Without a word, one of the Enforcers strode to him, grasped him roughly by the waistcoat, and propelled him bodily through the curtain into the workshop.
“Plans,” he said.
“All my plans are there,” Spiegel said evenly, pointing to a shelf heaped high with rolled plan sets.
“Plans for the Indian boy.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve been expecting you. I explained to your master that those plans are not here. I sent them to Lakshmi when my wife died.”
“The copies.”
“I am truly sorry. There are no copies here.”
“You lie.”
“It is the truth, sir. There are no copies of the plans for that automaton here. As you can see, plans there are for many others. Please feel free to look all you wish.”
“Bill!” the Enforcer called through the door. “No need to be dainty about that search. Be thorough, my lad.”
“Aye, Jack, as you says!”
A crash came from beyond the curtain, where Bill was already helping himself to the cash box as others ransacked the shelves and display cases.
Jack again turned to his prisoner. “I say, you lie!” He prodded the aged artificer’s chest with a steel finger.
“I assure you, I do not. What you seek is far away, and getting farther by the minute.”
With an impatient snort, Jack dealt Spiegel a casual backhand blow with his mechanized steel hand. Ernst’s head snapped around, and he reeled into the wall. He collapsed like a rag doll, his neck broken, lifeless before he hit the floor.
~*~*~*~*~
“Remove the idiot’s refit and throw his sorry carcass back into the madhouse.”
“Doctor, he will not be able to walk.”
Malieux continued to unroll and glance at sets of plans, casting each aside as he assured himself that the drawings for Jubal were not among them. “And what do I care? He is lucky I allow him to live! The mad fool! What sort of stupidity is it that has cost me the one man who can answer my questions about this automaton? Killing the very man I sent him to fetch to me?”
He glared at Shaka, who stood silent, waiting out his master’s wrath. Malieux glanced through several more sets of plans, flinging each across the room with a vile curse. Finally, he ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I suppose the Enforcer is too valuable to waste. But get him under control!”
He cast himself into a chair, then sat up immediately as a new thought dawned. “And what of the girl? What reports from the Enforcers following her? With her father dead, she becomes very important to me. If Lakshmi cannot be persuaded, perhaps the Spiegel girl can.”
“At last report, she and those traveling with her were passing through Green Park. The Enforcers shadowing them had to drop back to avoid being seen.”
“Where the deuce is she going?”
“The Enforcers have not been able to tell. She takes a winding path through the streets, as if to throw off pursuit. Even in the rain.”
“This cannot be her doing. Someone must be leading and assisting her.”
“Yes, Doctor. Lieutenant Winston Spencer-Churchill appears to be acting as some sort of officer of the guard.”
Malieux jumped to his feet, startled. “Jennie Churchill’s son? Blast and confound it! Jennie, Lakshmi, and the Spiegel girl’s mother were thick as thieves. The Churchill boy and the Spiegel girl were betrothed as children at their mothers’ urging. This is not good! Who else is with them?”
“A group of six renegade mech industrials from Bethnal Green. Some of the first refits you did in Zululand, Doctor.”
Malieux cursed. “Military men, then, but built for industrial work, not for fighting. Not like the Enforcers. We have nothing to fear from them.”
“And another pair of young people whom the Enforcers did not recognize.”
“Shaka, go get the girl and bring her to me. Take along the automaton. Use Jubal to teach Churchill obedience.”
ToC
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
—Casabianca, by Felicia Hemans
Chapter Eleven
Alex Who?
Winston swung from the saddle and offered Clementine his assistance, which she pointedly ignored. She leapt nimbly from the horse and turned to the Musketeers gathered out of the rain under the main porte cochere of Victoria Station, shaking out their brollies and drying their mechanisms carefully.
“This isn’t at all the outing I expected when we started,” she announced. “Instead it has turned into a grand adventure.”
