George Mann - The Immorality Engine

“It’s disgusting,” Veronica said.

“It’s remarkable,” replied Newbury. “Truly remarkable. But wrong in every sense. What they’re doing here with these bodies, what Fabian is doing to Amelia… it has to be stopped.”

Veronica looked again at the sickening face of the body in the tank. Yes, it had to be stopped. But first they had to get out of there alive. “Come on,” she said, ushering Newbury back the way they had entered.

They left the strange, throbbing sphere and exited the cavern, returning to the tunnel system beyond.

Veronica selected one of the two remaining passages, but Newbury stopped her, tugging her in the other direction. “No, let’s try this way,” he whispered. Shrugging, she followed him towards the sound of hammering metal.

The tunnel wound for a short way before once again opening up into a large chamber, not dissimilar to the cavern from which they had just come. She realised there was probably a whole network of natural caves in the bedrock here, and that the Bastion Society had co-opted them for its nefarious use. It made a perfect hiding place, with space enough to hide an entire army.

And that, Veronica realised with awe as she looked out across the chamber, was exactly what they’d been doing.

The cavern was a hive of industry. She pressed herself flat against the tunnel wall, keeping back as she peered cautiously over the edge. “My god,” she whispered, more to herself than to Newbury. “It’s an armoury.” She could hardly believe her eyes.

Row upon row upon row of gleaming brass horses, just like the ones they had seen at the demonstration in Piccadilly Circus, stood in serried ranks awaiting riders. There must have been fifty of them, if not more, shining under the electric arc lamps that filled the armoury with brilliant, dazzling light.

The horses themselves looked new and unused, fresh off the production line. They were a small army unto themselves. Unlike the ones they had seen in action, these were each adorned with deadly looking weapons. Gatling guns hung off the sides of the saddles on pivots, ready to be directed and fired by the mounted riders as they charged into battle. The multibarrelled guns were a far cry from the flaming braziers and jousts the demonstrators had been playacting with in the street.

Men in grey suits and bowler hats, but wearing leather smocks over their jackets, were bustling between the horses, tinkering with the delicate clockwork innards, refining and improving. Others were checking the Gatling guns’ ammunition belts, which snaked away into the hindquarters of each mechanical animal.

Elsewhere in the chamber other men were preparing rows of projectile weapons. These took the form of long cylinders mounted on tripods, with large cranking handles that would allow the firing mechanisms inside to be wound. They were mobile cannons, she realised, light and easy to transport, and simple to fire without the need for gunpowder or other explosives. She imagined them raining fiery Hell on the palace.

Worse still was the row of ten enormous armoured suits that stood motionless against the far wall. These were more like robotic chassis than the suits of mediaeval armour they were clearly modelled to represent. They were ten feet tall and adorned with the heraldry and insignia of the Bastion Society, supported by an exoskeleton covered in shining armour plating. The faux-mediaevalism was bizarrely at odds with the pistons and pneumatic joints that were bolted onto the frame to power it. Veronica could see where a man could climb inside the machine, inserting his arms and legs into braces so that he could use the movements of his own body to direct the corresponding movements of the exoskeleton. A large steel cowl appeared to fold down from above to protect the driver’s head, echoing the visor of a knightly helmet. The things must have weighed tonnes, but the power at the disposal of the operator would be phenomenal.

It was clear the Bastion Society was readying itself to strike. Veronica was astounded by all the machinery hidden down there in those catacombs beneath the city, a secret army preparing for a personal war. This was how they were going to storm the palace, charging in on shining clockwork steeds, their weapons blazing.

They really did believe they were latter-day knights, Veronica realised, upholding the spiritual beliefs of their cause to ensure the salvation of their nation. It was utter madness, but it was real. The assault on the palace was actually going to happen. Until now it had seemed like a surreal, nebulous threat, detached from her more pressing concerns. But seeing their war machines here, ranked up and prepared for battle, the reality of the situation came crashing in.

In a strange sort of way Veronica admired their courage. She couldn’t agree with their methods-of course she couldn’t-but at least they were doing something. At least they weren’t as apathetic as the rest of the population, sitting idly by as everything turned to chaos around them. They were prepared to stand up for what they believed in, even if that belief was ultimately misplaced.

Veronica could tell by the look on Newbury’s face that he had come to a similar conclusion. But it didn’t change anything. We have to stop them, he mouthed silently.

Veronica shook her head. “We need to get out and warn the palace.” Two of them against a small army-they’d never be able to pull it off. They’d just end up getting themselves captured again, or worse. As it was, the guards had probably realised they were missing from the cell by now and would be mounting a search.

She surveyed the armoury chamber. There would be no use searching for an alternative exit in there. Even if there was one to be found, the sheer amount of people milling about meant they’d never be able to move around unseen. She pointed back towards the junction. “Third time lucky?”

Veronica was relieved to discover that this time the passage soon made a dogleg and began climbing towards the surface again along a gentle incline. She’d lost her bearings as they’d woven through so many tunnels, but she had the sense that they were now climbing parallel to the passage that had contained their cell.

As they climbed, it became clear that the older tunnels were in fact part of a mausoleum complex. Here, the walls were lined with macabre burial alcoves, each containing the remains of the long-ago dead. Some were elaborate coffins, tooled from blocks of glistening marble. Others had once been wooden caskets but had disintegrated over time, leaving only dusty skeletons behind.

Veronica spotted one alcove that was entirely filled with human skulls, piled up one upon another to form a wall of haunting skeletal faces, staring out at her silently from their empty sockets. She shivered with a sudden chill, and didn’t know whether it was the temperature or the realisation of how many people had died to fill that single alcove. She wondered if it dated back to the plague.

There would be other, more recent mass graves all over London now for people to stumble upon in centuries to come-the victims of the Revenant plague, turned into shambling flesh-hungry monsters, rounded up by squads of soldiers, and destroyed. Many of the corpses had been ferried out to sea, dumped in vast loads over the side of the plague ships, but others had been interred in huge graves excavated by an army of steam-powered diggers. The plague continued to burn through the population of the slums, hundreds of people falling to its clutches every day. And so the diggers remained busy, carving up the landscape to find room for the ever-increasing piles of corpses.

Veronica dragged her eyes away from the heap of skulls. She realised Newbury had wandered off again, and she found him inside a small doorless room a little farther up the passage that had been converted from a tomb. She ducked her head beneath the lintel and stepped inside. She was immediately assaulted by a dry, musty smell of dust and decay. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.