George Mann - The Immorality Engine

“Very good, Amelia. Now, lie back and try to remain calm.”

She did as she was told, placing her wrists and ankles in the metal brackets. They snapped shut, seemingly of their own volition, to hold her in place. She felt her heart thudding against her ribs.

There was a grating sound from above as the mechanical arms swung into motion, creaking in their sockets. Amelia flinched involuntarily in anticipation of what was to come. She looked up and saw the pod of needles descending.

“This won’t hurt, Amelia. Just lie back, close your eyes, and think of something else.”

She tried to think again of the gardens at the rear of the institute, the topiary sculptures, the darting animals, the sunshine reflecting on the lake. But as the machine descended, she couldn’t repress her scream. She bucked against the restraints. Her voice was raw, as if the sounds were being ripped from her throat. She wanted only to be away from there, from the chair and the sphere and the pain.

Above her, the pod of needles opened like a cluster of fingers, and then they were upon her, stinging as they punctured her flesh, pricking holes in her face, arms, chest, thighs, feet. Her body was alive with pain. Crawling with it, as if all her nerves were suddenly, simultaneously on fire. She screamed again, her body racked by the violence of her torment. Miniature pistons fired as the needles continued to sink into her flesh. She heard them, hissing with escaping air. Dr. Fabian was talking again in the same monotonous voice, disembodied and echoing throughout the room, but she could not discern his words. All she could think about was the pain, her screaming, and the intense white light that was blinding her, preventing her from seeing what was happening.

Another needle slid into her throat. Something warm flushed through her body. She bucked again in the treatment chair, and then, after a moment, she was still.

It was late morning before they arrived at Piccadilly. The sun was high in the sky and Piccadilly Circus was bustling with people.

Bainbridge, Newbury, and Veronica abandoned their hansom-one of those dreadful steam-powered affairs that Veronica despised so much-on Shaftesbury Avenue with the intention of making their way to Regent Street on foot.

Almost as soon as they stepped down from the cab, however, Veronica realised their error. She found herself being jostled by the press of tourists, workers, shoppers, and beggars. The place was overflowing with people. She held on to her handbag, cautious of the pickpockets that she knew to be active in the area.

Newbury fought through the milling people until he reached her side, taking her arm in his own and maneuvering her away from the tide of bodies. Bainbridge followed close behind, using his cane to part the throng before him like Moses commanding the Red Sea. Veronica couldn’t help but laugh at this vision of the chief inspector, stomping through the busy morning crowds with a stony expression, people shuffling out of his way to let him pass.

She realised Newbury was trying to get her attention. He leaned over, speaking loudly so she could hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Have you seen it yet?”

“What?”

“The crime scene. The place where the burglary was committed last night.”

Veronica shook her head. Bainbridge had called for her at her rooms in Kensington that morning and they’d set out to find Newbury directly. She knew only as much as he did-that the evidence at the scene suggested Sykes had been involved. “No. I haven’t seen it yet. Why?”

Newbury shrugged but didn’t elaborate. She wondered if it were some sort of test, and whether or not she’d passed, but Newbury wasn’t giving anything away. Did he suspect that she and Bainbridge had already been to visit the crime scene without him? Were the drugs now inspiring paranoia in Newbury, too? She considered pressing him on the matter but he’d already turned his attention back to the crowd, weaving down the busy street and pulling her along behind him.

The mob in the Circus was unusually dense, people packed in with little or no room to move. Veronica strained to see what was holding their attention, but was granted nothing but the rear view of people’s heads and the briefest glimpse of something bright and brassy, shining in the midday sun.

There was a sudden cheer from the front few rows of spectators, and she felt Newbury start at the noise. He still had his arm looped through hers, and she clung to him so as not to lose him amongst the multitudes. At least, that was what she told herself as she leaned into him a little closer.

Newbury craned his neck, trying to see over the people in front. “It’s some sort of demonstration,” he said, pushing his way through.

More cheering. Veronica tried to dodge a man who was waving his arms above his head with wild abandon and received an elbow in the ribs for the effort. The guilty little urchin-a girl of no more than ten-charged off, ducking between people’s legs. Veronica checked her bag. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be missing.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Bainbridge behind her, resolutely forging a path through the crowd, keeping pace with her and Newbury, his face like thunder. She was jostled roughly left to right, and clung to Newbury for dear life until, a moment later, they burst through to the front of the crowd to be confronted by one of the most bizarre spectacles she had ever seen.

Two men, dressed in full plate armour, sat astride identical brass warhorses, and appeared to be attempting to club each other to death.

Wooden barriers had been erected in a large oval to form a sort of arena, around which a crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle that was unfolding within.

The two men-dressed, Veronica gathered, as mediaeval knights-were locked in fiery combat, swinging flaming braziers at each other as their strange, mechanical mounts bucked and weaved and circled. The horses were clearly automata, of some sort: iron skeletons clad with shining brass plates, powered by tiny steam engines hidden somewhere in their workings and evidenced only by the jets of hissing vapour that issued from their nostrils. Each was bigger than a normal horse, with glowing, demonic eyes and sculpted manes. As they danced around each other with jarring but surprisingly rapid movements, Veronica caught glimpses of their internal workings, exposed as the overlapping plates of their bodies parted at the seams. Cogs whirred inside them like hidden clockwork nervous systems.

The two men were knocking each other about with tremendous vigour. Veronica flinched as one of them struck the other hard in the chest with his brazier, denting the steel plating of his opponent’s armour and sending hot coals spinning into the audience. The crowd parted to avoid the fiery missiles with a loud roar, but it was a roar of approval.

Veronica beckoned for Newbury to lean closer and spoke loudly into his ear. “What are they doing?” She turned her head to catch Newbury’s response.

“Fighting,” he said with a broad grin.

She gave him a playful slap on his chest. “I realise that. But why?”

“I have no idea. But it’s keeping this lot entertained.”

Veronica looked back, searching for Charles in the sea of faces. He was right behind her, and offered a resigned shrug. Then, spotting something, he pointed to a wooden board propped up against one of the barriers. It had been painted white, with words neatly stencilled onto it in red paint. Veronica tried to read around the people who stood in front of her,

but they seemed intent on not staying still for even a moment. Eventually she managed to decipher the words FOR CHIVALRY! FOR ENGLAND!

Veronica frowned. Saint George’s Day had passed months earlier. She wondered what it all meant. A demonstration by an Arthurian society, perhaps?