“How’s that cantankerous uncle of yours, Fred? I heard you paid him a visit yesterday.”
“How did you—never mind. He’s as bad-tempered as ever.”
“He is a character, that one.” Topper turned his attention to Mary. “How are your lovely sisters?”
“They’re well. Matilda asked after you the other day.”
“Did she now? Excellent.”
Topper led them to a table, covered in all manner of mechanical wonders. Dozens of strange looking items littered the surface: spheres, cylinders, weapons, small automatons, enhanced spectacles, and a jumble of assorted tools, wires, tubes, gears, nuts, bolts, and other metal parts.
“I see you’ve been busy,” Fred remarked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve made notable progress. Unfortunately, I’m still working on that portable, smaller version of Muggins’ beam gun. It would come in handy, I know, but no such luck today.”
He reached down and picked up a diminutive orb, made of brassy metal, gears, and fittings. “But this, now . . . this is quite the useful weapon. Simply turn the top half here,”—he mimed swiveling the ball’s top—“and you arm the device and start the countdown machinery. When the mechanism rotates back into position, it releases sleeping gas. And here,”—Topper pointed to what appeared to be a clock apparatus—“you can set the clockwork to different rates of rotation. You can release the gas after a few seconds, a minute, two minutes, five minutes, and so on, up to an hour.”
“Oh, that is very useful.” Mary picked up another contraption from the table. “What does this do?”
Topper beamed in pride. “That’s my navigation contrivance. Completely wearable—on your wrist—it is a miniature sundial, compass, and sextant. Excellent for wilderness or sea adventures, but not truly necessary for London jaunts.” Mary put it down in disappointment.
Topper picked up a metal wrist cuff, decorated with an array of small cylinders. “This—this is a much better choice. Each tube has a poison dart and can be rotated and fired by air compression. Also, it is easily concealed under the sleeve of a dress or jacket, or displayed as a fancy bracelet, if you prefer.”
Fred laid a hand on Topper’s shoulder. “Quite impressive, but do you have anything with a bit more firepower? Say, something that would stop a mechanical rodent in its tracks?”
“I have just the thing. Wait here.” Topper ran off to a back room and returned moments later carrying a leather case. He made room for it on a corner of the table and opened it to show the contents. Three parts of an odd-looking gun rested inside.
Fred snorted, unimpressed. “How do pieces of a weapon help us?”
“They don’t. However, when you assemble them . . .” Topper took the parts from the case one by one and rapidly built a fully formed, albeit strange-looking, weapon. He held it out for Fred and Mary to inspect.
“It’s a prototype. I’ve been working on it since you had your encounter with that signal-controlled automaton man at Oxford. I call it my scrambler gun.” A broad smile formed across his face. “You can see here,”—he pointed at some of the workings—“I’ve enhanced it with a clockwork operating panel, and it has been calibrated to fire an emission beam that will disorientate any automated command function in the subject you are aiming at. I noticed when examining the plans for the rat, that it had a component that used sound waves to direct movement and intent.”
“That’s brilliant, Topper. So this thing will disable whatever Muggins has invented?”
“Theoretically, yes. It should confuse it long enough for you to destroy it. But be warned, this gun has a limited range. Not more than a foot in diameter, and only a few feet in distance. So you will have to be rather close to fire it. And it has no effect on humans. It is also a bit unwieldy for toting around London. Hence, my brilliant idea of disassembly and portability.”
“Oh, how perfectly marvellous.” Mary laughed with delight.
Fred hefted the gun, getting the feel of it. “My word, I’ll say, it’s marvellous. Deuced marvellous. This should deal with Muggins and his mechanical monstrosity. Good job, Topper.”
An early winter wind blew crisp in Hyde Park, and the people strolling about did so rather briskly. Fred and Mary sat on a bench, partially concealed by trees, the leather case placed between them.
Mary absently tapped her foot. “This is a bit nerve-wracking, waiting to see what will happen. I think I prefer being in the thick of it.”
