Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (23 page)

Tweed walked to the big one lying on the ground and poked him with his foot.

“He
looks
dead.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Octavia joined Tweed, then reached down and felt for a pulse. She frowned and shifted her fingers slightly.

“Problem?” Tweed asked.

Octavia frowned and straightened up. “He must have had a weak heart,” she said.

Tweed hesitated. “No time to feel bad about it now. We're getting close to the end of this, Songbird. I can feel it.”

They hurried through the room and found themselves in an old tunnel. The stonework looked old, the arched ceilings dripping with moisture. There was an aqueduct running along the bottom of the tunnel, but it had been covered over with a metal walkway.

“This looks Roman,” said Octavia.

“If you say so. Looks like bricks to me.”

“Yes, but it's the
type
of bricks. Well over a thousand years old.”

“Top marks,” Tweed whispered, leaning close. “But I think we should be quiet now. Listen.”

Octavia paused. In the distance she could hear a very slight humming sound. Tweed hurried over the metal walkway into another
tunnel. Bright globes were attached to the wall, linked together by thick black wires.

The passage led to a mine shaft that dropped down into the ground. It was nowhere near as large as the one back at the prison, though. There were two elevators: one big, reinforced one, probably for machinery, and a second, smaller one for people. Octavia and Tweed peered downward. The hole descended into blackness.

“What do you think?” asked Tweed. “Only way down, but the noise might alert them.”

“Not necessarily. If they hear it they'll just think it's those two goons coming back.”

“Good point.” Tweed nodded up at the ceiling. “See that?”

Octavia followed his gaze. There was a metal pole descending into the shaft. She followed its length up to the ceiling and saw it was mounted by a bulbous metal shape.

“A mini Tesla Tower,” said Tweed. “We must be directly under the new clock.”

They climbed into the elevator and pulled the door closed. The only control was a single lever. Octavia was closest, so she pulled it back, and the elevator began its jerky descent.

After descending about a hundred yards, Octavia saw a light below them, coming from an opening at the bottom of the shaft. The elevator bumped to a stop and Octavia made to get out, only to be pulled up short by Tweed.

His face was serious, his eyes dark.

“Octavia, whatever happens in there…I just want to say, all jokes aside, I'm glad we met. And…and I wish we'd met under different circumstances. You're all right. For a member of the weaker sex, that is,” he added, grinning slightly.

Octavia frowned. Why was he talking like that? It was as if he didn't expect to come out alive. She opened her mouth to reply with
something witty, but Tweed turned abruptly away and stepped out of the elevator.

He walked to the opening in the wall, his frame silhouetted against the bright light. She could see his untidy hair sticking up, the shape of his greatcoat, and in his left hand, the Tesla gun. Ready for use.

Tweed felt as if the gun were about to slip out of his hand. He tightened his hold on it, curling his sweating fingers around the grip. He could see the other end of the tunnel from where he stood, a large rectangular opening through which emanated a flickering yellow light.

He checked to make sure Octavia was next to him, then he moved slowly forward until he could see into the room beyond.

The low-ceilinged chamber was dominated by machinery. It took up nearly all the available space, connected to the walls by thick, curved pipes from which condensation dripped, forming oily puddles on the floor. Steam hissed into the air, clawing up toward the ceiling, where thick cables twisted around and through even more pipes.

The machine itself—the infamous Lazarus Machine—was an immense brass and chrome monstrosity, an ugly piece of design covered with dials and switches.

Tweed's eyes were drawn to Barnaby. He was strapped into an upright chair, positioned in the exact center of the machine. A metal helmet, so tight as to seem like part of his skin, had been placed over his head. The helmet and chair were festooned with cables. They draped and coiled along the floor and disappeared into the heart of the Lazarus Machine.

Behind and above Barnaby was a large glass globe. Tubes connected this globe to two glass coffins positioned on either side of Barnaby. The right coffin was empty, but on the left, the remaining goon was busy strapping down an unconscious figure. The goon had taken off his smoke mask. He was the exact twin of the one Octavia killed with her Tesla gun.

“Is he in?”

Sherlock Holmes strode into view. He had been hidden in the shadows, fiddling with some kind of control panel on the wall.

Octavia leaned very closely to Tweed, “That person being strapped into the machine!” she whispered urgently. “It's Prince Edward!”

Tweed narrowed his eyes and tried to see the man in the dim light. She was right! It was Queen Victoria's son. What was Sherlock Holmes doing with
him
?

No matter. They had to put a stop to it. Now.

Tweed leveled his gun, still keeping to the protection of the tunnel. “Put your hands up, Holmes!” he shouted.

Holmes whirled around, darting behind one of the massive pipes. Barnaby stiffened, his eyes searching the shadows. The goon, obviously not one of the clever members of the simulacrum's gang, turned and ran directly at Tweed, letting out a long, guttural howl as he did so.

