George Mann - The Immorality Engine

The operator of the other suit began to slow as he saw what he clearly thought was one of his colleagues in the passage ahead of him, but he realised the truth when he saw her staring back at him from within the armoured enclosure, her face set hard.

He charged forward, raising his arms above his head as he stormed in, hoping to land a double-fisted blow from above. Veronica moved swiftly, however, raising her own arms and operating the claws to intercept the downward motion of the man’s attack, grasping the arms of his exoskeleton in the fists of her own. She shook in her pit with the force of it, but she managed to hold him back.

The man worked to free his arms from her grip, but she held fast, straining with the force by which she had to cling to the controls.

Raising her leg, she kicked out at the other machine and connected with its right leg, just above the knee joint. The steel exoskeleton buckled with the force of the blow, collapsing in on the man’s leg. Veronica heard his thighbone snap as he twisted and howled in agony, trying desperately to back away. She held on to the arms with all her might, keeping him from breaking free.

She realised that this was no fight to the death; all she had to do was find a way to disable the other machine. If she could leave it broken and stranded in the passageway, she’d be able to flee with Newbury without fear of it giving chase.

Veronica, issuing a fearsome scream, kicked out again in an effort to destroy the other machine’s leg. She funnelled all her rage into the blow, all the frustration and disbelief and impotence she’d felt in recent days, all her desperation and worry and pain. To her satisfaction, the steel gave, twisting dramatically out of shape. The man’s leg was utterly ruined inside the brace, and she saw blood spurt from multiple wounds, staining the ground with a spray of dark crimson. She felt a momentary pang of regret, but didn’t have time to dwell on the matter.

Veronica reasserted her grip on the arms and pushed back, walking forward towards the other machine in the hope that her momentum would topple it over. The man tried to struggle, tried to hold his ground, but with his shattered leg he was unable to brace himself. A moment later the exoskeleton tipped over onto its back, taking the man down with it. He howled in pain and frustration.

Veronica backed away, watching the other machine clawing desperately at the walls, trying to find purchase enough to haul itself up. Its broken leg spasmed as the servos fizzed and popped, and the man called out in agony with every twitching movement.

Veronica didn’t have it in her to finish him. She knew others would be along soon to help, and the wrecked, toppled machine would be enough to block their path while she and Newbury made good their escape.

Carefully, she turned the armour around in the passageway, unable to prevent herself from splintering another coffin in a nearby wall cavity as she scraped the sides of the tunnel with the machine’s arm. Newbury was waiting for her up ahead, the bundled plans from the map room clutched in his fist.

“Run!” she shouted as she powered forward in the great machine, one foot after the other, driving herself on towards the surface. Plumes of dust and debris billowed into the air with every step. Newbury, shaking his head in disbelief, trailed behind in her wake.

Enoch Graves sat before the fireplace at his favourite table, surveying the assembled mass of grey-suited men. They lounged about in their armchairs, sipping brandy and smoking cigars, lost in conversation, playing cards, or otherwise relaxing in each other’s company. Just like the knights of old resting before a battle. He wondered if this was how the Knights of Jaffa had passed their time before riding into battle alongside King Richard, sacrificing their lives to bring enlightenment to the heathens. He imagined so.

Graves smiled with pride. Every man he could see formed a part of his flock. He commanded them all, and each of them was content in the knowledge that he would lead them to glory. Theirs was the noblest of causes, and he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that they would prove themselves triumphant in the coming hours. He yearned for that time to come. His moment of glory could not arrive too quickly.

These moments sitting in the great hall amongst his men were the last calm hours before the oncoming storm. This was the eve of their sacrifice, the day they would take up arms and set in motion the chain of events that would topple the blasphemous monarchy that sat incumbent on the throne of England. Victoria’s reign would end. He smiled at the thought of it. When his spirit returned to the Earth in its next life, a new time of prosperity would have settled on England.

Graves searched the crowd for Warrander, but could not see him. Most likely he was down in the armoury overseeing the eleventh-hour preparations. He’d always been conscientious-a pedant, even-unable to rest until he knew that everything was in its right place, all the preparations had been checked and checked again. Graves wanted to share a drink with him, to raise a glass in his honour, for delivering the means by which they would achieve their aims. Then he would return to the hanging room and carve out the tongue of his duplicate; a precaution against future judgement if he were to die in the forthcoming battle.

Graves reached for the bulbous brandy glass on the table and swilled it around, inhaling the heady vapours. He was just about to take a long draught of the spirit when he heard a muffled crash from somewhere across the other side of the hall. Returning his glass to the table, he stood, trying to see what the commotion was about. One of doors beside the staircase burst open, banging back on its hinges, and a man came hurtling through. He was dressed in the Society’s customary grey suit and bowler hat, and he was screaming at the top of his lungs in panic, calling for everyone to clear the room, now, before it was too late.

Everyone in the hall turned to look at Graves simultaneously, waiting to see his response. The man stood there, alone at the foot of the stairs, panting and waving his arms in dismay.

Graves stepped forward and the men around him moved back to clear a path. He would publicly admonish the man for his cowardice, take him to task for attempting to jeopardise the great mission, and then order him to do penance by flagellating his duplicate in the hanging room. He was just about to speak when he heard another crash, this time considerably louder, and glanced round to the open doorway to see one of Warrander’s armoured suits charging towards him from the passageway beyond. His mouth dropped open in a surprised gape. The driver must have smashed his way up through the catacombs, clearing a path through the serried rows of tombs to find its way here. He paced back until his legs encountered a table behind him. He drew his sword and held it before him, his hand shaking. The Hobbes woman, Newbury’s assistant, was at the controls.

The armoured machine burst through the too-small doorway, shattering the frame and sending clouds of dust and rubble billowing into the room. Its massive steel feet pounded the tiled floor as it charged out into the hall, swinging its arms and batting his men aside as if swatting flies.

People scattered, shouting and screaming at one another, sliding under tables or fleeing up the staircase to get away from the crazed woman in the machine.

Graves saw Newbury emerge from the passageway behind the machine, coughing and spluttering from the dust. Graves gripped the hilt of his sabre tightly in his fist and cursed. He couldn’t allow the Queen’s agent to get away-his escape would put their whole endeavour at risk. He would have to stop him. And when he discovered who was responsible for Newbury’s release, he told himself, they would pay, very dearly indeed.