The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (40 page)

The two boys nodded.

“Just stay close, and we’ll make it through,” Christopher assured them. “Good then?”

“Stick close,” Liam repeated.

“We’ll make it through,” Colin said.

Serena nodded in silence.

Christopher looked around their balcony and found a break in it. Motioning to the ornate ladder of dark wood and brass fixtures, the four of them slipped silently down to the main
floor, their footsteps hardly making a sound save for the odd creak or groan from the ladder itself.

All they needed to do now was get to ground level. Their escape would also ensure the escape of Miss Eliza and Mr. Wellington.

“Hello, Christopher,” spoke a voice from behind them.

Christopher spun on his heels, then felt his blood chill as it would when he was in need of a gin. “Callum?”

He looked good, and that was what terrified Christopher deep to his soul. Callum was cleaned up, dressed smart in what looked like a suit from Savile Row, his hair neatly combed and styled with a clean part to one side, his shoes polished. It was as if he had come to the Rothchild, but this wasn’t a flimflam of any sort. At least, not in the way Callum was carrying himself. In fact, the longer Callum looked at Christopher, the more Christopher’s instincts urged him to run.

“So,” the young boy said, walking towards the four of them, “you all look as if you are doing well.”

“We should say the same, ain’t that right?” Christopher returned. He felt something tug at his sleeve and he dared to look at what was causing it. Serena was pale, and looked as if on the verge of screaming. Colin and Liam were not faring any better. “We thought you were done in, we did.”

“Did you now?” Callum nodded. “Is that why you told everyone to run?”

His throat was tingling. Christopher was in desperate need of a drink. “I had to do that, Callum. Was always a rule when on a job, right? We’d come back for ya, if we could.”

“But you didn’t,” he stated. “You watched as that thing cornered me. You ran, you told the others to run”—Callum paused, his eyes sparkling with some sort of light Christopher could only describe as Greek fire—“and you never came for me.”

“Lots been happening, Callum.” Christopher now felt himself backing up, countering each step of Callum’s. His mate looked like he had been well looked after, but there was something unnatural about him now. “We couldn’t come for ya, not that we didn’t want ta.”

The boy shrugged, motioning to the other three of his comrades. “Busy, were we?”

“Mate, the stories we could tell you . . .”

Christopher’s voice died away as Callum came to a halt. “Tell me your stories then.”

The boy disappeared in a blur, then Christopher felt the floor disappear from underfoot. He couldn’t breathe, and there was an uncomfortably tight cinching at his waist. Was Serena finally letting loose that scream she was bottling up? Where were Colin and Liam? Nothing was making any sense, save for the pain at his throat and at his stomach.

Then Callum came into focus underneath him, his smile impossibly wide, threatening to touch his ears; his eyes two pools of flickering red light staring blankly at him. Christopher couldn’t take in a breath as Callum’s hand was around his throat, and his other hand had hold of his pants.

“Tell me all your stories, Chrissy. We have time,” Callum growled. “No one is coming for you.”

Christopher’s hands scrambled for anything to use as a weapon. He felt something thick, and when he tried to lift it with one hand, he found he couldn’t. His other hand swung over him to grab the rest of the massive book he had found, and with a little grunt he brought it around like a giant club.

He hit . . . something.

The book came around again, and again Christopher felt purchase. He looked up, but the Callum-monster stood there with his impossible smile.

Callum inclined his head to one side, waggled his finger as if to say silently
“Now, now, Christopher . . .”
and then he kicked, sending Christopher through the air and over another table of books.

When he took a breath, Christopher was certain by the stinging in his chest that something was either bruised or cracked. It wasn’t like Callum to hold back . . .

. . . unless Callum wanted to.

The table Callum walked up to was easily four times his size and it looked sturdy, but he lifted it as if it were a lady’s purse. He held its polished surface over his head for a moment before bringing it down on Christopher, apparently determined to squash him with one blow. The older boy rolled to one side, the pain in his chest exploding. The agony only drove him to move faster, and he was thankful for that sudden rush as the grand table snapped in two.

“Doctor Jekyll was right,” Callum tittered, tossing his half of the makeshift weapon aside. “This
is
fun.”

“Oye, Callum!”
barked a voice from above them.

The flash consumed the library for a moment, and through grey spots Christopher saw Callum stumble back several steps. He managed a weak smile of relief but it soon disappeared as his former compatriot caught his breath and stood to his full height.

No.
Grow.
Callum was getting larger.

“Ouch,” Callum grunted over the sound of tearing clothes and popping bones.

“Oh, bugger me!” swore Eric.

“My turn!” came a high-pitched voice.

Serena?

Christopher forced himself up to a sitting position to see both Liam and Colin bracing themselves against the girl, providing her sure footing and posture against what was to come. Serena worked the lever action of the Samson and fired. The round sailed past Callum, striking the base of a massive bust of some bloke with long wavy hair. Definitely a toff.