Winston had miraculously produced ponchos and campaign hats for himself and Clementine from his well-stocked saddlebags, welcome souvenirs of his service in Cuba. These had kept the worst of the wet away, but Clementine no longer epitomized the well-bred young lady out for a sunny summer morning ride. Her stylish skirt was sodden and soiled, and her boots soaked through. Her careful coiffure had long since come completely undone, replaced by a deft twist pinned in place by a long, steel weaving needle borrowed from Flute, and completely disguised under the campaign hat. But somehow, she didn’t seem to mind a bit.
Her cheerfulness puzzled Winston, with whom she had ridden in taciturn silence from the Hoziers’ stable through the winding, rainy streets, through Green Park, to the capital’s great rail and airship terminus. Irritated, he dashed the rain off his hat against his leg. “I would have gladly helped you dismount,” he protested.
“Nonsense,” she said matter-of-factly. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Churchill. You have a lot to learn. Now it’s time to get rid of some of this ridiculous frippery.” To his shock, she peeled the poncho off over her head, undid her riding skirt at the waist, and unwrapped its generous and properly concealing length, revealing a calf-length split skirt underneath.
“Aren’t you just a wealth of surprises?” he exclaimed. “Pantaloons! Well . . . almost. Next you’ll be showing the world your ankles. Thank goodness for tall riding boots, or I do believe you would have.”
“You forget yourself, sir,” she said dismissively. “You no longer have a thing to say about my behavior. After your little display of cowardice in the park this morning, you forfeited all right to expect me to give a damn what you say.”
Pauline laughed aloud. “She has you there, Winston!”
Winston stood with his mouth hanging open, so red in the face that both girls burst into giggles. He turned on his heel to issue orders to his Musketeers.
“Helluva thing when ladies talk that way, hain’t it, sir?” said Bottom, shaking his head mournfully. Winston ignored them all, and answered only with a reminder for everyone to make sure they were fully wound and generously oiled.
Alexander emerged from the station, a concerned frown creasing his forehead. “Your godmother’s dirigible was docked down at the Elizabeth Street end of the terminus until early this morning,” he reported to Pauline. “But she has left, and the information kiosk does not know the destination. However, apparently she has reserved the berth and will be returning. Berth 32.”
“Brilliant,” exclaimed Pauline. “Now what?”
Cobweb sang. “The Queen returns anon,” Snug interpreted. “We are meant to wait. It shan’t be long. Cobweb says we should just look around. She loves the Station. Loves the crowds.”
“Let’s go down to the Airship Terminus,” urged Alexander, “so she will know where to find us.”
“Oh, she knows where we are,” Pauline assured him. Cobweb sang her agreement.
The cavernous reaches of the station bustled with travelers pouring into London for the Jubilee as the Musketeers made their way toward the Airship Terminus. Crowds thronged the dozens of shops and kiosks along the way, and the less leisurely hurried for their trains and airships. Cobweb sang happily at the noise and bustle, dancing along above the Musketeers.
“I should like to see the airships,” announce
d Clemmie. “Would you believe I have never been in one?”
“Never?” asked Pauline. “Really? Why not?”
“My mother has a tremendous fear of flying,” Clemmie answered. “She is just sure that one will go up in a huge fireball, one day, and she refuses to be anywhere around any of them. Even on my grand tour of Europe, she refused to fly. Railroads only.”
“You’re as safe as a babe in arms,” assured Winston. “I’ve flown thousands of miles, all over the world, without incident.”
“Toys for the wealthy, Mr. Churchill,” said Alexander.
“The wave of the future,” insisted the lieutenant. “Soon flying machines will be everywhere. My ambition is to become First Lord of the Admiralty and oversee the modernization of the fleet—both naval and air.”
“Dreams!”
“And in the cavalry, wonderful new inventions are coming. I predict that the cavalry of tomorrow will ride into battle not on horses, but armored in vehicles, like turtles.”
Alexander scoffed. “Turtles on the battlefield! Sitting waiting to be picked off by artillery.”
