George Mann - The Immorality Engine

But Veronica was too fast. She took two strides forward, grabbed hold of Graves’s leg for purchase, and propelled herself into the air, her right hand guiding the blade in an arc. She heard Graves call out in surprise and confusion, raising his arm in an attempt at defence, and then the knife hit home, glancing off the edge of the breastplate and burying itself deep in his side.

Graves screamed in agony and Veronica twisted the handle, thrusting up with all the power she had left in her body. Graves batted at her with his fist, but she continued to drive the blade deeper, twisting it and turning it to maximise the damage, ignoring the blows that were raining down on her back and shoulders.

A second later Newbury was at her side, grappling with the flailing man, trying to pin him in place. The flagstaff fell to the floor as Graves brought his other fist around in a powerful hook, striking Newbury hard across the face, but the knife had already done its work, and Graves didn’t have the strength in him to keep up the battle. Newbury, shaking his head to clear the effects of the blow, caught hold of Graves’s arm and hauled with all his might, dragging the man from the saddle. Veronica rushed to help him, and, a second later, pulled down by the weight of his own plate armour, Graves slipped from the mechanical horse and fell hard against the flagstones.

Veronica heard a terrible crack as Graves hit the stones headfirst. She looked round to see his body slumped by the horse’s hooves, the neck snapped so that the head was staring up at the house from an unusual angle. Blood was trickling from the nostrils. His bowler hat had come to settle a few feet away in a brackish puddle. She felt relief course through her body and realised she was trembling.

Newbury put his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. She had no time to think about what she had done. “Where’s Amelia?”

Newbury led her around the front of the clockwork stallion, which was waiting, motionless, as if somehow lost without its rider. Her sister was sitting on the edge of the lawn, watching her with panicked eyes. She looked incredibly pale in the dull afternoon light.

“Where did you go, Veronica?” she said urgently. “You left us!”

“I had to take care of something,” Veronica replied pointedly. She looked back at the Grayling Institute as the roof finally gave way, caving in on what remained of the building. Black smoke was billowing out of the windows, and hot ash filled the air like winter snow. The explosions had come to a stop. She wiped her face on her sleeve and realised the futility of the gesture when she saw how filthy her clothes were.

“We don’t have much time,” said Newbury, glancing nervously along the garden to where the rest of the mounted men would be waiting around the corner. “We have to find a way out of here before they find us.”

Veronica glanced at the crumpled body of Enoch Graves, and then at the mechanical warhorse over Newbury’s shoulder. “I think I know just the thing,” she said, unable to contain her smile.

Newbury followed her gaze and caught her meaning almost immediately. He returned her grin. “Come on!” he said, rushing to collect Amelia.

Together, Veronica and Newbury hoisted Amelia up into the saddle of the bizarre steed. It stirred to life beneath her, activated by the weight of a new mount. Its glass eyes blazed a deep crimson, and its internal mechanisms began to whirr and hum.

Newbury cupped his hands to create a step for Veronica, and she leapt up behind Amelia, allowing Newbury to pull himself up at the controls. He briefly fumbled with a brass lever, and then the machine kicked into motion, lurching forward and nearly sending them all sprawling to the ground.

“Hang on!” Newbury yelled back at her, before pressing a series of buttons hidden in the crease of the beast’s brass mane. Then they were off again, this time breaking into a steady gallop. Veronica held on to Amelia as Newbury guided the clockwork beast around the corner, reaching for the Gatling gun on the pivot by his left leg. He swung it up into position, depressing the trigger just as they burst out onto the driveway, showering the small army of mounted men with a vicious spray of bullets.

The projectiles pinged off their steel armour, but Veronica saw a number of them slump forward in their saddles, caught by the shower of metal cases, blood coursing from numerous impact wounds in their faces. A few of them managed to raise their weapons and return fire, but it was already too late. Newbury, Veronica, and Amelia charged away down the driveway on their stolen mount, leaving the crumbling, smoking pile of the Grayling Institute-and the now-leaderless warriors of the Bastion Society-far behind them.

Veronica was tired of the rain.

She was tired of the vicar and his inexorable preaching, and she was tired of all the subterfuge and lies. She was tired, too, of her parents, who had done nothing but patronise her since their arrival at the church, showing nothing in the way of real compassion or grief. Their youngest daughter was dead as far as they were concerned, and all they seemed able to display was relief. To Veronica it was the most appalling show of their inhumanity. In many ways, it demonstrated to her mind that they were no better than Fabian, or Enoch Graves, or even the Queen. She felt herself welling up in frustration, and she let the tears come. It was a cathartic release, and it helped create the illusion of reality, giving the paltry crowd the impression that her sister’s funeral was not the sham that she and Newbury knew it to be.

The intervening days had been trying. Veronica had been summoned to the palace to be informed by the Queen herself of her sister’s apparent death. She had displayed all the appropriate shock and grief at the news, and listened in appalled fascination to the Queen’s explanation of what had occurred at the Grayling Institute. But she’d barely been able to look at the monarch, and was thankful for the gloom in which the Queen lurked like a predatory spider. It kept Veronica from having to look upon the woman’s face, or see the sneer she imagined Victoria to be wearing as she lied about what had happened, and how sorry she was for Veronica’s loss.

Throughout the entire interview, the main thought she’d had running through her mind had been that the woman in front of her was going to die. The reign of Victoria would be coming to an end when her life-preserving machines failed without Fabian’s ministrations, and, Veronica thought, she deserved it. She deserved all of it. Victoria had earned Veronica’s distrust, her disrespect, and her scorn. She had played a fundamental part in Amelia’s misery, and for that, Veronica could never forgive her. She only hoped the woman’s death would come swiftly, and soon.

Veronica glanced over at Bainbridge, who stood by the edge of the grave, huddled against the rain and leaning on his cane, his legs wreathed in mist. She felt a pang of remorse at being unable to talk to him about what had really occurred, to tell him the truth about Amelia; at having to keep yet more secrets from someone she cared about. And that, also, was down to the Queen. But she knew Bainbridge wouldn’t understand. At least, not until he had seen the Queen for what she really was.

Bainbridge had been in Her Majesty’s service for nearly twenty years, through thick and thin, and Veronica simply didn’t think he could accept the truth. Earlier that year he’d been confronted by the reality of the Queen’s machinations when he’d discovered the truth about William Ashford, a former agent who had been rebuilt by Fabian to live a life of painful servitude to the Queen, and although it had damaged his confidence for a time, he had soon convinced himself that the Queen must have been working for the good of the country. Perhaps that’s what he had to believe to stop himself from going mad. Veronica didn’t think any less of him for that.