Phoenix Rising (39 page)

This was going to take some balls of steel
, as Second Kate would have said.

Devane squawked when Eliza jammed the knife harder against his neck and a trickle of blood began to stain his shirt. “Tell your man there to drop my gun, get cozy in a cell, or I make him unemployed.”

The valet's gaze flickered to the aristocrat—yes, that had indeed hit home.

“Never,” Devane bluffed. “He'll blow your partner's brains all over this room if you do.”

Eliza laughed, sounding cruel and icy even in her own ears. “Oh that's priceless. You think I give a toss about him?”

She half-expected Wellington to look as if she had hit him in the face with a brick with such a comment, but he took no notice. He was whispering to himself. Whispering . . . numbers?

“He's your partner,” the valet growled. She watched her pistol push harder into the back of Wellington's skull, making him wince.

Still, the Archivist's counting remained constant.

Eliza in turn yanked her prisoner tighter against her. “He was the only toff the agency could find at short notice. And considering that git kept me silent and obedient all weekend—do you feel like gambling that I even remotely like him?”

A taut instant passed, with valet and master sharing a somewhat panicked look. That was when a huge sound echoed down the rock corridors of the prison, and then another rumble—this one far louder that the first one. The concussion shook the prison then shook as if it were a piggy-bank and a giant child was demanding the last farthing from it. Wellington and Pearson lurched forward. Chunks of rock fell from above them. One of the empty cells buckled. In the confusion, Eliza gave Devane a quick twist with her chain, throwing him against the bars of her cell.

Alarms blared. There were shouts outside, some of them orders and others screams of panic. “If only I had time to really work on you,” she hissed in Devane's ear before slamming his head into the cell bars again.

“Miss Braun!” Wellington grunted, trying to roll the large butler off. Pearson had been rendered unconscious thanks to a fist-sized rock connecting with the back of his skull, so the butler's head told her. “A little assistance now would be quite grand, don't you think?” the Archivist wheezed.

Fishing the key out of Devane's pocket, she freed herself, slipped back into Wellington's jacket, and reclaimed her armaments. Outside there was plenty of chaos unfolding. If they were very lucky, amidst the klaxons and damage crews, there might be smoke to go with it.

“Damn fine timing,” she grunted through gnashed teeth as she lifted while Wellington pushed at Pearson. “It's too much to hope for a shock team I suppose.”

“I would have warned you about the blast,” he gasped, once Pearson was off him, “but I lost count somewhere in the tunnel and had to start again. They opened my journal without the combination, and . . . well, it is too complicated to get into now, but without the proper sequence, the whole things turns into—”

“A bomb?” Eliza's eyebrows shot up. “A man after my own heart. You kept an incendiary device within reach this whole time?”

Wellington adjusted his glasses. “That wasn't its
primary
purpose.”

Laughter burbled out of Eliza. “Oh, you are such the Don! We could have used something like that to stop the carriage, incapacitate the Italian—or a hundred other things!”

“But it's my
journal!
” Wellington protested, “I didn't want to blow it up.”

That was the mark of a true archivist, she supposed, but she wasn't going to mourn the loss of some papers when it could have been them.

“There are the carbon copies in my desk I suppose,” he muttered, “But it will take some time to—”

Eliza reunited her
pounamu
pistols with each other and then tapped Wellington on the forehead. “I think we can sort out your journal issues later—say, when we are safely back in the Archives?”

“Ah yes, good point.” Wellington adjusted his collar and straightened slightly. “So it is your pair of pistols against all those guards and a madman?”

“Looks to be about the size of it.”

“And we have no Ministry backup, and no escape plan whatsoever?”

“Let me think on that . . .” she said, pulling back the pistols' hammers. “No, none of those to speak of.”

“So we're going to have to stop Havelock alone then, while trying to escape with our lives and any hard intelligence we can gather?”

“Yes, Books.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Working on one,” she replied brightly. “Be a dear and get the door, will you? My hands are full.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Wherein Our Heroes Face Inner Demons

T
he earth didn't just rumble underneath them—it rumbled
around
them. Wellington countered his sudden stumble with a push against the rock wall, and he continued forward into the faltering light. When a pair of gaslight spheres exploded above him, he took stock of the various devices he'd seen within Havelock's workshop. Then there was the lower level where the dormant Mechamen stood to take into account. The smaller boilers surrounding the main would also be a matter of concern. These explosions, he surmised, simply would not stop until everything was either consumed by fire or buried under earth and rock.

One spark. That's all it would take. And yet instead of heeding the words of a trained field agent, a woman with an extensive background in explosives, here he was leading a charge back into the belly of the beast, back towards the generator cavern that
at any moment
would become Havelock's Inferno.

“Books! I say, Books! We do not appear to be heading for an exit!” Eliza sounded more than a little concerned.

But this was the right way. This was the path he had walked with Havelock, where they discussed the future, and what a beautiful future. So full of possibilities . . .

