George Mann - The Immorality Engine

The walk would take them fifteen minutes, weaving through the corridors and passageways of the old house, down through dank, dimly lit tunnels that seemed to descend forever, until finally they arrived at the treatment room. It was a stark, fearsome place, filled with the great machine that was somehow curing her of her seizures. And of course, Dr. Fabian, who would be waiting for them with an expectant grin.

They had made the same short journey once a day for the past few months, and Amelia could have followed the route with her eyes closed. But she did not have the strength to make the journey alone, and suspected that even if she did, Dr. Fabian would not allow her the run of the house. Whilst he assured her that it was only to aid in her recuperation that she was kept locked in her room-and judging by his successes, she had no reason to doubt him-she still could not help wondering if Mr. Calverton was as much a minder as he was a porter, assigned to keep a watchful eye on her and report back to his master. Perhaps she was being too fanciful. Nevertheless, the doubt continued to gnaw at her. She wondered what she might find if she were ever able to explore one of the side passages that branched off from the tunnels she took with Mr. Calverton, see what lay in the darkness beyond. And she wondered when Mr. Calverton’s time would come, and how long it would take before her vision of him became a reality.

Today, however, she was grateful for an uneventful journey to the treatment room. It was a vast underground space, a cavern carved out of the bedrock and filled with the strange mechanisms of the Queen’s physician. It smelled of oil and soot. And just as she had anticipated, Dr. Fabian was already there, waiting for them, glancing pointedly at his pocket watch to signify his displeasure at their late arrival. She wondered if Mr. Calverton would be berated for that later.

“Good morning, Amelia. How are we today?” The doctor poked his wire-rimmed spectacles back up his nose with his index finger-a nervous tic that she had noticed him enact a thousand times before. He was a short man, balding, with only a few trailing wisps of dark hair around the temples. She’d placed him in his early fifties, but she could have been wrong-she found it very difficult to be sure.

She offered him her best beaming smile. “I feel well today, Dr. Fabian. Better than I have in months. I think if only I was able to go into the gardens for some fresh air, then I’d-”

“Amelia, Amelia.” He cut her off with a sad expression that suggested he was tired of going over the same ground with her, day after day, week after week. “I know Dr. Mason had very different ideas about your physical well-being, but I assure you, it would set you back enormously if you were to catch a chill. It’s simply not worth the risk.” He approached the wheelchair, his hands held out in a placatory fashion. She noticed a series of tiny puncture marks on his left wrist, where she assumed he’d been self-medicating. He dropped into a crouch before the chair. “Soon, my dear. Soon we shall have you up and about. You’re doing so well. Let’s not spoil it now by getting ahead of ourselves, hmm.”

Amelia nodded, biting back her frustration. She knew he was wrong, about this at least. She longed for the cool breeze on her skin, the fresh air in her lungs. She could take precautions not to catch a chill. She knew there was another reason why he would not let her out, but she couldn’t even begin to fathom what it was.

It was pointless arguing with him, though. She had tried that before, and it had got her nowhere, and at least he had her best interests at heart. She believed that much.

Dr. Fabian stood, clapping his hands together to signify they had reached the end of their discussion. “Well, then. If you are ready, Miss Hobbes, we shall begin.”

“I’m ready,” she said, although in truth she was never ready for what came next. She looked up at the huge brass sphere that dominated the entirety of the treatment room. It was the size of a small house and looked more like a furnace than like anything medical. It was fed by an array of pipes and shafts that gleamed in the bright electric lights, like a spider at the centre of a shining web. In its belly was a small brass door, the door through which Amelia would be taken for her daily treatment. She felt a knot tighten in her gut. If only there was another way…

Dr. Fabian turned to Mr. Calverton, who was loitering in the shadows of the great machine. “Mr. Calverton, could you please escort Miss Hobbes to the treatment bay?”

Mr. Calverton stomped forwards, his metal feet tapping out a harsh rhythm on the stone floor. He took the handles of her wheelchair once again and slowly rolled her towards the gaping mouth of the brass door.

Amelia fought the urge to leap out of the chair and flee. She knew it would be over with soon, and she would feel better again in a couple of hours. The pain didn’t last. Not for long.

Mr. Calverton parked her wheelchair before the threshold of the sphere and stooped over her, gently placing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. Carefully he lifted her out of the seat, all the while keeping his strange and unblinking eyes on her face. She smiled weakly as she wrapped her hands around his neck, and together the two of them entered the bizarre treatment machine.

Dr. Fabian, in his more whimsical moments, was prone to referring to the sphere as his “engine of life.” Amelia always thought that sounded like self-aggrandizing nonsense, and had asked him on more than one occasion to explain the actual purpose of the machine. But, full of his usual bluff and pomposity, the doctor simply told her not to concern herself with it-that his miraculous contraption would make her better, and that she needn’t worry herself with the details. She should simply lie back and accept her treatment like a good patient, and then revel in the results.

At first she’d found this patronising and troubling, but she’d grown accustomed to the doctor’s offhand manner, and she had, indeed, found herself able to revel in the results of his ministrations. She was alive, for a start, and that was something she had never expected. Dr. Mason had warned her that she was unlikely to see the summer. Yet, thanks to Dr. Fabian, here she was.

Inside the brass sphere, Mr. Calverton’s metallic footsteps echoed like miniature detonations. Amelia tried not to look up. She didn’t want to see the cluster of apparatuses that hung from the ceiling on long multijointed arms, the needles and the masks and the blades and the throbbing lights. Nor did she want to look up into Mr. Calverton’s burrowing eyes.

Instead, she focused on the chair. It was mounted on a platform at the centre of the sphere, up a short flight of steps. Mr. Calverton took them slowly, careful not to jolt her with his sudden, jarring movements. The chair itself was similar to a dentist’s: black leather, with a footrest and a deep angle that meant lying almost horizontally. Only, unlike any dentists’ chairs she’d encountered, this one came with arm and leg restraints.

Mr. Calverton approached the chair and laid her, almost reverentially, upon it. He was labouring for breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Calverton.”

The faceless man cocked his head in acknowledgement and then turned his back on her, descending the short stairway and exiting the sphere the way they had come. The door slammed shut behind him with a loud clang, and Amelia heard dead bolts sliding into place.

Dr. Fabian’s monotonous voice echoed around the interior of the sphere, piped in through the brass speaking tube that connected the contraption to his workstation outside. “Try to relax now, Amelia. It’s time for you to undress.”

Amelia sighed. She hated this bit. She sat up and unbuttoned the back of her nightgown, slipping it over her head so that her modesty was protected only by her undergarments. She knew that no one except Dr. Fabian could see inside the sphere-through a sequence of adjustable mirrored panels that allowed him to observe the progress of the treatment-but she couldn’t help imagining Mr. Calverton lurking in the shadows, watching her undress. She shivered, and it was only partly because of the cold. She draped the nightgown over the stand beside the chair.