Stonebrake halted my forward progress with a hand against my chest. “You must remain here a while longer.”

  “Pardon me?” I blinked in confusion. “But—you said a moment ago—that there were others on their way here.” I had assumed he meant my gaolers or others I had no wish to encounter. “Surely you came to rescue me from them.”

  “Actually, not.” With greater
force, he pushed me back from the cell’s doorway. “That’s not part of the plan—”

  “Bugger your plan.” My emotions had been heightened by the prospect of fleeing from the spot; to have that prospect seemingly snatched away was more than I could endure. “I’m entirely comfortable with the notion of your staying here, if you so choose. I’m for taking to my heels—”

  “Don’t be a fool.” His restraining hand remained where it was. “Highly unlikely that you’d be able to find your way out of these facilities.”

  “I’m willing to take the chance. Let me go—”

  “And destroy our chances of achieving our goal and its attendant wealth? I think not. Everything now depends upon your utter coöperation, Dower.”

  “More’s the pity, then.” I frantically attempted to get around the man, but he successfully blocked all access to the cell’s exit. “This might be a good time to dissolve our partnership—”

  “Too late for that.” Stonebrake clapped his hands to my shoulders and roughly shoved me back down upon the narrow bunk. “Are you unconvinced as to the severity of the attentions you might soon be forced to endure? Think well; consider your situation here.”

  My companion—for so he still seemed to be, whether I wished it or not—had made a valid point. But it was one that was already uppermost in my thoughts. Even before the steam-powered transformation of British society, dire rumours of what some would term enhanced interrogation techniques had circulated through the general populace. Dreadful accounts were whispered of the zeal expressed by certain police specialists in getting information, confessions, whatever they desired, from those who wound up in cells exactly like the one in which I had found myself. A repeated application of a truncheon was the least I had to worry about.

  “I alone,” continued Stonebrake, “can save you from that fate.”

  “Save me?” His words made no sense. “You were the one who put me here.”

  “Merely part of the—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” I raised a hand to prevent him from uttering further along those lines. “These diabolically unending plans of yours.” I wearily shook my head. “Would that I had never heard the slightest fragment of them.”

  “Bear with me but a while longer, Dower, and you will be grateful that you did.”

  “I rather doubt it. But at the moment, I again seem to have little choice about it.”

  “Exactly so. Such is the beginning of wisdom on your part.” Stonebrake turned his attention away from me and toward the cell door. We both heard some ominously clanging noises, metal upon metal, echoing distantly through the corridor beyond. Upon darting there, he quickly glanced about in either direction outside the cell, then returned and sat down beside me on the bunk. “We have but a few moments. Listen carefully—”

  “To you? That was how I got into these troubles, to begin with.”

  “Quiet. I am about to impart to you a full elucidation of your current predicament.”

  “Pardon my skepticism. But I’ve heard similar preambles from you before now.”

  “First attend to my words, then judge.” Stonebrake leaned close toward me in order to impart his confidences. “It might have indeed been this city’s Metropolitan Police who arrested you. And yes, before you make some self-pitying comment, it was indeed upon my information that they did so. But that was all—”

  “Yes, of course. The plan. Pray continue.”

  “If you will refrain from interruption.” Stonebrake grasped my arm, tightly squeezing it. “As I say, the Metropolitan Police were the agents who brought about your confinement here. But you are not in their hands. These premises are not controlled by them, but by another organization. One of which you have in all likelihood been ignorant until this moment, but of which you should be much more concerned.”

  “Who would that be?”

  He brought his whisper close to my ear, as though imparting the name of something so dreadful as to be scarce spoken aloud. “Her Majesty’s Department,” he said, “of Technography and Statistics.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Exactly. I told you that the chances of your having done so were slight. Indeed, in this respect, you are aligned with the majority of the population. For while they are an official organ of the British government, the existence is a secret closely kept. Those aware of this agency are either affiliated with it in some manner, thus keeping their silence as a way of facilitating its operations—or they are opposed to it. And seek to keep themselves from being brought to its scrutiny.”

  “I expect I would have done the same,” I said, “whether or not I had known who they were. Not that I would have had reason to be afraid of such an innocuously designated institution, but just as a matter of general principles.”