His feet skidded against the stone floor as he recognised the alcove. The shudder passing through the rock and Eliza Braun colliding with him knocked him to one side, but she caught him by the forearm and pulled him back upright.

“Stopping, at present, is ill advised,” she shouted.

“This way,” he said, yanking her after him into the tiny tunnel.

The floor underfoot changed from earth and rock to a metal grating, and Wellington was, once more, overlooking the Mechamen's assembly line. His eyes darted over the tables.

And by the glow of a distant explosion, he saw them. They were still there.

He quickly folded up the parchments, catching glances of the Mark I schematics and its related weaponry. It then struck him that, unlike his earlier visit where only the heart-engine plans were open, every last schematic, strangely enough, had been unfurled.

His eyes went wide at the last plan in the pile.
Of course
, he thought,
it made perfect sense, after all.

“Wellington . . .”

The echo of Eliza's voice snapped him back. She had been leaning over the railing all this time, lost in shock at what stood before her. “Look at them. So many . . .”

Wellington shoved his dinner jacket down off her shoulders, grabbed her corset, and pulled. Hard. He pressed his knee against the small of her back and he tugged again, giving himself just enough of a gap to shove the plans secure between her corset and her back.

When he released her, she spun around and slapped him hard.

“Miss Braun!”

“You're lucky you're my partner,” she snapped. “Or that would have earned you a punch!”

With a groan, Wellington pushed her ahead of him. “Come on!”

Their footsteps rang hard against the platform until the explosion ripped through the assembly line. For a moment, it smothered all other sounds—including his own heartbeat. Then the platform buckled and slipped away from underneath them.

Wellington heard Eliza's scream as a vague buzz in his ringing ears. “Jump, Welly!”

She landed hard in the tunnel leading out. At least Wellington assumed that. His own footing had not been as sure as Eliza's. His reaching hands slapped hard against the gangway, and his curled fingers caught like claws into the platform's metallic weave. He chose not to look down for the heat enveloping him was assurance enough of a fire raging underneath his feet.

“Eliza!” he cried out. “Perchance, are you there?”

“I have to be,” came the reply and the welcome feeling of hands wrapping around his wrists. “Otherwise, no one would be available to save your arse, now would they?”

He knew he should have regarded the grunting she gave on hefting him as most unladylike, but he reconsidered, as this remarkable show of strength lifted him high enough to swing a leg onto the platform. With a gasp of his own, Wellington pulled himself up onto its remains, and then blindly reached out ahead of him.

Eliza grabbed his forearm and yanked him close to her. “The first time was for Queen and Country. This time, we're off the clock.” She gave him a rakish wink. “You owe me. Now, this time, Welly,
you
follow
me
.”

They were back in the catacombs, Eliza leading the way, until another explosion rocked them off their feet. The rumbling, however, seemed to only grow more intense.

“Cave in!” Wellington pushed Eliza to the ground and covered her body with his.

The smell of earth filled his nostrils as the chamber began to collapse upon itself. He tightened his hold on Eliza as the rumble grew to a roar. Wellington gave a few hard coughs but thanked God that, yes, he could still find air.

Above him, pieces of the ceiling broke free. “Ow . . . Ow . . . Ow . . . Ow . . .” he complained as fist-sized stones struck hard against his back.

And then the rumbling subsided. Smaller rocks and pebbles still fell around them, only to disappear into shadow and dust. Mercifully Wellington felt nothing broken, and they managed to land clear of the newly-formed wall. Wellington could still see light from the Mechamen factory through a dusty brown haze that thickened with each passing second.

“Welly,” came a muffled voice from underneath him, “I think the cave-in has ceased for the moment—you can get off me now.”

“Ah, yes.” Wellington wheezed as they clambered to their feet. “Quite.”

The stillness was short-lived as another treamour rippled through the soles of their shoes.

“Back the way we came,” she said, pulling him into a run that matched her own. “Our only way out now.” They passed through a pair of junctions before Eliza asked between gasps, “Just how potent was that journal of yours?”

“I never did quite calculate how much of the ink was combustible, or its reaction with the leather's natural oils, or attempt an accurate—”

They froze in their escape as two shadows disturbed the haze. Her
pounamu
pistols were up and firing, and both soldiers dropped. Of course they weren't alone down here. Now they had more than cave-ins and explosions to concern themselves with.

As Eliza checked bullets, disarmed corpses, and removed supply belts, she spoke over her shoulder, “So the explosion's potency was based on how much ink was between the pages, you say?”

“Oh yes, that was the idea behind the device. A portable munitions dump, as it were.”

She chortled, grabbing the rifle and doing a final pat down of the soldier's body. “That must have been some read.”

Eliza had another pair of pistols in the belt now slung over her shoulder, added to her own
pounamu
pistols holstered in a belt cinched around her waist. She gripped the rifle, priming it to fire; and between both belt's various pouches were plenty of shells and bullets. Their chances had just improved exponentially.