Tweed fired. Electricity surged out of the Tesla gun and smacked into the man's chest. He stumbled to a stop, smoke drifting up from the wound, then he sagged to his knees and flopped forward onto his face.

Tweed swallowed nervously, staring at the man's body.

“Sebastian, what do you think you're doing?” said Barnaby. “Get out of here. There are others—”

“The others have been dealt with. Everyone left is in this room,” said Tweed.

“Then I must congratulate you,” said Sherlock Holmes from his hiding place.

“I also know about the Tsar,” said Tweed. “I saw him meeting with Lucien. Or should I refer to him as the P.M. now?”

There was a pause. When next Holmes spoke he really did sound impressed. “You surprise me, boy.”

“I surprise a lot of people,” said Tweed. He crouched down, trying to
see past the pipes, hoping for a clear shot. Nothing. “One thing I don't understand,” he said, moving to the other side of the tunnel. “What does Prince Edward have to do with the Tsar? How does he fit in?”

“Oh, he doesn't,” said Holmes gleefully. “Lucien and Nicholas, they've been plotting for years, you see. Lucien is a loyal subject of Mother Russia. It is Nicholas who has been secretly funding Lucien's research.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Tweed. “They plan on assassinating the Queen and blaming Germany.”

“Indeed. And then the Prime Minister will team up with the Russian Tsar and declare war on Germany for this
horrendous
act of war. Over the next few years, Russia will slowly increase her influence over Europe while Britain, seemingly trying to prevent a world-wide war, will in actuality be handing more and more strategic power over to our ‘ally,’ the Tsar.”

“And then?”

“The Tsar has his own lab in Russia. He has been growing copies of himself there for years. Barnaby will be forced to duplicate the Tsar's soul and place these duplicates inside his simulacra. They will then be placed strategically throughout Europe and Britain, where they will be well-placed to eventually take over the British Empire in the name of the Romanovs. With Lucien's help, of course.”

Tweed took a moment to digest all this.

“It's a pity it won't happen,” said Holmes cheerfully. “All that planning gone to waste.”

“Why?” said Tweed. “Why won't it happen?”

“Because I do not wish it to.”

Tweed looked around the room. There was no sign of Lucien or Nicholas Romanov. It could be that they were busy with preparations for the banquet, but that was still hours away. If this was part of the plan, surely they would want to oversee it.

“You have your own agenda,” said Tweed, as understanding dawned. “You're going to hijack their preparations.” Tweed glanced at Prince Edward. “Barnaby imprinted on you back when he was working at the Ministry. You need him to eject Edward's true soul so you can take over his body. No great loss to you. The one you have doesn't seem as though it's working too well. I think the mask is for more than just disguise.”

“That is true. I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe of late,” said Holmes. “More defects in the process. Please. Continue.”

Tweed thought about it. “You're going to kill everyone. The P.M., the Tsar, and the Queen?”

“
And
Parliament—with a rather large bomb detonated by a rather small Tesla-powered remote device.”

That threw Tweed. “Parliament? Why?”

“Why not? Once they are all out of the way, Prince Edward will return to the palace with a believable story of escape and bravery. About how it was all a plot by the Ministry to gain more power. With the Queen dead, I will become King. A few new laws to make sure the same thing does not happen again. A few more laws later—reducing the power of the government while increasing the power of the monarchy—and before you know it I will be the most powerful figure in the Empire. A position to match my intellect.”

“The people won't stand for it.”

“Of course they will! Their own government, trying to kill the royal family? They will
demand
it. My only regret is that I won't be there to see Lucien die. That animal kept me locked up for years. And he thinks he can simply set me loose to do his dirty work? That I would just go along with his orders? He deserves to die.

“You've had your little bit of fun. You know what's going on. That's fine. I feel you've earned that much. But now I must insist you step out of the shadows and put down your gun.”

Tweed laughed. “Why on earth would I do that?”

Barnaby let out a scream of pain. He arched back in the chair, his arms straining against the shackles holding him in place. A second later it was over. Barnaby slumped in his chair.

“
That
is why.”

Tweed hesitated, then indicated that Octavia should remain where she was. Holmes didn't know she was here. Perhaps they could use that to their advantage. Tweed stepped out of the tunnel and tossed the gun onto the floor.

Sherlock Holmes stepped around a large conduit, moving into view through a cloud of steam.

He didn't have his mask on. The left side of his face was even more horrific when seen up close. His throat was covered in pustules and weeping wounds. His lips were flaking off, the skin covered in open sores. Tweed thought he could even see into his mouth through a gangrenous hole in his cheek. He heard the ragged, painful breathing of the man, and he couldn't help but feel a slight stab of pity.

Holmes moved closer. There was an odd expression on his face. He was frowning, peering at Tweed, studying his features.

Finally, he let out a bark of laughter and glanced at Barnaby.