Two minutes,
Christopher thought quickly.

A gruff laugh cut through the silence. “You missed,” Callum growled.

“No, I didn’t,” she said, chambering another shell.

The Samson came up again, and this second shot slammed Callum in the chest. She fired again, sending him back towards the only visible exit. With each shot, he continued to grow, his muscles bursting the seams of his fine shirt and coat while the hems of his trousers continued to lift away from fine, polished shoes.

“Serena,” Christopher called out to her. “What the blazes are you doing?”

“Making him angry,” Serena shouted over Callum’s frenzied howl, his fangs borne in full as his mouth opened wide.

“Why?”

The monster that was once Callum now struggled to stay upright, the black sludge from the Samson stretching across his expanding chest.

“To throw off his balance!” she shouted, just before ducking for cover with the boys.

The first round that had hit the bust exploded, launching the stone statue at Callum. He staggered through the archway, and his scream was abruptly cut off by a more massive explosion and a tearing of wood and metal.

The silence that followed seconds after made Christopher ill.

He was on his feet just as he heard the echo of heavy objects striking a hard surface far away from their library. Christopher braced himself against tables as he hobbled over to where Serena and the two boys were. Liam slipped underneath him as they now dared to cross through the library’s threshold.

The four of them stood at the edge of a grand spiral, a staircase continuing straight down several storeys. Before them, the banister rail running down its winding length had splintered and snapped at the point where Callum and the bust had continued on into space. At the bottom of this pit lay Callum, the bust of the curly haired toff resting against his shoulder. From the unnatural bends in Callum’s body, his neck or his back, or both, had been broken on plummeting from this height. He no longer had the frightening smile, the massive shoulders, or the lumbering countenance of a monster. His chest and parts of his face were covered with burns, and that was all. It was Callum. The Callum they had once known, dressed in the singed tatters of a fine suit from Savile Row.

“It wasn’t Callum,” Liam spoke sombrely, his words echoing all around them. “Not the Callum wot we knew.”

“The mad doctor did this to him, didn’t he?” Colin asked.

Christopher winced as he relieved himself from Liam’s assistance. “Right then, it’s up to you three, and I think you’ll have to go by Callum to get there.” He pointed to the base of the spiral staircase, continuing, “Make sure Mr. Books and Miss Eliza have an escape then, and maybe they will catch us a mad scientist.”

“Stick close,” Liam said.

“We’ll make it through,” Colin muttered.

Serena looked up at Christopher, her gaze hard, especially for a child so young. “Give the bastards wot for.”

The Seven were set, but time was fleeting. They had to get moving. Now.

In Which the Queen Has a Disagreement with Her Subjects

W
ith the fall of his last target, Wellington was able to slip off the control gloves. Eliza saw his wide eyes and pale skin, but she knew they had little time to relax. Below on the street events were unravelling at a rapid pace, even as the smoke from the downed Mechamen blew across London.

Victoria, for one thing, looked very unimpressed. When Eliza looked through the binoculars again, the sweet calm face was twisted with outrage that transformed it into something else.

“Commoners, worms!” The monarch of the Empire was throwing an impressive temper tantrum. Eliza might have found it amusing were it not for the battle armour and the control of terrible forces the woman wielded. The monarch’s battle armour glinted so brightly in the sun that it was almost impossible to see her, gleaming like a bright mote on the steps of the cathedral. Yet she wasn’t a bright beacon that would lead the Empire to greatness. Eliza knew that. Victoria was a dark maw that would suck the Empire into even more war and chaos.

Eliza felt her breath catch when the Queen yelled into the
loudspeaker, “Take it down. The city must be cleansed.
The Empire must be cleansed!
”

At first it seemed like she was just ranting, but then Wellington tugged at Eliza and pointed back to the Thames. The river was rocking wildly in its banks, as more Mechamen emerged from its depths. They must have been waiting in the ocean, and steamed their way towards London in a straight line.

These ones were not painted in mimicry of the American flag. They were a flat, iron grey, and their heads turned towards the East End.

“She needs to be taken down,” Eliza said, tightening the straps on the
plures ornamentum
, now encasing her right arm. Flexing her fingers within the weaponised gauntlet, she felt a jolt of delight. She then reached for Blackwell’s tranquiliser pistol. It was a “close quarters” option they were hoping to employ on Jekyll or the Maestro, but only if the opportunity presented itself.

“A shame you did not take down your
primary
target then,” Sophia said with a savage smirk.

Slinging the bag over her shoulder and getting to her feet, Eliza rounded on the assassin. “Let’s understand one another, dearie—you are here because you serve a purpose. That snap decision I just made about Jekyll, I could just as easily make about you.”

