Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (29 page)

She could
understand, therefore, what it meant to me. Though I was not an
emotional man, and I usually did not share, on occasion I had told
her of some of my experiences. And I had never once spoken of them
in a wondrous way.

War was a
horrible thing.

‘
No one would have to fight again,’ she continued, that fervour
still strong in her words. ‘All of our problems would be
solved.’

I couldn't
help it; though my eyes had been locked on some innocuous part of
the tablecloth, now I slowly looked right at her.

All our
problems would be solved? All it would take were new devices. New
machines. New technology. Better than that which we currently had.
For obviously that which we had now was not powerful enough to fix
all of our problems. With simple carts and steam engines and roads
and ships you could not feed the poor, you could not heal the sick,
and you could not stop yourself from going to war. Yet with
spotting scopes crammed over your eyelids, hands replaced with
swords, and fingers clicking with cogs and wheels, all of those
wonders were in reach?

I doubted
it.

For these
devices did not signal a time of peace, a golden age of humanity,
one where our morals would finally increase to match our power.

All they
signalled was power.

And all they
would enable, was the powerful to become more so.

The likes of
Lord Ridley, the likes of Doctor Elliot Esquire.

War would not
disappear, and I could guarantee poverty would not either.

Perhaps in the
hands of good men, modernity could bring enlightenment.

But there were
precious few good men in this world.

‘
Michael, I know how much war affected you,’ she locked me in
that careful, caring gaze of hers, and would not look away, even
when I did, ‘but if we embrace this new technology, we can finally
be free of war. Nobody will have to fight any more.’

Nobody would
have to fight any more?

I did not dare
tell Elizabeth she was being painfully naive, but she was. Not
because her sentiment was impossible. As I had already admitted, in
the hands of good men, perhaps with technology you could eradicate
humanity’s plights. Yet in the hands of ordinary men, you would
magnify them.

For ordinary
men want one thing: power. More resources, more land, more
security, and a brighter future for themselves.

People are
self-serving.

Perhaps not
inherently, but as a rule of thumb, most men act to survive, often
at the cost of others.

Lord Ridley
was a fantastic example of this. He took from others to feed
himself. He gathered and gathered and gathered, more than he would
ever need, and as he gathered, he deprived those around him.

He was a
proponent of the modern age, one even more vociferous than
Elizabeth.

Unless we
changed as a people, modernity would not bring our heart’s desires;
it would not satisfy the deepest dreams of humanity. It would
merely continue our journey along a different backdrop.

War would
continue. You could mark my words. For there was something deeply
rooted in the soul that would fight for possessions. Until you
found a way to mollify that monster, there would be no peace.

‘
Michael, I know it is hard to believe, especially considering
what you have done and what you do, but I just know my father's
vision is right. If we can find enough food, if we can find enough
houses, and if we can offer people enough security, then of course
we will all be happy.’

Now perhaps
that was a sentiment I could agree with. Enough food, enough
habitation, and enough security. Yes, humanity could and would
blossom under such circumstances. Whether they had technology to
help them, however, was irrelevant.

Realising I
was powerfully cynical, and knowing precisely why, I forced myself
to give a far friendlier smile now. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ I
conceded.

‘
So accept his help,’ Elizabeth smiled warmly, her cheeks
pushing prettily into her eyes. ‘My father may have devices to help
you.’

Devices to
help me. Of course he did; of course Mr. Stanton had numerous
little trinkets up his sleeve to assist me in my task.

Yet right now
I could barely think of them. Because right now the word device,
and the idea of this modern age, brought up one fact. One
memory.

Twincy
Quinn.

I was almost
100% certain that devices had enabled her to do the things she had
managed. And I could not tear from my memory the view of her
stepping backwards off the clock tower.

Those skirts
of hers flying wildly around her rapidly falling body; that image
would be with me for life.

Snapping a
hand up a little too quickly, I planted it over my left eye and
pressed my fingers hard into the skin, dropping my gaze to my side
as I did.

‘
Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to bring up the kidnappings,
I understand it must be stressful,’ she added.

She was not,
unlike the butler, being condescending. She was being genuine,
perhaps too genuine.

The
kidnappings were stressful, and I could no longer hide from that
fact, as I could no longer hide from the fact that I was far too
deeply involved in this situation.

I needed
clarity.

And fast.

Devices or
not, Twincy Quinn aside, the kidnappings continued. I had to do
something other than berate myself and think endlessly through the
permutations and possibilities.

Resigning to
the fact I had to get a hold of myself, I suggested we ordered
dessert, and then I sat back, encouraged Elizabeth to talk, and
listened with half an ear and half a mind.

Twincy
Quinn

It happened
when I was half way home.

I had taken an
extremely circuitous route, doubling back on myself multiple times.
If anyone were following me, I wanted to give them the run around.
At the same time, I'd used those precious seconds and minutes to
still myself. I gained perspective on my situation, and I calmed
down. Though it sounded impossible, I managed it.

And the more I
calmed, the sharper my senses became.

I did not want
to head straight back to the abandoned warehouse and the children
until I knew for sure Butler was nowhere around. And the only way
to do that was to increase the acuity of my senses until I was
certain that no devices were nearby.

Yet when I was
almost satisfied I was done, and the thought of returning home to a
hot bath suddenly sprang up in my mind, I heard something.

Whistling
towards me.

An odd sound.
An extremely strange and unique hiss that tore through the air. It
was as if something were punching through the sky at a horribly
horrendous pace.

