Archangel (A Ghosts of London Novel)

by Amy Cross

  “A few cosmetic changes, maybe,” Robinson replied, “but the changes made to this man go much deeper. Where do you think all the flames came from?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but no answer popped into her head.

  “Energy,” he continued. “Vast amounts of energy, released from deep within the human body. Hydrogen, carbon... Katie, do you have any idea how much energy is stored in the average person? Certainly a lot more than gets expressed during a lifespan. Normally there's no way to get most of it out, of course, not even if you could use some kind of fusion technique, but on a conservative level I'd say the average person contains enough energy to power a large country for a decade. Not bad, huh?”

  “That sounds improbable,” Katie said cautiously.

  “Look it up,” he replied, “it's true. And in the case of this poor individual, someone seems to have found a way to vent that energy. Even a brief, tiny burst would have been enough to create the kind of inferno you witnessed in the lock-up.” He paused for a moment. “The bone,” he added finally. “It must be the bone.”

  “Which bone?”

  “The one I sent you to put in the lock-up, the one this poor individual seemed to be drawn to.” He turned to her. “There are scores of supposed angel bones in the world, and several of them have gone missing over the years. It's almost as if someone has been gathering them up so they can...” He paused again, as if his mind was racing with the possibilities. Finally, a faint smile crossed his lips. “That's insane,” he said after a moment.

  “What is?”

  “They're trying to reverse-engineer an angel. They're using the bones as a starting point, and they're trying to turn ordinary people into angels.”

  “But angels don't exist,” she pointed out. “You said that. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So you must be wrong.”

  “I didn't say they were successfully reverse-engineering angels,” he replied, “I said they were trying, and they are. This poor man is just the latest example. It's a form of alchemy, really... Turning a base material into gold, except that in this case the base material is the human body and the gold is...”

  His voice trailed off as he made his way around the desk and approach the charred body.

  “You beautiful thing,” he said finally. “You're definitely not an angel, but whatever you are, you're a beautiful, beautiful creation.”

  “But this is impossible,” Katie said cautiously. “You said it yourself, there's -”

  “Lost science,” he replied, turning to her. “It's a simple enough explanation. The whole reason I established the Academy of Lost Science is to investigate scientific advances that were made and then forgotten. People always assume science goes in a straight line, that scientific discoveries stick around after they've been made, but sometimes things are discovered and then forgotten, no matter how wonderful and fantastic they might be. They're abandoned, or someone actively tries to suppress them for fear of what might happen to the world. Whoever did all of these things to this man, they've been around since at least 1885, because that's when the first report of something like this came out.”

  “So it's not a person doing it?” Katie asked. “It's... What, an organization?”

  “One with huge resources,” he continued. “It's Harrington Cole all over again.”

  “Who?”

  He paused for a moment, as if his mind was elsewhere. “Harrington Cole,” he said finally, “was a priest who worked in some of the lower ministries of this city during the mid-Victorian era. We're talking a century and a half ago. He seemed like a charlatan, but in actual fact he genuinely believe in everything he was peddling. The man was desperate, but he got by until one day his three daughters died, all at once in a fire while he was out spreading the word of God. His wife was badly injured and died a few days later.”

  “That's horrible,” Katie replied.

  “The incident destroyed his faith in God,” Robinson continued. “He was completely wrecked, and he turned to drink for a while, but then he got involved with some people who were conducting various experiments. This was the nineteenth century, you must remember, so their methods were somewhat basic, but still...” He paused again. “They were trying to create angels, and Harrington Cole became one of their biggest supporters. Eventually the other members of the team fell away, but Cole kept pushing on, using every penny he could get his hands on. He became an expert in several areas of biochemistry, and some of his ideas were way ahead of their time. And then one day, he was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Vanished into thin air. No-one was ever able to find him again, and most of his scientific papers had been donated to a rather secretive organization that has kept them under lock-and-key ever since. All this business over the past day, however, makes me wonder if someone has managed to get hold of those papers so they can continue Harrington Cole's work.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Basic human curiosity? Or maybe something more sinister. Maybe they learned about Cole's experiments and decided they wanted to resurrect them in the modern age with the latest technology. I can see how a certain type of megalomaniac might be attracted by such a thing, sadly. It's just the way humans tend to be. Still, they must have something in mind, some kind of endgame. What could someone possibly want with an angel?”

  “An army?”

  She suggested.

  “That's one possibility. Or maybe a proof of concept. Maybe they just want to -”

  Hearing a beep from the phone on the counter, he looked over and stared at the device for a moment.

  “My God,” he muttered, hurrying across the room and grabbing the phone. Swiping the screen, he stared in horror. “Oh... Wow...”

  “What is it?” Katie asked. “Robinson? What's wrong?”

  “Nothing's wrong,” he replied, turning to her. “Milhouse got a match on his dating service. Do you think he's okay about dating a guy with a swastika tattoo?”

  ***

  “I've been looking for you!”