Fred chuckled. “That’s what I love about you: a real go-getter of a girl.”
Mary gave him a teasing punch on the arm and a pout. “Don’t make fun. I know all too well how much you like the action.”
“True, but I’ll be happy with any course that takes down Muggins. And a little waiting never—”
“Shh. Do you hear that noise? It sounds like it’s coming from the water over there.” Mary rose abruptly and pointed. “Look!”
Fred grabbed for the case as the water in the nearby lake bubbled uncontrollably. His hand fell on the handle as Mary shrieked and the water erupted into the air. From out of the lake burst dozens and dozens of mechanical rats that scurried and swarmed into the park.
Women screamed and men shouted as the rats attacked, biting and clawing at anything that moved. The air filled with the awful sound of their chittering cries and the clang of metal as people tried to defend themselves.
Mary drew her pistol and Fred did likewise while desperately attempting to assemble the scrambler, as hordes of rats advanced on them.
“Try and hold them off, Mary. We need the gun!”
Mary ran forward, firing at the rats, her bullets hitting their metal with echoing pings, but barely slowing their hideous advance. She stopped to reload.
“Hurry, Fred! I can’t stop them!”
She fired again, before screaming as rats overran her position. She felt them pulling at her skirts, crawling around her feet, and she fired her last bullets into the horde. She kicked out and swung her pistol like a club, ever fearing she would lose her footing and be lost under a surge of vicious rodents.
Then a buzzing blare rang out, and another. She turned to see Fred atop the bench with the gun. Around her, rodents staggered and ran in wobbly circles. He cleared a path for her retreat and she joined him in relative safety. She reloaded her gun and snatched up Fred’s pistol. Three weapons were soon firing upon the invasion of Hyde Park.
“We’ll never be able to destroy them all, I—”
A piercing loud whistle interrupted Fred, his words silenced as every rat suddenly froze. He stared across the park and locked his gaze on a lanky man standing serenely in the middle of a mass of now still rats. He held an elaborate walking stick in one hand and, with the other, he brushed at his dark, stylish suit. When he saw Fred gawking, he tipped his hat.
“Muggins!” Fred dropped the scrambler and let out a roar. He leaped off the bench and ran toward his foe, unthinking. As he ran, Fred saw Muggins twist the top of his cane and another high-pitched whistle sounded, penetrating the air. At once, the rats surged forward, racing from the park, Muggins fleeing with them.
“Fred, wait!”
Fred heard Mary call to him and, from the corner of his eye, he saw her running to catch him, but he didn’t stop. He sprinted to reach the villain, Mary close at hand, sporadically firing their pistols, but they were both impeded by the stampeding rodents snarling around their feet. Even as he laboured forward, extricating himself from the pack, grinding his teeth in frustration, Fred watched Muggins stay beyond his reach.
Then he remembered. “Hell, the orb.” Still fighting off rats, he reached into his pocket, pulled out one of Topper’s sleeping spheres, set the timer for several seconds, armed it, and let it fly at Muggins. It hit the ground in front of him and discharged a flurry of pale yellow smoke. Fred watched Muggins disappear into the cloud of gas, a hand pressed over his nose and mouth.
“Where did he go?” Fred battled onward, following the sound of his enemy’s coughing, until he glim
psed Muggins still moving at a stumbling run, leaving the park.
“After him, Mary! He’s getting away!”
“It’s no use. The rats won’t let us catch him. Blast! I should have brought Topper’s dart cuff. It has more range than a pistol.”
Reduced to fighting off rats to advance, they lost Muggins in the crowded London streets upon exiting the park. The rats then fled, a metal mass of unthinking beasts teeming through London.
“Follow those rats! They may lead us back to Muggins!”
Fred bolted after the escaping creatures, Mary quick at his heels. They chased them all the way to the Thames, only to watch in amazement as the entire throng of mechanical rats dove into the river and disappeared under the water.
“What in the world was it all about?” Griffith paced his office, red-faced and shouting in the general direction of Fred and Mary.