“It all rather makes sense now. The tenacity. The cleverness. Does he know?”

Tweed hesitated. Know what?

“Does the boy
know
?” pressed Holmes. “Don't make me hurt you again, Barnaby.”

Barnaby gritted his teeth. “No.”

Holmes laughed and strolled forward until he was only a pace away from Tweed. He stared deep into Tweed's eyes, then shook his head in wonder.

“How can it not know?”

It?
“Know what? What are you talking about?”

“Tell him,” Holmes insisted.

“No, I—”

“
Tell him!
” Holmes screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

“I won't!”

Holmes forced himself to calm down. Then he shrugged. “Fine. I will.” He smiled at Tweed. “You, my boy, are me. That is, you are a product, a simulacra grown from the tissue of Sherlock Holmes. You and I? We are the same.”

It took a moment for what Sherlock Holmes had said to sink in. Tweed shook his head. “Don't be absurd.”

“Absurd? Look at me, boy. I am an older version of you. We are identical.”

Tweed looked into Holmes's eyes. He studied the shape of the eyebrows, the forehead, the hairline. He reached up and tentatively touched his own nose, the nose that was the same shape as Holmes's. He mentally erased the lines in the man's face, the creases and wrinkles that age and years of pain had etched into his features, seeing—

—seeing his own face looking back at him.

Tweed took a shocked step backward.

It was true.

Holmes nodded. “Yes. You see? Acceptance. We are one and the same, young man. We are kindred.”

“He is nothing like you!” snarled Barnaby.

Tweed slowly tore his eyes away from the man in front of him, turning to his father. All he wanted in that moment was for Barnaby to refute it, to have an explanation. But the moment he saw Barnaby's face he knew his hope was in vain.

“Barnaby?”

“I…I didn't tell you the whole story, back at the prison,” he said. “Remember when I said Lucien took the corrupted copy of Sherlock Holmes away? That he was supposed to destroy him? I
knew it wouldn't end there. Lucien was a man obsessed. He would keep experimenting, prodding and prying into the soul of Sherlock Holmes—into
other
souls as well!—until he created something even more horrendous and twisted than…than
that
.” Barnaby nodded in disgust at Sherlock Holmes. The man smiled sardonically and bowed.

“What did you do?” whispered Tweed.

“The only thing I
could
do. I took the
real
soul of Sherlock Holmes—not a copy, the original soul I had extracted before he died—and I inserted it into one of the undamaged simulacra of Holmes that Lucien had been growing. But this clone was no more than a baby, newly formed. This kind of thing, it had never been done before. The brain of the child was not developed enough to cope with it. The insertion did something to Holmes's memories and experiences. It wiped everything clean, so to speak.” Barnaby stared at Tweed, tears falling into his beard. “Then I fled with you and raised you as my own son, trying to keep you hidden, out of sight, away from the Ministry's spies.”

Tweed said nothing, just stared at Barnaby in shock as his whole world crumbled around him.

“You
are
Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian. The
real
Sherlock Holmes. You have his soul inside of you.”

Tweed shook his head. “It's not possible.”

“It is. I've looked after you, tried to guide and teach you. Why do you think I tried to cram so much knowledge into that brain of yours? Why do you think I trained you so hard in logic, in rational thinking? Over the years, I've seen the brilliance that once defined Sherlock Holmes show itself, but always,
always
, it was tempered by
you
, by the person you had become. You are your own person, Sebastian, but something of Holmes still exists inside you.”

Tweed tried to back away, but bumped up against the wall. It wasn't possible. Sherlock Holmes?
He
was Sherlock Holmes? He was not born but…
grown
?

It couldn't be.

You have no soul to call your own
, said a voice in his head.

It was true. He had no soul. He was like a cuckoo, laying its egg in another bird's nest, only to destroy the other eggs as soon as it hatched and claiming the nest for itself. That was what he had done. He had taken Sherlock Holmes's body, taken his soul, and he had laid his own thoughts and memories on top of the original, claiming it all for himself.

He was nothing.

“Sebastian, please…” Barnaby pleaded.

Tweed ignored him.

“Come now, boy,” said Holmes. “Don't mope. You have the soul of a genius in you. In fact…” Holmes stared thoughtfully at Tweed, then shook his head. “No, third time round I think I'd like a different body. Just stand aside so Barnaby can get to work.”

Holmes stepped toward him. Tweed, in a daze, heard a high-pitched whining behind him. He blinked. What was that? It was familiar—

Tweed's eyes widened and he dropped to the floor just as a surge of electricity soared over his head and crashed into the æther cage above Barnaby's head. The glass exploded, showering thick, gluttonous fluid over the Lazarus Machine. Octavia stepped out of the shadows and shifted the gun, moving the stream of electricity all over the machine. Sparks exploded. Dials flew off the machinery, pipes burst their rivets, steam exploded into the air.