George Mann - The Immorality Engine

At that, Veronica breathed a sigh of relief. Newbury had clearly made his decision. There had been no discussion, no debate. At no point did he offer her any insight into his thoughts. But he had chosen her over the Queen, and that told her everything she needed to know. More than that, though, it meant he believed her about the Queen’s duplicity. It confirmed her fear that there was something terribly amiss at the palace, because if there were not, Newbury would never have allowed the attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead.

The consequences of such thoughts were too dreadful, too all-encompassing for her to give voice to at the time. But now, waiting in silence for the Bastion Society to make their move, it was all she could think about.

En route, Newbury had told her in hushed tones about the Queen’s foreknowledge of the attack and how she’d already begun to fortify the palace. Veronica didn’t see any way she could be so sure of an attack without knowing about Amelia’s visions, which was the final evidence she needed that the Queen had played a part in what had happened to Amelia at the Grayling Institute. Clearly, Newbury felt the same way.

Veronica wondered what he had told Bainbridge, whether he’d disclosed any of this to his old friend. She suspected not. For all of his compassion and brilliance, Bainbridge would never have understood. He was too long in the tooth, too much in admiration of the Queen. He was a good man, and he was unwaveringly loyal. That was both his greatest strength and, on this occasion, his weakness. Whatever happened next, she hoped Bainbridge would never discover the truth that Newbury had knowingly put the Queen in danger. It would be enough to tear the two of them apart.

A shrill, high-pitched whistle, as if from an overhead missile, broke the silence. Veronica cursed softly beneath her breath for allowing herself to get distracted. The attack was starting. She couldn’t see the missile, but the sound seemed to originate from somewhere just outside the grounds of the estate, beyond the gates at the end of the driveway.

Newbury glanced at her in warning. Seconds later, the lone projectile hit the roof of the building with a thunderous explosion that sent splintered roof tiles spraying into the air in all directions. Veronica ducked involuntarily. When she looked up a moment later, there was a gaping hole in the roof where the detonation had punched through to the attic space below. Yellow flames licked hungrily around the edges of the hole.

Before anyone inside the house had time to react, a dozen more bombs impacted, splashing against the building with a blinding glare. Suddenly the whole scene was a vision of perfect chaos. The sound of the explosions was like a hundred thunderclaps detonating at once, like the sky itself was being rent apart and all of Heaven and Hell was descending on the Earth. Veronica covered her ears with her hands.

A huge chunk of masonry, blown clear from the building in the fiery shower, thudded into the ground just a few feet from where Veronica and Newbury were hiding. It was all she could do not to cry out in shock as the ground trembled beneath her and she was showered with tiny fragments of stone and ash. She glanced up at the house. Part of the first floor had already collapsed, and the roof was now entirely ablaze. All the windows at the front of the property had blown out, and broken glass was spread across the courtyard as far as she could see.

She turned at the sound of a hundred mechanical hooves striking the gravel, and gasped at the dozens of men charging along the driveway on shining brass horses. Cogs and gears groaned under the strain as the clockwork beasts reared and charged, bearing their riders into battle. The men themselves were resplendent in the grey suits and bowler hats of the Bastion Society, but wore shining steel breastplates over their jackets, along with arm braces and leg guards.

The sight would almost have seemed comical, if it were not for the huge Gatling guns that hung off the sides of the mounts, burring and spitting a hail of destruction upon the house and its occupants. Many of the men also carried swords, which they held aloft as they charged, screaming bloody murder as they rode towards their target.

Behind this sea of brass and flesh, five of the armoured exoskeleton suits lumbered slowly, relentlessly, towards the house, their claws opening and closing in readiness. They planned to pound the building to dust and gravel, she realised, to leave no part of it standing. They would destroy everything in their path, ensuring all of Fabian’s work-whether it was a living subject or a folio of notes detailing his treatment of his patients-was destroyed.

And all the while, bombs continued to drop from the sky likes hellish, fiery rain, creating a firestorm the likes of which she’d never seen.

Veronica saw movement in the doorway of the institute. She leapt to her feet, disregarding her cover. The figure emerging from the doorway was Amelia.

Veronica watched her sister rush out, barefoot, beneath the portico, charging headlong for the stone steps. She was dressed only in a flowing white nightgown, her hair a stark, raven black, trailing behind her as she ran. Veronica looked on in horrified slow motion as one of the mounted men yanked hard on the reins of his mechanical beast, pulling it round so that he could swing his Gatling gun around on its pivot. The weapon sang with a menacing whine as it spat hot lead at its target, and Veronica screamed as she watched her sister’s white gown blossom with scores of bright, crimson petals where the bullets struck home.

Veronica tried to run, but Newbury was there, grabbing her around the waist, dragging her back beneath the cover of the trees, kicking and screaming. He forced his hand over her mouth to keep her from shouting, and she twisted and writhed in an effort to get free, all the while keeping her eyes locked on the body of her dead sister. She didn’t want to believe what had happened; couldn’t acknowledge it was over.

But moments later, through the veil of her tears, Veronica saw another figure burst out of the doorway, similarly attired. This was followed by another, and then another, and she realised with mounting relief that the dead woman wasn’t her sister at all, but one of her duplicates-set free, she guessed, by the collapsing structure of the old house. A shattered wall or a buckled door must have allowed them to escape, and they flowed out in their multitudes like ethereal ghosts fleeing an exorcism.

Veronica relaxed in Newbury’s grip, and he set her down. She watched his reaction intently as he saw swathes of the Amelia clones pour forth from the building, only to be mowed down indiscriminately by the riders and their mechanised weapons. Blood sprayed in wide arcs as the bullets shredded the defenceless girls, and Newbury’s face hardened as he realised the peril the real Amelia was in. If they didn’t get her out soon, she really was going to perish at the hands of a revolutionary or, perhaps worse, as the building itself came down around her shoulders.

“Come on,” said Newbury, taking Veronica’s hand and leading her around the back of the building under the cover of the trees, trying to stay ahead of the mounted men who were busying themselves with the hedonistic slaughter of her not-quite-sisters.

Veronica had already pointed out the location of the kitchen window. Newbury ran for it now, keeping a tight hold of her hand as they pounded across the courtyard, running through the middle of the deranged war zone towards the blazing inferno.

Gunfire rattled close by, and Veronica turned her head to see a mounted figure charging towards them, his sword held aloft, his Gatling gun spitting furiously as he swung it around on its cradle, aiming to mow them down as he galloped past.