“They’ll carry their own artillery,” asserted Winston. “And they’ll be fast—faster than horses.”
“Nonsense.”
Pauline sniffed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say mechanized cavalry was nonsense, exactly.”
“Of course I didn’t mean your kind of cavalry, my dear,” Alexander said quickly.
“I confess myself a trifle disappointed,” Winston said, “that you did not see fit to bring along your new steam horse, Pauline.”
“Phaeton wouldn’t have liked the rain much, I’m afraid,” she said. “But with further testing and refinements . . .”
“Just so,” Winston agreed. “I predict we will very soon see your invention replacing horses in front of omnibuses, delivery wagons—even in farm work. Why, it’s natural to envision them pulling plows.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” said Alexander.
Pauline squeezed his arm. “The future is bright, my dearest. We will live to see many wonderful things. And speaking of wonderful things, here we are in the greatest transportation hub in all the world. Clemmie wants to see the airships. Let’s go!”
“Oh, let’s!” exclaimed Clemmie. “I understand there is an observation platform on the roof.”
“Quite so,” said Winston. “There is a platform the entire length of the dock, and catwalks between all of the mooring towers and arrival decks. We can walk from one end to the other under the airships, close enough to touch them if we choose. If it’s not raining too heavily for the young ladies, of course.”
The Musketeers emerged from the lift into the dreary afternoon made even darker by the presence of a huge American dirigible moored directly overhead. The bad weather meant they had the platform to themselves. Gusty winds and lightning had brought arrivals and departures to a standstill.
“How many of them are there?” Clemmie asked, as they looked down a long row of the noses of airships, spaced thirty or forty yards apart, stretching out into the rainy gloom. “I had no idea there were so many.”
“This is only a fraction of what’s in town for the Jubilee,” Alexander answered. “Every nation in the Commonwealth is represented here. This week, London is the center of the entire world. There are several dozen airships in town just with rajahs from India, not to mention heads of state from Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. The Terminus has capacity for thirty-two airships, and every berth is full.”
“What about the foreign powers? The Germans? The French?” asked Winston.
“The foreign naval airships, including royal yachts, are moored at their embassies or at Canary Wharf. And the airships are outnumbered five to one by ocean-going steam vessels.”
“Now I understand all the barrage balloons around Buckingham Palace,” Winston noted. “Can’t have airships just flying over the palace willy-nilly.”
“Indeed,” Alexander agreed.
“All of the major powers already practice aerial gunnery from dirigibles, and everyone practices shooting at dirigibles from the ground. Not safe to have them flying about above the head of the queen.”
Pauline shook her head. “Instead of figuring out ways to kill each other, why don’t you military types spend your time thinking of places that can best be explored from the air, like the Amazon and the Congo, the Sahara and Antarctica?”
“Oh, we do that, too,” said Winston, with elaborate nonchalance. “The two go hand-in-hand. The British Empire was built by exploration and conquest in equal measures.”
“And you, I suppose, believe it right that the European nations, including ours, should rule peoples around the world just because it happens to be us that have the guns and the steel?”
“Of course! It is our historic duty. It is the white man’s duty to bring civilization and culture to the black and brown and red and yellow people around the world.”
“The white man’s duty?”
“The white man’s duty.”
Pauline shook her head. “You, sir, are a dinosaur. Alex, perhaps you and I could walk ahead down to Berth 32? Lieutenant Churchill and his men could catch us up as they can.” Without waiting for a reply, she strode off down the platform and into the fog and rain, leaving Alexander scrambling after.
When he finally caught up to Pauline, she was muttering under her breath, striding along, her booted feet stamping every puddle she came to.
“Slow down!” he urged. “Let me get the brolly over you. You’re getting soaked!”
Her pace did not slacken. “Damnable, insufferable, presumptuous . . .”
“Yes, my darling. Winston Churchill is all of those things. But I think he will yet prove a very valuable ally.”
