Phoenix Rising (37 page)

Wellington then pushed through the crash of gears, returned to the table, pulled at his chair, and sat back down.

“Books,” Eliza said, her eyes and guns flicking from man to man, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Miss Braun,” he said over his shoulder, paying no mind to the gauntlet he passed. “I am educated enough to assess the danger and know we are unequivocally—as the working class would say—
buggered
.” Wellington then spread his napkin across his lap. “So, if these are to be my last few moments upon God's Earth, I intend to conclude this evening properly.”

Pearson remained in the doorway, his eyes going from Havelock to the sole man at the table, and then back to his master again. Wellington gave the servant an impatient nod of his own, and that indication was enough to bring the butler by his side.

“Coffee and dessert, sir?”

“Yes,” Wellington replied, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo. “That would be lovely.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Wherein Our Daring Duo Find Themselves
in a Spot of Trouble

“I
must say”—Eliza leaned back against the dank wall and looked around her tiny cell—“this estate is most well appointed.”

Wellington, slumped in his adjoining accommodation, propped his arms on his knees and crooked one eyebrow. “This was not quite the place I had intended our evening to end.”

“I would hope not.” She shivered, wishing that their captors had not seen fit to strip her to her underclothes. “I would have much rather ended up with some sex and cigars.” She did not point out that she felt incredibly vulnerable without her concealed knives and pistols.

Wellington got up, shrugged off his jacket and passed it through the bars. Eliza stared at him, but he shook it in a commanding way—perhaps a holdover from the role he'd taken to so easily. So she took it. It did little to keep off the cold of their underground prison, but she appreciated the gesture. At least he would feel he did everything he could to gallantly protect his partner in the field.

A pang of longing shot through her—huddling together for warmth would have been preferable. That would have provided far more comfort than his evening coat. Instead she settled down next to Wellington, a few scant inches apart so they could whisper to each other through the bars, rather than pronouncing their feelings to anyone who might be eavesdropping.

Beyond their cells was a rather threatening room, open and within sight of all the cells here. Eliza eyed the display of torture devices hung on the wall there. A long narrow table the ideal length to spread a body across stood in full view—that would have been as much a coincidence as how this place was designed to be so visible to any and all detainees of the Society. Havelock obviously believed such interrogations should have audiences, be it the other prisoners or his own people, as was apparent from the two burly armed servants just beyond their locked doors. It was truly the full medieval treatment here at Havelock Manor and, judging by some suspicious marks next to a large hook in the wall, the Master of the House was a regular practitioner.

“Well, this is quite the pickle.” Eliza sighed, breaking the silence. “But I've been in worse. Harry and I once were locked in the Duke of—”

“At present,” Wellington broke in, “I do not feel like being regaled with your past exploits with the daring Harrison Thorne.”

“Really? So what do you feel like doing then, Wellington? Because they searched me rather thoroughly, so lock picking is not an option. If there is something more fun you had in mind, I guess we can work around the bars . . .”

The Archivists blushed, opened his mouth a couple of times, readjusted his glasses, and then grudgingly loosed his words. “You're not making this easy. I have a confession to make.”

The tone of his voice made her nervous. “I hope you're not going to profess undying love for me—because I don't think things are quite
that
bad,” she quipped.

Nothing but silence.

“It's all right.” Eliza dared to slide a hand through the bars to gingerly take hold of the Archivist's shoulder. “They took all my weapons along with my lock picks, so you can tell me anything.”

A long ragged breath, and then it all came out in a rush. “It was her, Miss Braun. It was
her
!” His hands were clenched into fists, and his whole body shook. “
Signora
Sophia del Morte was the woman who lured me into the House of Usher's trap.”

“Oh.” Eliza bit her lip, and for once she was unable to think of anything to say.

“Yes, ‘oh,' ” Wellington snapped, jerking away from her consoling touch. He leapt to his feet and began to pace the tiny cell with more anger than Eliza had ever seen him display before. “That woman . . . that
vixen
who seduced me so easily is apparently working for these scoundrels!”

“She is a professional,” she offered. “You have to realise that you are—”

“—just an Archivist?” He whirled around and glared at her through his glasses. The light down here was so minimal that they obscured his eyes, but she imagined they were blazing. “Eliza, I am still a trained agent. I should have known!”

“That may be true, but you are first and foremost a man.”