“Clockwork rats! Attacking people in Hyde Park! And you two,” he whirled to face down the pair, “a blasted shootout, bullets everywhere! This is England, not the Wild West! What were you thinking?”
“That it might be best to defend ourselves,” Fred replied.
“Did I ask you? Did I say you could speak?” Griffith harrumphed, puffed a breath, and resumed his pacing. “The whole fiasco could have been a department catastrophe. We could have been exposed, shut down! Luckily, we were able to explain the calamity as a science experiment gone awry. Not to mention, we had to retrieve that experimental gun you carelessly left behind.” He glared at Fred, who had the decency to look sheepish and cast a gaze to the floor.
Griffith snorted and threw up his hands. “I know Muggins is a madman, but he’s always had a plan, a scheme before. This . . . this was just anarchy.”
“Sir,” Mary spoke softly, hesitant to arouse his ire, “it may have been a trial run—for something bigger.”
“What? What’s this? Speak up, girl! What’s in that mind of yours?”
“The plans we recovered mentioned a test, and you’re right. This attack makes no sense on its own. But if it were a trial run, a test of the rats to see how they worked, responded, well, that makes sense. It would explain the whistle and why they ran off. It must have been a signal, a sound to retreat.”
Fred smiled to himself.
Oh, you clever girl.
Griffith paused and stared hard at Mary. “You may have the right of it, and it bodes very ill indeed. If he means to unleash more of these beasts on London, I dare say he has a sinister purpose.” Griffith turned to Fred. “Has that egghead, Topper, come up with a way to stop these nasty rats, yet?”
“Not yet, sir, but he hasn’t been at it long, and the specimens he examined were damaged by bullets.”
“Well, he’d best hurry his efforts. We’ll need a better defense than that gun you used. It came in handy this time, but it isn’t effective or practical as a weapon against an invasion of those things. Is there anything else to report?”
“We are investigating a possible supplier of the mechanisms. Some fresh scuttlebutt came in today about a new shop in a small lane off Oxford Street that may be dealing in illicit mechanisms and clockwork. It’s possible they might know something. The underground network for that type of thing is rather small and close-knit. They tend to know the players.”
Griffith cleared his throat. “Well, what are you two waiting for then? Get out there and find Muggins.”
He waved his hand in dismissal and Mary and Fred left his office. They headed out at once towards Oxford Street and the supposed shop dealing in black-market goods.
From bustling Oxford Street, they took a twist here, a turn there, and found themselves walking down a narrow cobblestone lane. Rows of one-storey houses and shops, most with peeling paint and chipped brick, lined the street which was remarkably clean of filth and garbage.
The district had an off-center feel to it and a strange atmosphere, for tucked into doorways, perched in the windows, rested odd bits of mechanical contraptions. To the right, a clockwork bird sung a tinny tune and an automaton monkey danced for pennies. To the left spun a miniature, mechanical windmill, puffing steam. Even the street lamps were decked out in anomalous devices and embellishments.
As they walked, it seemed almost every building had some similar contrivance as decoration, adorning the street in a cacophony of clangs, bangs, and whirs. The street’s surroundings danced with steam and smoke, the scent of oil and grease its perfume.
“I believe we’ve found the right place,” Fred whispered.
“Yes.” Mary tugged his sleeve. “Look at that.”
Fred turned his head to see a man in a leather apron and goggles tinkering with a mechanical arm—his own!
“Excuse me, sir,” Mary rushed over to speak to the man before Fred could object. “I couldn’t help but notice your unusual appendage. Where might one obtain such a wonder?”
“Shop down the street. Where I got mine. Godsend it is, that shop.” He stopped tinkering and gave Mary a stern glare. “You ain’t looking to give the owner a hard time, now? People ’round here wouldn’t like that, now.”
Mary smiled her sweetest, most disarming grin. “Oh, heavens, no. I’m merely interested in purchasing one such curiosity. A mechanical marvel is just the thing I need for the sitting room.”