Without slowing or turning, Pauline held up a peremptory finger. “Don’t think to take his side!”
Alexander, considering discretion the better part of valor, held his peace as they passed down the row of airships. Glancing behind, he could see they had outdistanced the rest of the troop, now obscured by the mist and rain in the failing light. So it was that he was looking over his shoulder as they rounded the end of the quay onto the walkway next to empty Berth 32, and nearly ran headlong into a towering, black form.
~*~*~*~*~
Far back down the platform, Winston heard Pauline’s screams, quickly drew his short cavalry sword, and charged down the walkway, the Musketeers at his heels. As they neared the corner, there was a bright blue flash. They skidded to a halt when they saw Pauline prone on the narrow walkway between the berths, kicking and screaming most unladylike curses, Shaka’s huge foot pinning her down.
With his metallic fist, he clutched Alexander by the back of his coat, his legs, arms, and head hanging limp. In Shaka’s other hand—his human hand—he held what appeared to be a golden doll face to face with the unconscious Alexander.
Winston raised his sword, bellowed fiercely, and ran at the giant mech, heedless of the eighteen inches of height and the hundreds of pounds he was giving away. Shaka, startled by the onslaught, dropped Alexander in a heap and threw his mechanical arm up across his vulnerable human head just in time for the steel cavalry sword to go clanging off it harmlessly.
Winston swung again and again, and the giant mech backed away a step to keep his metal arm and shoulder between the berserk cavalryman and the delicate automaton now cradled against the human side of his chest.
Finding herself free from the mech’s foot, Pauline rolled to the side as Winston pressed his advantage. But in the split second it took him to step over the prostrate girl, Shaka had the opening to swing a massive tungsten carbide arm, flinging the soldier aside like swatting a fly. Winston flew against the side of the adjacent airship’s gondola and tumbled to the deck.
The mech strode forward and raised his foot to crush his opponent, but was knocked backward by a ringing blow. Another sharp crack, and another and another, and he was completely off balance, staggering backward, once again protecting his human
head and arm and the automaton it enfolded.
At the end of the walkway stood Nick Bottom, a five-foot length of steel pipe held to his mouth as a blowgun. As fast as he could fill his bellows and fire, Tom Snout would insert another oaken projectile the size of a billiard ball into the pipe. Again and again, the pair loaded and fired, hurling the wooden balls hard enough that they would have torn completely through mere flesh and bone. Bouncing off Shaka’s tungsten carbide shell, they could knock him off balance, but could not penetrate.
The giant black mech, though, fully realized his peril: his head, his human arm, shoulder, and half his chest, not to mention the precious automaton—all could be destroyed by a single shot. He crouched low, and with a single hurtling leap was over the Musketeers’ heads and bounding down the platform.
Winston and Pauline scrambled to their feet, Winston with his sword in his hand. “After him, lads! Don’t let him get away!” he cried, pelting after the fleeing mech. Pauline and the Musketeers were close behind.
~*~*~*~*~
Clementine hurried to where the fallen Alexander lay and dropped to her knees beside him. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Alexander! Alex! Oh, heavens. What has that brute done to you?” She rolled him onto his back and bent over him to feel his breath on her cheek. “At least you’re not dead. Keep breathing!” She sat on the deck and took his head in her lap in the pouring rain. “Stay with me! They will be back soon. We’ll get you help.”
She was gently feeling his head for bumps when his eyelids fluttered open. He stared straight up at her, and his eyes grew wide and filled with tears. “Oh, my love!” he exclaimed. “You have saved me! Oh, how I bless the day we met.”
“Well,” she smiled, “that would be yesterday, so—”
“Oh, no!” he protested, scrambling to his knees, facing her. “I have known you forever. I have loved you forever. The sun rises in your eyes and sets on your lips. Nature shows art, that through thy bosom makes me see thy heart!”
“Well! That settles it. You have had a nasty knock on the head, and we need to get you to a doctor as soon as possible.”
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