  “And that’s exactly where you would’ve gone wrong, Dower. For while you might evince little knowledge or interest in the Department, you may be assured that its officials have a considerable dossier of information concerning yourself. Which they have of course acquired as a result of their keen curiosity about your affairs.”

  “Why so? I would have thought I had outlived any possible notoriety.”

  “Again, you go wrong. And you do so by ignoring the most obvious reasons for your being a subject of official interest.”

  A familiar realization returned to my mind. “I suspect this has much to do with my father. And his less respectable activities.”

  “Exactly so,” said Stonebrake. “As it has been in many situations in your life. But in this particular instance, your familial predecessor connects precisely with the official portfolio of the Department of Technography and Statistics. Indeed, one might say that the Department and its agents exist in their present configuration solely as a result of your father and his inventions.”

  “Present configuration? What were they before?”

  “Originally, the Department was much less intimidating in its functions. Then it was known as the Department of Topography and Statistics. As such, it was merely the intelligence-gathering section of the British army during the late Crimean War. More dull than sinister, but worthily so. The Department mainly produced the various maps by which Lord Cardigan and his officers directed their troops in one direction or another, chasing various Russian military forces about that grim territory.”

  “Without notable success, of course.” Even in my isolated rural village, I had heard tell of the disastrous results of the Light Brigade’s suicidal charge, as well as other incidents indicating vast befuddlement at the army’s senior levels.

  “Hardly the Department’s fault,” noted Stonebrake. “Its maps were punctiliously correct to the slightest detail. As was also the various statistical information it gathered—number of enemy troops, composition of armaments, all that sort of thing. What Cardigan and the rest of those well-born idiots did with the data is entirely another matter.”

  “What does all that have to do with my father? Or me, for that matter?”

  “Exactly this,” said Stonebrake. “The general disappointment in the army’s conduct in the Crimean Peninsula, and the unhappy results thereof, extended to such agencies as the Department of Topography and Statistics as well, however suitably they might have accomplished their own particular missions. Such being the case, there was little opposition when our new Prime Minister, Mrs. Fletcher, and her scurrying subordinates saw fit to alter both the Department’s name and the uses to which the Department is put. Out goes inoffensive and moderately useful Topography, in comes Technography, much more secretive—and for Mrs. Fletcher’s purposes, much more useful. An individual as powerful and understandably given to endless suspicions as she is, naturally feels compelled to keep an eye upon anything that presents a threat to the maintenance of her position. And of course, your father’s devices fall under that purview.”

  “I scarcely see the cause for her worries.” I gave a dismissive shrug, as well as I could given Stonebrake’s grasp upon my arm. “She already has most of them under
her control, doesn’t she? Surely the Prime Minister, and especially one as intimidating as her, has access to all the ware houses of the British Museum and wherever else all those devices are presently stored.”

  “It’s the ones she doesn’t have under her thumb—the ones still out in the wild, as it were—that concern Mrs. Fletcher. They have concerned her for a great deal of time, and well before the initiation of those schemes into which I have brought you. And it’s not just the devices conceived and created by your father that weigh upon her mind. He was of that generation of scientist and artisan almost supernaturally capable in everything they undertook. Who knows what other inventions and devices they might have left behind, of unknown but threatening potential? Even if your father’s creations were the most powerful in their effects, the others are still worrisome to one such as Mrs. Fletcher. Her enemies—of which she still has a considerable number, despite having eliminated many of them—might turn anything against her. Or so she believes.”

  “Ah.” The etymology of the previously unfamiliar word became clear to me. “Thus Technography—the description and evaluation of that landscape of scientific creation, rather than the Earth’s cloddish terrain.”

  “Exactly so, Dower. From a cobweb-shrouded gaggle of dronesome mapmakers, the Department has been transformed and enlarged into a network of spies, all answering directly to Mrs. Fletcher as they comb all of England’s cities and countryside. They keep track of and report on every past remnant of invention, or current scientific and technological activity in Britain—official or amateur, public or secretive, large or small. As you might well imagine, such is a considerable enterprise, and only succeeds in its operations by the most daunting ruthlessness.”

  “And of course . . .” Another realization formed inside my thoughts. “Your concern is that this so-called Department of Topography and Statistics might already have found and secreted away that device which you and associates have been so eager to locate. To wit, my father’s Vox Universalis.”