George Mann - The Immorality Engine

Wary to keep his distance from the rampaging Hobbes girl, Graves started out across the hall, making a beeline for the unsuspecting Newbury. The chaos would be all the cover he needed to get close to the man. He would run the agent through before the unbelieving fool even knew he was there.

Graves moved from table to table, trying to keep something-or some one -between himself and the armoured machine at all times. He had almost made it to Newbury when a grey-suited body, flung like a rag doll from the path of the stomping suit, collided with him, bowling him over and causing him to cry out in shock, releasing his sabre so that it skittered away across the tiled floor.

The world went into free fall, everything spinning, the chattering, screaming voices of his men growing louder, ringing in his ears. He shook his head, trying to clear the disorientation.

He was lying on the floor, a dead weight on his chest.

His head smarting from catching a table leg in the fall, Graves pounded the unconscious man with his fists for a moment before giving up and shoving him brutally to the floor. He scrambled to his feet. Too late, he realised he’d missed his chance.

The Hobbes girl reached down and snatched up Newbury in the machine’s fist, swiping him off his feet and lifting him into the air. She then charged at the far wall, bowing the suit’s right shoulder and tucking her head low, preparing to smash through a tall sash window. In the machine’s left hand, Newbury dangled like a child’s toy, clutched between its claws and clinging on for dear life.

Seconds later, the armoured suit collided with the wall, causing the window to shatter with an explosion of glass fragments that tinkled to the floor like a shower of diamonds. Two swift kicks and the low wall had crumbled. Then the machine was through, out into the daylight and away down the street, the pounding of its feet echoing as it ran.

Graves felt the rising tide of fury engulf him. How dare they! How dare they do this! Not today. Not when he was so close to achieving everything he’d been working towards. He could barely believe it. He kicked the prone body of the man by his feet, so hard that he felt a rib crack beneath his foot. Then, realising he had no other options left, he clambered up onto a table and bellowed at the snivelling wretches around him to listen.

The surviving men, picking themselves up off the floor, snapped to attention, terrified to hear what he was going to say. But he would not berate them for their mistakes. Instead, he would galvanise them with a desire for revenge. “Gentlemen,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “prepare yourselves for war! We mobilise within the hour!”

A cheer went up around the hall, amidst the dust and the rubble and the spilled blood. Graves smiled. Perhaps victory was still within their reach, after all.

“Madam, I am the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard!” Bainbridge folded his arms indignantly and leaned back against the headrest of his hospital bed.

The young nurse, dressed in a flowing black gown with a white apron, prim white cuffs, and a matching mob cap, offered him the severest of looks. “I’m sure you’re quite right, sir. But chief inspector or not, you’ve just had a rather large fragment of metal removed from your arm, and, if your story is to be believed”-she raised her eyebrows to indicate that she clearly thought it was not-“you’ve been threatened with explosives, beaten in a fistfight, and generally subjected to all manner of violent behaviour in the last few hours.” She put her hands on his shoulders, gripping him firmly and trying to force him back down into the pillows. “I really do think it’s best you get some rest.”

“Bah!” Bainbridge muttered before finally giving in and allowing the woman to win. He sank back into the downy pillows and she smiled triumphantly, drawing the sheets up over his legs. He knew she was right. He was in no fit state for anything but rest. His arm was strapped to his chest, and his eyes were both so swollen that he could barely prise them open. His hair was singed from the flames, and his legs, buttocks, and elbows smarted from all the tumbling around in the hansom and the scrabbling around on the cobbles. Not to mention the vicious beating he’d taken at the hands of the ruffians. He’d been unconscious for hours and his head was still pounding. He wanted to sink into warm oblivion once again, to sleep away all the aches and pains that plagued him. But he knew that wasn’t really possible. He had to get to Newbury, warn him about the Bastion Society, and tell him to go to the Queen.

The nurse had told him he’d been babbling Newbury’s name when they brought him in. He’d been dragged across town in the back of an uncomfortable ambulance and dumped directly onto an operating table, still delirious from the blows to his head and the loss of blood.

He didn’t recall much of what followed, other than a bout of excruciating pain as the surgeon pulled the shard of bomb casing from his shoulder, and the spray of blood that accompanied it. He had swooned after that, and when he’d come round, he’d been lying in a bed on the ward, his shoulder strapped and his body alive with cramping muscles.

The first thing he said after the nurse had fetched water was that he needed to speak with Sir Maurice Newbury. She told him he’d been saying the same thing since he’d arrived, and that they’d already sent for Newbury, and that he needed to rest. She’d been feeding him the same lines on a rotating basis ever since, which had been over three hours ago.

Now, Bainbridge was growing impatient, and while he knew intellectually that there was little he could do other than wait at the hospital for Newbury, he hated the feeling of impotence that waiting inspired within him. He wanted to get out of there, to hail a hansom and head across town to Chelsea. He wanted to find Miss Hobbes and ensure that the reason Newbury hadn’t come to find him wasn’t because he was idling somewhere in an opium den, chasing the dragon and throwing his life away. Most of all, however, he wanted to feel useful, and his inability to do so was the most galling thing of all.

Bainbridge banged his fist against the side of the bed in a show of frustration, and the nurse gave a squeal of fright and ran for the door. She almost collided with another man who was entering the ward at the same time. He laughed amicably and stepped to one side to allow her to pass. “I should have realised you’d be terrorising the nurses, Charles.”

Bainbridge turned his head at the sound of the familiar voice and tried to prop himself up on the bed, cursing as he struggled to support himself with only one functioning arm. “Newbury! Where the Hell have you been?”

Newbury strode quickly to Bainbridge’s bedside, helping his friend to sit up. “Here, Charles, allow me.”

Bainbridge gave Newbury an appraising look. He was dressed in a smart black suit with a freshly pressed white shirt, but he looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry. He hadn’t buttoned his jacket and he was still wearing the previous day’s stubble. He looked weary, but there was a glint in his eye that had been lacking for weeks, if not months. Perhaps he hadn’t reverted to the opium dens, then?

“Thank goodness you’re alright, Charles.” Bainbridge saw the shock in his friend’s expression, though he tried quickly to hide it.

Bainbridge coughed and tasted blood. He pulled a face. “I suppose these things are relative. I’m still alive.”

Newbury laughed. “You had me worried for a while. Scarbright was waiting with your message when I returned home. What exactly happened?”

Bainbridge lowered his voice, conscious of the other occupants of the room. None of them seemed to be paying him even the least bit of attention. “The Bastion Society, that’s what happened. They came after my hansom with some sort of portable cannon. Nearly blew me to Kingdom Come.” He paused, drawing ragged breath. “I gave them a run for their money, though. Not bad for an old-timer.” He smiled, and then immediately winced at a sharp tug of pain in his shoulder. “And you don’t have to hide your dismay, Newbury. I’m quite aware of how I look.”