I paused.

I shouldn't
have.

I was still on
one of the roofs of London, one of my boots propped up against a
gutter as my shoulders angled this way and that, my eyes scanning
the night sky around me.

Then I saw
it.

At first it
was nothing more than a black shape. A black shape speeding towards
me at an unimaginable pace.

I reacted.

It was far too
late.

Something shot
across the rooftop, so fast I could not track it, and then it
exploded, right in front of me.

It was not
like the bang of dynamite; it did not send flames and shrapnel
buffeting against me. Neither was it a cannon ball or some other
form of artillery.

It was a thin
cylinder, and when it exploded, it sent a net, thick and large,
cascading out from it.

The net
wrapped around me, sharp and heavy hooks locking it into place.

Though I was
strong, it had been such a surprise that I had not reacted fast
enough.

With the net
ensnaring me, I could not regain my balance, and I tipped backwards
off the roof.

I plunged down
to the alleyway below. Though I was only standing two stories up, I
did not have the chance to land on my feet. I could not move in
this net; it encased me like miles and miles of a spider web.

So I struck
the cobble on my side. My arm, my hip, my legs, and my head.

I pounded into
the street and I cracked it.

A surge of
pain washed through me.

I was not
broken though.

Yet I was
hardly safe either.

As I tried to
struggle against the net, I began to feel something.

The approach
of devices.

Strong, moving
fast, not as fast as the net had moved when it had sailed across
the rooftops, but fast enough that my eyes strained hard against
the net covering my face, and my heart beat so frantically that it
shook its way through my crumpled body.

I was
trapped.

Esquire was
obviously attacking.

Butler.

He was behind
this.

Knowing I had to get out of this net before any
suitables
or Butler
arrived, I thrashed desperately.

There was a
dull, throbbing pain in my side, rattling up from where I had
landed on the cobble.

I ignored
it.

I also ignored
the fact that I could hear people coming along the lane way from
the end.

They had
obviously been disturbed by the noise of me falling off the roof in
a great big net.

I was
trapped.

While I was
still strong and very resilient, in my current state I could hardly
fight off a group of people. If they were equipped with sufficient
weaponry, they could take me down.

Desperation
now raging, a cold sweat picking up and crossing over my brow,
shoulders, and down my back, I thrashed and thrashed.

Yet the harder
I thrashed, the more the net closed around me. With every movement
against it, somehow it tightened its grip.

I was meant to
be the strongest. I was meant to be the most resilient.

Esquire had
designed me that way.

Yet now,
apparently, he had also superseded me. It had always been a
likelihood. As the doctor continued to create his devices, of
course someday he would create some weapon or some piece of
technology that could overcome me with ease.

I had only
hoped that day would not come for months, if not years into the
future. And I had relied on John and Vanessa and Carolyn and
Theodore to help invent devices and weapons of our own.

I was more
than desperate now.

As I heard
footfall approach from down the lane way, at exactly the same time
I felt that unique sensation warning me that devices were
approaching faster and faster, nearer and nearer.

For the first
time I screamed. It was not loud, it certainly did not carry far,
but it made its way out of my tightly closed throat. It was
rattling, it was slight, and in many ways it was pathetic.

And it
underscored how trapped I was.

Yet at the
same time I did not give up.

For I could
not.

I kept
thrashing, then I stopped.

I often
described myself as a creation with a purpose. A machine that had
been built to the design of its master.

Yet deep down
I did not believe that.

Deep down I
understood that some of my resilience, some of my intelligence,
some of my determination, stemmed from myself. The unaltered side
to my body, the intact section of my soul.

I had my own
intelligence. A sense of street wisdom, my own interpretation of
the world, even my own morals.

And in my
quiet moments, I admitted to myself that perhaps, one day, they
would prove to be more powerful than the changed half of my
body.

If only I
learnt how to rely on them.

I stopped
thrashing.

For I started
to appreciate that the more I struggled, the more I became
trapped.

If I wanted to
fight this device, I had to do so with sense, not strength.

People were
approaching, and I heard them mumble to themselves, obviously
seeing in the dim light of the lane way that there was a woman tied
up in a net, her extraordinary skirts bunched up and peeking out
the holes of the tightly woven rope.

I let my head
rest down on to the cobbles, my feet no longer kicking and
scrabbling for purchase.

I closed my
eyes for a brief moment. In that moment, I felt the devices of
Esquire almost upon me.

I thought,
perhaps I also hoped.

I wished for a
solution to come to mind.

And somehow,
one did.

As I stopped
struggling, a strange thing happened; the rope around me loosened.
Certainly not enough for me to break free, yet enough to realise
the net really did react to my movements.

The people
were almost upon me now. I could hear their words perfectly. I also
knew they could do nothing to help.

Staying here
was dangerous. If Butler were in the wrong mood, he wouldn't care
if there was collateral damage. He would go after me using every
device he had, and with every ounce of brute strength contained
within his false body.

Yet despite
the fact I could feel him coming closer and knew I had barely a
minute left, I forced myself to stop moving entirely.

Somehow this
net reacted to me, and I had to use that fact.

The more I
relaxed, the more it relaxed, though once again, not once did it
loosen enough for me to break free.

So I had to
time this perfectly. One sharp powerful movement. As quick and as
strong as I could make it.

I had to punch
my way out of the net in under half a second. I had to make it
count.

‘
My God, what's going on here, is that woman okay?’

‘
She is covered in a net, dear Lord, who has done this to
you?’