“As intoxicating as some would find two highly skilled women indulging in close-quarters combat,” Wellington grumbled, strapping on weapons as he did so, “might we focus on the task at hand? The grapplers, if you please.”

They had no time to think, no time to become melancholy, and certainly no time to delve into grudges. This was what Sound had told them might be required and they had to do it.

Eliza looked Sophia over from head to toe. “How’s that corset of mine?”

“Finely crafted,” she replied, running her hand along its curve.

“Turn around,” Eliza said. “Let me double-check the lacings.”

“They are fine,” she insisted.

Eliza pinched the back edges and seams of the corset. “So
long as the back remains closed, you’ll be fine.” With a nod, she rapped Sophia on the side. “Let’s get to ground.”

The grapplers had been Sophia’s responsibility, and within moments they were assembled and bolted into their rooftop. Sophia then handed over to Eliza a rifle loaded and primed with a large amount of cable coiled underneath it. They shared a glance with each other, but this time the Italian’s gaze was softer. Sophia nodded and shouldered her own rifle, its grappling hook pointing down to St. Paul’s.

Eliza glanced at her partner, her lover, and her archivist. “Ready?”

He gave a short nod, nothing more, and she saw again the soldier.

“On my mark.” She raised the grappler to her shoulder. “Fire.”

The grappling hook shot its way across the now-heaving street of people and imbedded itself in the masonry of St. Paul’s. Once the rifle was secured to its scaffolding, Eliza cranked its rope taut and then grabbed her own pulley from Sophia. Wellington locked into place his pulley behind her as she secured hers overhead. Eliza went first, leaping into the unknown. A moment later she heard Wellington and Sophia doing the very same, all three of them plummeting into the mouth of madness. The crowd below them was surging in a tide of anger and confusion towards the dais where Victoria had called for a cleansing. They were pushing their way up the stairs, and even the Grey Ghosts, as Sophia had pointed out, were unable to contain them.

On her descent, Eliza spotted the Maestro’s dark bulk amongst the crowd, and he also looked to be having trouble contending with the London citizens driven quite mad by this day of celebration run amok. He was slipping back towards the cathedral doors, his Gatling arm raining death on the citizens while shielded underneath the other arm was Dr. Henry Jekyll. Grey Ghosts were struggling to hold a circle around the monarch while she screamed to the sky, striding backwards and forwards in her insanity. Getting closer to the end of the line, Eliza could see the monarch’s face red and twisted, a far cry from the serenity she’d displayed in the portraits of her younger days. Whatever Jekyll had done to Victoria, it was not without a price.

Eliza dropped to her feet and rolled back up as smoothly as if she were a circus performer, but that was the only thing that would be smooth. Wellington and Sophia landed almost as elegantly next to her, but the Queen rounded on them just as quickly. Her eyes were darting left and right as though she couldn’t focus, but the hiss of her armour as she swung at them seemed precise enough.

Subduing this mad Queen was going to be the tricky bit.

Eliza split off to the right, while Wellington and Sophia darted left. The New Zealander had Blackwell’s Experimental drawn, but no one had quite anticipated the Queen in battle armour. This little surprise now made the diminutive Victoria a tough nut to crack.

Wellington ducked a metallic left hook, but nearly found himself caught by Victoria’s sword swinging in her right. Sophia attempted to get in close as well but the Italian was knocked clear by a well-placed foot to the midsection. Perhaps it was the concoction created by Jekyll, the madness induced by his treatments, or a bit of both, but the Queen fought with a ferocity that would make rugby players envious. The armour also sported a ridge that protected the Queen’s neck from Eliza’s angle. She needed a higher vantage point or to get closer, both options impossible at present.

With Victoria turning back towards Wellington once more and Sophia pulling herself back to her feet, Eliza saw her chance, mad as it was.

“Sophia!” she shouted, tossing the tranquiliser gun to her.

Flipping three new switches on the
plures ornamentum
, Eliza thrust her hand forwards, fingers splayed out wide, just as Axelrod had instructed. She saw the space between her palm and Victoria’s shield ripple and warp, the distortion throwing Victoria off-balance. The shield ripped free from her left arm as the monarch twirled like a top before clattering to the ground.

Eliza flipped a blue switch on the
plures ornamentum
and reached in the direction of the shield. The metal trembled for a moment and then flew into Eliza’s grasp.

“Sweet as,” she cooed to herself.

The Queen’s gaze locked on her, but Eliza turned her attention to Sophia, crouched down with the shield, and tapped its
edge. It was their one shot, and when Sophia’s eyes lit up, Eliza knew the assassin recognised it as well. Sophia sprinted for the grounded shield; and when Eliza felt her foot press against it, Eliza flipped on a small motor within the
plures ornamentum
and thrust the shield upward.