Wellington's head tipped to one side. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“She is a very beautiful woman—well trained to manipulate the male . . .”

“Well,” he crossed his arms, “so are you and yet I have managed to avoid your charms.”

He was so angry that he didn't realise he just paid her a sideways compliment. Eliza laughed. She was genuinely amused. “To be fair I haven't been turning them on to you.” She fixed him with a level gaze. “Believe me, Mr. Wellington Books, Esquire, you would know if I was.”

The silence stretched out painfully.

“Now,” she got to her feet and stood in front of him, “Are you going to be able to act like an agent in Her Majesty's Service and put your injured pride behind you?”

A small muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Please, Wellington.” She wrapped her hands around the bars and tried to wrench his attention away from his humiliation. “If I can put aside what they did to Harry, then you can do this.”

“I suppose,” he muttered, pressing where the upper-breast pocket of his coat would have been, had he not offered it to her.

Eliza furrowed her brow, noticing the gesture. The same gesture. Again and again. “Did they punch you in the chest or something when searching you?”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked. He glanced at where his hand was, looked at Eliza now wearing his coat, and flexed his fingers nervously. “Oh. Oh . . . well, ah . . . yes . . .”

Yes, he might possess the training of an agent, but he was hardly that. He had no ability whatsoever to conceal anything. Eliza glowered at him. “Go on, Welly. Out with it!”

“They . . .” He reached through the bars, and peeled back one of his coat's lapels. “They took it.”

She loathed guessing games. “They took
what
?”

His shoulders sagged as he motioned to the coat she now wore. “My journal.”

Eliza narrowed her gaze on him for an instant and then followed his eyes to his jacket's inside lining, now torn and open. The lining within flapped open. Once upon a time that had been a pocket.

She looked at him in horror. “You had . . .” While it did make sense, considering his habits, his interests, and who he was, something was eluding her comprehension of it all. “. . . that journal, the one with the combination lock? That journal . . .”

“My memoirs.” Wellington brushed his hair back with his fingers, his eyes screwed shut as he continued. “Things I researched for the Ministry, my thoughts on Doctor Sound, on the various agents I worked alongside, my own life, my own musings. It's all in there.”

Of course it was all there. He had the blasted eyesore with him constantly! So, if his life was in there . . .

“What about sensitive Ministry intelligence?”

His eyes met hers and Eliza went pale.

“Doctor Sound . . . ?”

“He knows about it,” he conceded. “It's policy, after all. If you keep a casebook, a notepad, or even a personal journal, it must be registered with the Ministry in case of death, abduction, or loss of faculties. Upon retirement—” Wellington looked around them both, “—provided you live that long, your memoirs would be passed through inspection and then returned to you upon approval. Do any of you field agents bother to learn Ministry regulations?”

Only now did she fully grasp her original orders back in Antarctica.

The clamour at their respective cells caused them both to start. With a low groan, the cell doors swung back, and henchmen entered armed with what appeared to be smaller versions of the Mechamen's Gatling guns. They compensated for the large packs covering their backs, and were not hindered in the least by the tubes that snaked around their forearms and attached themselves to the mini-Gatlings.

Wellington was staring at them in mute fascination. Eliza was beginning to recognise another weakness of her partner's: a love for the gadgets. Through the bars, she jabbed him in the shoulder.

However her own thoughts scattered as, adjusting the cuffs of a very smart after-dinner jacket, Bartholomew Devane entered her cell with Pearson as a second shadow, carrying an assortment of restraints, blades, and devices that she immediately recognised.

Eliza considered the rather imposing phallus on Pearson's tray, nodded, and snapped her gaze back on Devane. “Thank God. Had you come into the cell alone undoing your trousers I thought it would be torture.”

“Witty little tart, aren't you?” he said. He sounded thirsty, and she knew what he was truly craving. Yet he enjoyed stretching the moment a little as he spoke over his shoulder. “Books, is it?” he asked, making her partner jump. “Wellington Books? My attendant here will escort you to see the good doctor.”

“Doctor Havelock?” Wellington asked.

“The very same. He wants a word with you.”

Devane nodded to Pearson who, with a small bow, went from Eliza's cell to Wellington's, training a
pounamu
-decorated pistol on the Archivist.