The man grunted, the sound mixed with a slight cackle. “You toffs, with your peculiar ideas. Shop’s down the street like I said. Called The Gear and Far.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness and trouble.”
The man grunted again and turned his attention back to his work. Mary returned to Fred.
“The place we want is called the Gear and Far and it’s further down the street.”
They found the structure well enough, a small, dingy building, the storefront all grime and soot and peeling paint. A faded sign with the name painted in crooked red letters hung slightly askew above the door. A tiny bell rang as they entered and a gruff voice called out from the rear of the shop.
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Fred gazed around the cramped interior, its recesses crowded with shelves and stacks of metal jumbles, iron scraps, gears, pistons, gadgets, and other junk and odd apparatus.
“Look at these things.” Fred whispered. “He’s a dealer in clockwork and mechanicals for certain.”
“But we don’t know to whom he sells, Fred. We don’t have any evidence of illegal commerce.”
“Not yet, we don’t.”
A noise from the back room interrupted their discussion, and a young man, smallish in stature, shuffled out past the dividing curtain. He wore brass goggles that he pushed to his forehead, and wiped his grimy hands on his apron. As he approached them, he lifted a corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile and held out his hand in greeting.
“Hello to you both. I’m Crocker. I run this fine establishment. Might I be helping you with something today?”
Fred grasped his proffered extremity in a firm handshake. “I think you can aid us. We’ve been told you are quite the maker of strange and unusual clockwork mechanisms.”
“Yeah, I’ve been known to dabble. You looking for something specific or you wanting a custom order?”
“Actually we’re looking for someone specific—someone who may have done business with you for parts or gadgets. A tall, thin man who goes by the name of Rupert Muggins.”
Crocker scowled. “Who are you two? Government types or scoundrels? Up to no good, one way or the other, asking after the likes of Muggins. Besides, I don’t ask questions of my customers. They pay their money owed and I leave it at that.”
“To answer your question, we are not scoundrels, and we can make your life very unpleasant if you don’t tell us what we want to know. I don’t think you want the Peelers coming around your shop on a daily basis, now, do you?”
“You foul crushers, thinking you can control everyone. One of these days you’ll get yours.” He spat on the floor. “I ain’t no snitch.”
Fred seized the man by the
shirt front and yanked him forward. “You can be a snitch or I can beat the information out of you.”
Crocker turned pale and squirmed in Fred’s grip. “Typical law. I hate you lot. Bullies, the lot of you. But you win. I don’t like it, but I don’t want your kind of trouble, neither. I might be able to help, but you didn’t learn nothing from me, if anyone asks. Can’t have it getting around I squealed to the likes of you. Agreed?”
Fred nodded and let the man go.
“Good. I hear rumours sometimes. In this business you do. Word is, something is going down soon, by a group of nefarious types who like the mechanicals. Something at the Tower, you understand. And word is, it’s coming from underground.” He laughed. “That’s all you’ll get out of me.”
A pensive look blossomed over Fred’s face and he mumbled, “I wonder if he’s found the tunnel?”
“What are you blathering about? Wait, I don’t want to know, just get out of me shop.”
Fred took hold of Mary’s arm and rushed them out of the building.
“Fred, what is it? Do you know something?”
“I’m not sure. But I think we’d best investigate the situation at the Tower of London immediately.”
“How did you know about this underground entrance and tunnel, Fred?” Mary asked the question as she stepped gingerly through what she hoped was mud and tried to avoid the steady drips of water from overhead.
Fred shone his wrist torch into the darkness ahead. He gave its clockwork another crank for good measure, to ensure it didn’t fail and leave them in the dark. They were far underneath the Tower grounds, looking for any signs of recent passage.
“One of the old agency warhorses told me about it. Claimed it was built as a secret passageway around the time of Henry VIII. He said it ran directly under the castle, and it used to connect to other tunnels with entrances leading into the White Tower and the Martin Tower. He also claimed some thief tried to steal the Crown Jewels this way, in decades past, and that the other doors and tunnels were sealed off after the attempted theft.”
Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Page 22