A pistol remained in a dead man's grasp. Her focus flicked back and forth several times from it to Wellington.

“I could always carry it for you,” he offered.

“Damn it all,” she spat before continuing on.

They followed the drone of generators struggling to continue their work, the masterpiece of Havelock's devising futily defying the destruction that ripped at the manor's foundations. Both of them shielded their eyes from the glare and flames; but through the ripples of heat, another walkway could be seen hugging the cavern wall.

“Move fast!” Eliza said, gripping the Martini-Henry with both hands. “Let's hope the good doctor was a talented architect as well as an engineer!”

Ignoring the shuddering underfoot, Wellington and Eliza pushed forward through the massive boiler room, their eyes never leaving the stairwell that reached up to safety and freedom. Wellington wanted to rest. His lungs burned, and he was so bloody hot, but any hesitation on his part was countered by Eliza's insistence.

They had just managed to reach the first gangway when a horrific roar from the cavern's mouth caused their escape staircase to shake and then list. It could not have been more than two degrees Wellington calculated, but they both felt it.

“Climb!” he urged. The exit was only another two landings away. They could make it. “Climb!”

“Yes, yes,” Eliza fired back, “I get the idea!”

They now skipped every other step, and Wellington felt his legs protesting. His breath was coming in short gasps.

At the top of the stairwell, Wellington heaved open the iron hatch, shoving Eliza in before him. His own foot crossed the threshold when a loud grating echoed in the crevasse. The stairwell was no longer keeping its hold within the rock. As it began to fall, another sound reached Wellington's ears: the low groan of iron under immense pressure. Superheated water collected in the smaller boilers was now attempting to send its collected power somewhere—
anywhere
—but there were no scientists or attendants at the valves to manage it. Through walls of steam and smoke though he could see those very scientists and attendants. They were no longer manning their stations. They were trying to find a way out.

Wellington pulled himself back into the relative coolness of this new chamber where he had sent his partner, and slammed shut the iron hatch. He heard and felt a dull thud from the other side of it, soon followed by the rapid clattering of metal. Welts the size of Wellington's palm appeared across the iron door, and he stumbled back, holding his breath.

The boilers had now successfully undergone their transformation from engineering miracles to bombs. Their time was now entirely borrowed and accruing interest quickly.

Wellington looked around him. Where was Eliza? There was only one way out of this antechamber; and as his own heartbeat calmed, he could now hear what sounded like a rifle being fed shells. He left the muffled destruction of Havelock's Mechamen factory behind him, and emerged into the light of another open cavern, not as deep underground as the main reactor room but still as open and vast.

He looked down to see Eliza loading a final shell into her rifle, her back pressed hard against a wide stalagmite. “Well, that was a close—”

Her hand dug into his vest and shirt and yanked him down to the rock floor. The bullets came next, tearing away at the cave wall where he had been standing an instant before.

The treamour coming through the ground was quick and sharp, so intense that it nearly lifted Wellington. Then it came again. And again. He knew these treamours were not aftershocks. They were deliberate. Rhythmic. Something large—
very
large—was causing it.

He didn't have long to wait. Wellington could now see it—well, most of it. He craned his neck up and up, but the very top of this Mechaman still remained hidden. While it stood only a third as tall as Big Ben, it looked sturdy enough to take down the landmark. It was an identical build to the smaller, faster Mark I, but this larger version carried a driver inside of its head, or perhaps two. Wellington could not be certain, having only glanced at the plans before stuffing them into Eliza's corset.

Peeking around the stalagmite that served as his shield, Wellington could now see more of where their escape had led them. This large cave outfitted with metal scaffoldings and cranes would have looked more appropriate in a shipyard than underneath a country estate. At the feet of this metallic leviathan walked a modest front line of five infantrymen wearing the same portable Gatling they had seen on their cell masters.

“Lucky us.” Eliza said. “We found the armoury.”

“And Doctor Havelock's other experiment, it would seem.”

She slipped her finger around the rifle trigger. “His
other
experiment?”

“The Mechamen, he referred to as the Mark I. When I was gathering up the schematics from his workshop, I glimpsed at the plans for these monsters: the Mark IIs.”

A second pair of poundings could be felt. They had two giants bearing down on them now. Eliza splayed her fingers across the rifle and took in a deep breath. “You didn't happen to glimpse at any vulnerable points on this Mark II, did you?”

Wellington stared back at her blankly.

“It was worth the asking.” She cast a glance at a pistol lying idly beside her. It was one of the tricks from Basic Field Training: always keep a reserve on the ground just in case. “Are you sure I can't convince you to pick up a weapon?”

“
Go on, lad, pull the trigger
,” scolded his father. “
Every proper gentleman knows how to shoot!
”

His mouth opened to reply, but Eliza was already shaking her head. “Well, mate, if you decide to change your mind, do let me know—preferably before we are both killed!”