“I thought you would enjoy the notion of your partner taken down with one of your own bullets.” Devane sneered. “I wouldn't keep the old man waiting.”

Wellington looked to Eliza, his eyes pausing at the tray by Devane before reaching hers.

“It's all right, Books,” she assured him, fully aware of what would be coming next. It was the risk all agents took, and extra incentive in excelling at the job and avoiding capture.

With a hesitant nod, Wellington raised his hands and made his way for the corridor.

“Be seeing you, old boy.” When Wellington reached Eliza's open door, Devane added, “And rest assured, I don't plan to be gentle with the delightful Miss Braun here. I'll be doing what you plainly aren't man enough to do.”

Wellington stiffened, but the soft throat-clearing from Pearson kept him still. With a final look to Eliza, he continued out to the passageway.

“Sentry?”

“Yessah?” the soldier barked, stomping his foot hard against the stone floor.

“You are relieved. So's your man in Books' cell. Assume your post at the main entry.” A sinister darkness flickered in Devane's gaze. “Outside.”

The man looked at Eliza for a moment, then snapped his eyes front. “But, sah, I must—”

“Do as I say,” Devane interjected. “I have my own key. I have the means to leave once I am done with her.”

Eliza refused to flinch, even when he leered salaciously at her.

“Sah?” the soldier asked again.

“Both of you are relieved.” It was no longer a command. It was a warning.

The head sentry gave a nod to the other soldier and both lowered their mini-Gatlings and disappeared into the outer corridor, the door to the detaining area groaning shut. Its large lock catching echoed faintly over the sentries' heavy steps.

“As Doctor Havelock desired some chitchat with your man, Books, he suggested I spend a little quality time with you. A fair trade.”

She could not have really expected the perverted Devane to remain upstairs when the woman he'd been eyeing since her arrival Friday afternoon was conveniently locked up below.

“Trade?”

“I wanted to immediately put a bullet between your man's eyes. As it is in the Society, I do not tolerate deception.” Devane already had slipped his fine jacket free, and was now working on his collar.

Eliza straightened her spine and waited for him to come for her. He would have to come for her.

That would be his first mistake.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Finally the Greatness Wellington Books
so Rightly Deserves Is Thrust upon Him

T
he depths of the chasm opened before them, and Wellington felt the heat wrap itself around him as he drew closer to the massive structure of metal, coils, and cylinders. The main silo reached down into the depths of what could only be the geothermal fissure that Doctor Havelock spoke of during dinner. Around him, gauges read pressure, monitored temperature, and rerouted heat from boiler to boiler. Scientists called out numbers to one another, referenced notations, and nodded as they continued to switch their attentions between the difference engines in front of them and the metallic giant reaching out in every direction. Wellington could also make out smaller boilers that, he theorised, were dedicated to specific rooms of the manor or perhaps different areas of this underground facility. The behemoth looming over all of them was the main reactor, the heart of this subterranean hideout.

“Impressive, isn't it?” the voice asked, ripping Wellington's eyes away from the main boiler to the man walking towards him. Doctor Havelock was dabbing at his forehead, but he appeared to be a man appreciative of the sweat earned when working towards a goal. Wellington could see that in his smile. He himself knew that smile.

“
Take note, Wellington
,” he could hear his father in his head. “
This is a man of fine character.
”

“The actual silo does not do justice to its inside workings. We built the structure in stages, and it was finally completed nearly a year ago.”

“A year ago?” Wellington looked around at the scientists all working diligently, one of them adjusting valves and lightly chewing his bottom lip as he did so. “Are your colleagues—”

“These gentlemen are not my colleagues,” Havelock said, his voice touched with annoyance. “They are competent minds that share my own visions, but they are not my equals—An equal would have mastered this design much sooner than this.”

Wellington nodded. “So if you are the designer, what of this machine's chief engineer?”

“Ah, yes.” Havelock sighed. After a moment of respect, he continued, “Sadly, we had a parting of ways with that Brother a few months ago. Nearly seven months ago, in fact.”

“I see,” Wellington said. “And when this Brother parted company with you—did he burn bridges as well?”

“You could say that,” Havelock said, casting a glance at one of the gauges and slowly, gently, adjusting its accompanying valve.

“And what was his crime against the Phoenix Society?”