  Sighing, Milhouse set the papers down on his desk before turning to see Wagoner marching across the office, with two of his most loyal goons in close pursuit. He could immediately tell that his boss was on the warpath and that, as usual, he was going to be on the receiving end of a volley of angry words. Since he was well known as the one member of the force who could actually tolerate and handle Robinson, Milhouse was very much used to being called out by anyone who was looking for a convenient punching bag.

  “Afternoon, Sir,” Milhouse began, “I was wondering when I'd get the pleasure of -”

  “Heard from your pal, have you?”

  “My pal, Sir? I'm pretty sure I haven't got any pals. It's a sad life, isn't it?”

  “You know damn well who I mean.” Grabbing the papers from Milhouse's desk, Wagoner rifled through them for a moment before tossing them back down. “I've been asking around, Inspector Milhouse, and it seems the details of our little chat a few months ago have slipped your mind.”

  “If you mean Robinson -”

  “You know damn well that I mean Robinson. The man is a liability and a menace, and I've told you time and again that he's not to be allowed within one hundred feet of any police investigation. I made it clear that I consider him to be a public danger and a security threat!”

  “But -”

  “So what the hell was he doing poking around at the train station earlier?” Wagoner continued. “And don't even try to deny it again. He might have slipped away before I set eyes on him, but I've got several eyewitnesses who saw him plain as day. If he disturbed the evidence or compromised the crime scene in any way -”

  “He didn't, Sir.”

  “Did you tell him what was happening?”

  “I might have clued him in on a few things,” Milhouse replied cautiously, “but nothing confidential.”

  “And how did he even get there in the first place? Who tipped him off?”

  �
��Well -”

  “Save it, I know it was you.” Making his way around the desk, Wagoner peered at Milhouse's laptop. “I'm not having it, John. If the press get hold of any ideas about a man like Robinson being involved, they'll have a field day. The man's a kook. No, worse, he's a goddamn maniac. His bullshit just becomes more and more ridiculous with each passing day.”

  “Sir -”

  “Remember the time he insisted those two murdered girls were attacked by goblins?”

  “To be fair, they did have a lot of tiny bite-marks.”

  “So you think the idea of goblins has some weight, do you?”

  “I...” Milhouse paused for a moment, keenly aware that his credibility was on the line but still not wanting to give in to Wagoner's bluster. “The case is still active,” he said finally, with as much tact as he could muster. “I mean, goblins are pretty unlikely, obviously, but it's wise to keep our options open. I'm certain we'll get somewhere eventually, and Robinson's insights were a little broader than just saying the word 'goblins' and running off.” He paused, thinking back to the moment a few weeks earlier when Robinson had done exactly that, running into his office and shouting 'goblins' before leaving again. “It might not be goblins, Sir,” he muttered finally.

  “You see?” Wagoner continued. “That's what I was afraid of, John. You're a good cop, but you're letting your mind get turned by that Robinson imbecile. You know he's just using you, don't you? He wants to gain access to confidential police files, so he twists you round his little finger and you give him whatever he wants.”

  “Sir, with all due respect -”

  “Let me show you something,” Wagoner continued, bringing up a web browser on Milhouse's laptop. “You might think you're the first cop to deal with something like this, but there have been others.” Turning the screen for Milhouse to see, he revealed a page showing a faded, old photograph. “What do you make of that, then? Come on, you've got a reputation for making decent intuitive leaps. Explain that picture!”

  Stepping closer, Milhouse saw to his surprise that the image showed Robinson, smiling at the camera while wearing distinctly old-fashioned clothing from the Victorian era, surrounded by several other men in similar garb.

  “Some kind of... fancy dress party?” he asked cautiously.

  “Try again.”

  “Well...” Milhouse pause. “When was this taken?”

  “1860,” Wagoner replied, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “I've had it analyzed, and it hasn't been doctored in any way. Do you know what this mean?”

  “I'm not -”

  “It means there's a whole family of them,” Wagoner continued. “The man in this photo must be the great-grandfather of the Robinson who's around now, and contemporary reports from the nineteenth century suggest that his forebear caused just as much trouble as the idiot we're dealing with today. I can't explain it, John, but it's quite clear that successive generations of the Robinson family have been causing trouble for police investigations in London. They've been plaguing us like locusts and it has to stop!”

  “It's a remarkable resemblance,” Milhouse muttered, picking the laptop up so he could get a better view of the photo. “He's never mentioned his family before.”

  “You see? You're letting this lunatic get involved with police investigations, and you don't know the first bloody thing about him! He could have links to all sorts of organizations. Have you even run a check on him?”

  “Well, no -”

  “What's his first name?”

  “I'm... not sure, Sir.”

  “Or is Robinson his first name?”

  “I don't know.”

  Sighing, Wagoner nevertheless smiled, as if he felt he was getting his point across.