Sophia, propelled by Eliza’s shield, soared high above the fight. At the top of her arc, she fired. The dart found the Queen’s neck without fail or doubt.

It was when Eliza turned to face Victoria that she heard the Queen release an ungodly scream. When she crashed to the ground, her battle armour making a dull
clang
, the enraged mob pushed forwards again.

Both British citizens and Grey Ghosts parted at the report of a Gatling gun. This roar of munitions Eliza could distinguish over the chaos on account of a whine crying from high-pressured steam engines.

Emerging from the melee came the dark, hooded figure of Agent Maulik Smith, his “Queensbury Rules” angled upwards, away from any bystanders. His cannon dealt more damage to St. Paul’s exterior, but its terrifying sound was enough to push the crowd in several directions, all away from the dias.

A wild scream made Eliza jump. A Grey Ghost materialised from the haze and smoke, his face twisted and malformed as if his body were a wax statue left out in the noonday sun. He bore a similar Gatling to Maulik’s; but in his maddened state, he looked to Eliza as if he had forgotten how the gun worked. The Maestro’s man was now wielding it like a club.

Something cut the air in front of her with a loud
whoosh
, and a flash of metal accompanied by brilliant blue feathers caught her eye. Eliza watched as the
taiaha
cracked into the the bridge of the man’s nose and then engulfed his face in white-hot steam. The Ghost stumbled back, giving Office Director Aroha Murphy enough time to step between him and Eliza.

“Kia ora,
Eliza
,”
Aroha called over shoulder as she twirled the metallic staff in her hand. “Stubborn buggers, these
pakeha
in grey.”

Her taiaha sliced through space again, slamming into the Ghost. Aroha flipped a switch just under her thumb and a crooked, blue bolt of lightening arched between the Maori
weapon and the soldier. He was still collapsing to the ground by the time Aroha returned the staff to her side.

“That’s new,” Eliza said.

“An exciting age of science we live in. Best to keep up,” Aroha returned, casting her gaze left to right. “Maulik and I saw something happen to these Grey Ghosts in the streets. We think Jekyll’s loaded their gun-packs with something other than bullets. We thought you could use the help.”

“We’ve got to get the Queen out of here!” Eliza shouted over the roar of the crowd.

“Working on it,” Wellington replied, struggling against a howling Victoria, appearing to be fighting against her own armour.

“Grab her and get inside!” Sophia insisted, grabbing her other side.

“But the Maestro and Jekyll are in there, as well!” Eliza said.

“Really?” Maulik asked. He glanced at the pressure gauges on his Gatling and nodded. “We should pop in and give our regards then, shouldn’t we?”

“You all go on,” Aroha said. “I should be able to hold off any scrappers if they try to follow.”

Eliza placed the
plures ornamentum
on the Queen’s chest and felt the hard connection between her open palm and the monarch’s armour. Moments after picking her up with assistance from Wellington and Sophia, she felt the heat. Eliza’s gaze went to the Queen. Her skin was scarlet red and almost bubbling, as though demons were stretching to get out from it.

The din of the outside crush diminished as they managed their way into St. Paul’s Cathedral, but soon came the echoes of Grey Ghosts charging through the sacred church. They were not as tortured as the one who’d attacked Eliza, but they appeared just as mad. Maulik rounded his Queensbury Rules on them and the steam-powered cannon filled the cathedral with such volume that Eliza believed the stained glass around them would shatter.

Eliza released her magnetic grip on the Queen and went to secure the doors behind them.

“She’s having a reaction to that tranquiliser,” she said as her gauntlet ripped away the doorknobs on their side. Provided
anyone got past Director Murphy—highly unlikely—it wouldn’t keep the mob out completely; but by that time, they would be gone, provided the Seven had followed their orders.

“Could it be warring with Jekyll’s serum?” Sophia offered, attempting to pry Victoria out of her armour.

“Finally!” Wellington managed access to what appeared to be a small release lever. The suit suddenly disgorged its contents, sending the Queen sprawling across the cathedral floor, writhing, furious, and spitting.

“You wretched traitors,” she slurred, her skin still scarlet while beads of sweat ran from her temples. “I will have you all executed.”

“Well, something is happening. She doesn’t even appear winded,” Wellington said. “We have to calm her somehow.”

“Your Majesty,” Eliza began, offering her free left hand to her. “We are your humb—”

“Foul, ignorant colonial!” Victoria snapped as if she were a rabid dog. “Get your hands off me!”

The woman’s defiance seemed to echo in St. Paul’s for a moment, driving home to Eliza D. Braun just how difficult Victoria was going to make this extraction. So with the hand rejected by her sovereign, Eliza did the next best thing that came to mind.

Eliza punched the Queen hard in the jaw with an impressive left hook.

When she slumped backwards, Eliza caught Wellington’s gaze, and shot out before he could complain. “Calm enough?”