“Well, it seems that when his creation exceeded expectation, he desired to take his plans elsewhere for further investment and development. I would not allow it, at least not until we had carried out our First Phase. Well, it seems that Brother Finnes did not care to wait. We were informed of his extending offers to curious investors, and we took matters into our own hands.”

“The Society is quite thorough in covering their tracks,” Wellington conceded. “You've been doing so for centuries, it seems.”

“Yes, and I'm certain that being an Archivist you are passionate of the past, but I am more concerned with the future, Mister Books, or do you prefer Wellington?” Havelock finally looked up. “I want to know about the future, and if I can figure you into it.”

The Archivist blinked. After a few moments, he realised he was staring. In this stunned silence, Wellington hoped he hadn't been standing there with jaw hanging open.

“Forgive me, Doctor Havelock,” he finally said. Suddenly, the heat of the crevasse and the monstrous generator in front of him were no longer a concern. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“How so?”

“I am your prisoner here. The rather ill-mannered treatment from your guards and the ruining of a perfectly good dinner jacket can attest to that,” he grumbled.

“No more ill-mannered than you and that common woman Braun sneaking into our hallowed halls under false pretenses.” Havelock's tone now had an edge of sharpness to it.

Wellington went to retort, but he did have him there.

“Oh, perhaps you could argue ‘for Queen and Country' and some such rubbish, but the fact you had to resort to such underhanded tactics? Disgraceful.”

“Perhaps,” Wellington said, “but considering your own callous regard for human life or your blatant disrespect to the Crown, it would seem that—”

“We are both utter cads,” muttered Havelock.

He gave a curt nod. “Apparently.”

“Cads but with very different agendas.” Havelock motioned with his hand back towards the entrance and, with Pearson well in eyesight, continued as they walked. “Your own agenda, so I gather, is the preservation of the Empire. My agenda, however, is not as so far off from your own. Mine concerns the Empire as well, but I am more committed to returning it to its rightful place in the world.”

“Restoring some of the faded glory, as it were?”

Wellington meant for the question to be a slight, but Havelock was quick to answer with, “Exactly. At one time we were more than just a tiny speck of land in the Atlantic. We were the dominating influence of this planet. We were not just the major power of the world—we
were
the world, the very heart and soul of civilisation! To accomplish what we in the Phoenix Society stand for, Mister Books, we must work in shadow and take risks that the Crown ignore. And considering your field of excellence, you of all people must know how seats of power regard risks. Inspiration cannot nor should not be cast aside so easily.”

The drive and determination in his voice made Wellington turn to look at him. Doctor Deveraux Havelock nursed in his eyes a fire that he had once nurtured in the seminars the Archivist had attended, before the scientist and visionary became the “brilliant recluse” amongst academic circles. Wellington had been impressed with the good doctor's conclusions and theories, but many of them were far too radical or—more to the point—dangerous for science to begin practising.

What Wellington would not admit, even to himself, was how inspirational, how infectious, the man's words were. Sometimes, yes, risk had to be taken in order to push Man forward. It was risk that drove Man out of the caves to evolve, out of the shipyards of Spain to discover the lands across the seas, and away from the Earth itself in order to master the skies in airships.

Seeing this passion up close, however, was intoxicating. “And you want me to be a part of this grand vision of Britannia's future?”

Havelock looked at Wellington and waved his finger at him, his mouth curling back into a positively wicked grin. “Oh now, do not be so humble or modest. I saw the wonder in your eyes when the Mechamen first appeared. That was not your put-upon persona, but true awe. You were impressed by their craftsmanship, their engineering. Then, on seeing their armament, you were completely enraptured.”

A heat rose under Wellington's collar. Yes. Havelock had him dead to rights: the Mechamen were stunning masterpieces of engineering.

“There is no shame in it, Books,” he said, motioning ahead of them. “In fact, it was such a refreshing change to see it. Do you know how many of my Brethren claim to admire and respect my work? While I'm sure they do, in their own simple way, they do not understand it. But you?” He nodded and led the way into another alcove where a gentle breeze chilled the perspiration on Wellington's skin. “I saw a deep understanding, a true comprehension of what I was attempting to accomplish.”

“Attempting?” Wellington laughed. “Doctor Havelock, I think you mean
succeeded
, do you not?”

His host stopped and smiled, his expression gloating. “As I surmised.” He shook his head. “Please do not insult me with masking your admiration, Books. It is hardly complimentary of my labours.”