  “Let's just exercise some caution here,” Milhouse continued after a moment. “There's no need to go over the top and -”

  “He's done,” Wagoner added firmly, heading back over to the door. “If I so much as hear Robinson's name being mentioned around here again, I will formally discipline whoever is responsible. I don't want this bullshit spreading throughout the department, so it stops. Now! Is that clear?”

  “Very, Sir.”

  “So get to work. The papers are going to want an explanation for that train incident by tonight. It's obviously terrorists, but we need to find out which ones. I've got counter-terror units breathing down my neck on this situation, just itching to take over.” With that, he turned and stormed out, taking his two assistants with him.

  Sighing, Milhouse continued to stare at the photo on his laptop. After a moment, he set the laptop down and turned to look over at the window. “Nah,” he muttered finally. “Can't be...”

  Chapter Ten

  “The board is fully aware of the potential of these projects,” Mr. Millner said, clearly not impressed. “We've been aware of the potential for quite some time now, Mr. Hanson. Unfortunately, we need more than potential, we need some of these projects to actually pay off. Especially if you're angling for another round of funding.”

  “Patience is a virtue,” Hanson replied, sitting calmly at the other end of the table, trying to ignore the hostile stares of the other board-members. “These things take time -”

  “They've been taking time for the past five years,” Millner continued. “As the head of the company's fusion unit, you're supposed to deliver something we can actually monetize.”

  “And I shall.”

  “When?”

  “When it's ready.”

  “Is that -”

  “The projects can't be rushed,” Hanson added, interrupting him. “If you had any idea what we have in the main lab right now, I can assure you that you'd be more than satisfied. This thing, it transcends money.”

  “Hang on,” one of the other board members said, “we don't want to transcend money. We want to make some!”

  “You'll make more money than you know what to do with,” Hanson replied, unable to hide his disdain for the man's priorities. “Do you think our founder had such low concerns when he made his initial breakthroughs?” Looking up at the imposing portrait that hung in the boardroom, he seemed momentarily overcome. “Harrington Cole understood that this company is about far more than money. It's about having a clear vision and setting out to achieve greatness.”

  “Harrington Cole was a madman,” Millner members muttered.

  Hanson turned to him, as if he was angered by the slur.

  “Well, he was,” Millner continued. “He had a bunch of crazy ideas and eventually he vanished from the face of the planet, leaving most of his work undone. If you ask me, he'd finally realized that all his ridiculous schemes were coming to nothing. It's a miracle he left behind enough patents to keep the company running.”

  “If that's how you really feel,” Hanson replied, “I find it hard to understand why you invested so much of your own money in this business.”

  “I happened to have faith in those core patents, although I must admit, that faith is starting to wear dangerously thin right now.”

  “Don't ever doubt Harrington Cole,” Hanson told him. “Mr. Cole was the most wonderful man and his ideas underpin everything we're trying to achieve here. Right now, in the laboratories on our top floor, we have several projects running that are directly rooted in Mr. Cole's ideas.” He glanced up at the portrait again. “In many ways, Harrington Cole is still here with us.”

  Millner stared at him for a moment. “Why don't you show us, then? We're all reasonable and intelligent people, so why don't you take us all up there right now and let us see for ourselves what our money is creating?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the need for maximum security. The projects we're working on have implications for the whole world, and with all due respect, I see nothing to gain by letting you into the main lab.”

  “Bullshit,” Millner said firmly. “I've heard enough, Mr. Hanson, and I think it's time that you share some of your work with the board. If
we're supposed to keep providing funding rounds for this company, you need to give us some kind of hint that we stand a chance of making our money back. You're already lucky that we've held on for this long, but I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we need some kind of sign that in two, five, at least ten years, we're going to hit the jackpot!”

  Around him, a murmur of agreement rose from the other members.

  Hanson stared at him for a moment, clearly unhappy with the way the meeting was going. “I can't have the entire board traipsing through a secure, sterile environment,” he replied finally. “It's out of the question.”

  “Then just take me,” Millner continued, getting to his feet. “You'll show me, and I'll report back.”

  “But -” Hanson paused for a moment, before the faintest of smiles crossed his lips. “Very well. It seems I have no choice. Mr. Millner, if you'd like to come with me, I'll give you a little insight into one of our more promising projects.”

  ***

  “Subject A,” Millner said a short while later, squinting as he read the sign on the door. “What the hell is Subject A?”

  “Our most ambitious project to date,” Hanson replied. “In fact, you might say it's the be-all and end-all of the company's efforts, the concept that occupied all of Harrington Cole's time in the final years before his disappearance. I considered showing you a few other areas, but in the end I think this one might...” He paused, searching for the right phrase, before finally deciding: “It might very well blow your mind.”

  “And it's in this room?”

  Hanson nodded, before turning the handle and pushing the door open to reveal a fairly small room, just a few meters in each direction, with no furniture and nothing to see but bland walls and darkness.

  “Just a normal room?” Millner paused. “You're not one for extravagant demonstrations, are you? I'd have thought you'd be making more of an effort to sell this to me. If you're wasting my time, Mr. Hanson -”