With a soft chuckle, Havelock continued to a table where a Mechaman laid, the chest plate removed as if work were being done on it. “The servants here are excellent workers, but even their supervisors lack an appreciation for what I have done here.”

Wellington's eyes ran the length of the brass soldier open before them. “Is this one the prototype?”

“No, this particular Mark I just does not seem to function properly. It came off the line and cannot seem to continue basic automaton functions.”

The words stole his breath for a moment. Wellington sized up the Mechaman and then asked, “You say this came off the line?”

“Yes,” Havelock replied, slipping on a pair of thick, rubber gloves. “Assembly line one level down.”

He nodded. When he licked his lips, Wellington was surprised, considering the humidity of the other alcove, at how dry they were. “And this model is number . . . ?”

Havelock placed two fingers at the crown of the Mechaman and read, “Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven,” he repeated. “Of how many?”

It appeared as if Havelock, his hands raised before him, was intending to perform surgery on the automaton; but he paused and motioned behind Wellington before reaching into the metallic chest cavity.

Wellington walked to the edge of the platform, and gripped the railing tight as his eyes took in the cavern floor below. He tried to count the brass obelisks that stood in ranks, but their numbers continued on and on, filling the visible cavern floor that spread open before him. Hundreds on hundreds
on hundreds
of Mechamen, all quiet for the time being. Waiting.

Wellington doubted they were going to be serving dinner, once activated.

“Quite the sight isn't it?” Havelock gestured to him from the workbench, “but I intended for you to see this, actually.”

Tearing himself away from the vista of Mechamen, Wellington returned to his host's side. The contraption before him matched the breadth of Havelock's chest, egg-shaped and comprised of a solid pistons, various rotors, and belts—many belts.

“Not really sure why the engine isn't working. This one starts, but I fail to grasp why it cannot continue running.”

“Seizing up, is it?” Wellington asked, moving the lantern closer.

“Exactly.”

“Are its belts tight enough? Without proper torque, you will fail to get the pistons moving.”

Havelock removed his gloves and then slid a large parchment closer to Wellington. “If you wish to take a closer look at how things are connected, please do.”

The engine, by design, should have been running. With a flathead screwdriver, Wellington tested the belts' tautness; all of them seemed to be giving plenty of tension against their crankshaft.

“Can you vouch for the elasticity of this—” Wellington's brow furrowed. “This isn't rubber.”

“No,” Havelock said gently, “it's what I would call the personal touch to the Mark I Mechamen.”

His concentration went from schematics to device, then back to schematics. This contraption was absolutely inspired: complex in its construction, but very simple in its design and ability to be reproduced on an assembly line.

“I take it,” Wellington began, reaching inside the motor and adjusting a screw, “that you have a shift working down here? Or were these Mechamen assembled at the same plant where your generator was fabricated?”

“Many of my workers do come from that plant. While I did have a falling out with that particular Brother, his workers remained valuable assets. Quite skilled they are. In particular, the children.”

He closed his eyes, feeling his jaw tighten. “I see. And your workers are presently . . . ?”

“Oh dear God, Books, I am not an idiot.” Havelock smiled coldly. “They will not be in until Monday. Sunday is the Lord's Day for the working class, and it keeps them in their place.”

Wellington resumed his work, continuing minute adjustments. “It would appear,” he said, turning the screwdriver slightly, “that whichever child you had assigned to this engine, misunderstood the precision involved and secured your flywheel too tight. These screws are so snug that your mechanics cannot run. I think—” And with a final nod, Wellington straightened up. “Yes, that should do it.”

Havelock considered Wellington for a moment and then reached around the motor, taking a firm grip on a small knob. With a sharp twist, the motor hummed to life, the gears and turbines spinning up and then settling into a constant, comfortable rhythm.

“And you are an Archivist?” Havelock asked.

“A man needs his hobbies out of office,” Wellington replied with a shrug.

“Indeed.”

They watched the motor for a few moments, Wellington's eyes moving between the “heart's” schematics and the final creation itself.

Wellington felt a tightness form in his throat. “These belts, Doctor Havelock, that are assisting this motor—you called them ‘the personal touch' to these Mechamen.”

“I did, Mister Books.”

His eyes closed, a bitterness forming in the back of his throat as he reached his conclusion. “But not
your
personal touch?”