Steven Harper - The Doomsday Vault

The interior bustled with activity. Men dressed in business attire, servant livery, and ordinary workaday clothing hurried about on mysterious errands. There were even a number of women, though that shouldn’t have surprised Alice by now. Glenda guided them down a series of corridors, past rooms large and small. Alice and Gavin caught sight of several laboratories and workrooms. An enormous half-constructed automaton stood in one of them, while two men attached sheets of metal to it. Another laboratory sported bubbling beakers and winding copper tubes. A cage in the corner held half a dozen plague zombies who watched Alice with empty eyes as she passed. Yet another room was coated in fog, and a male figure appeared to be frozen in a block of ice. Alice couldn’t keep from staring.

“You’re very busy here,” she said breathlessly.

“They keep us occupied,” Simon replied with a smile.

“Where are we going?” Gavin asked.

“Here.” Glenda knocked once on a closed door, then ushered Gavin and Alice into an office, or perhaps it was a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books, maps, scrolls, and strange instruments Alice couldn’t identify. Tall windows looked out over the grounds, and thick Persian rugs covered the floors. The center of the room was dominated by a large desk piled with neat stacks of papers. An odd combination telegraph machine and typewriter occupied one corner. Behind the desk sat a tall woman with black hair pulled into a French twist. She wore a man’s military uniform, crisp and blue, with gold epaulets. It was specially cut to expose her left arm, which was entirely mechanical. Alice noted with a start that it had six fingers. An elaborate brass-rimmed monocle covered the woman’s left eye, and a small sign on her desk read LIEUTENANT SUSAN PHIPPS.

“The ones from our report, Lieutenant,” Glenda said. “Alice Michaels, daughter of Arthur, Baron Michaels, and Gavin Ennock from Boston.”

“Thank you, Glenda,” said Lieutenant Phipps. Her voice was quick and sharp as a pair of scissors. “Excellent work, both of you. Simon, please meet us down in the sound laboratory in ten minutes.”

Glenda and Simon withdrew. Phipps pointed to a pair of wooden chairs across from her desk. “Sit. Please.”

Alice and Gavin sat. Gavin looked solemn but at ease, and Alice supposed that as an airman, he was used to a military chain of command. For her own part, Alice found Lieutenant Phipps more than a little intimidating, and she forced herself to sit with her hands in her lap, though she wanted to twist at her skirt as she had as a child. She tried not to stare at Phipps, this woman who dressed and spoke like a man, and broke so many traditional rules. But of course, she was part of this Third Ward, and the Ward clearly welcomed Ad Hoc women.

Phipps set a packet of papers aside and pulled the telegraph-typewriting machine toward them on its rolling stand. The machine had a recording horn on it. Phipps spun a crank on the side and fed a long scroll of paper into the typewriter’s platen. “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on and why you’re here, so I’ll come straight to the point. First, I need to hear from you everything that happened at that country house. Don’t leave anything out. Mr. Ennock, you start. I understand you used to play fiddle in Hyde Park.”

Gavin told his story. As he spoke, the machine sprang to life. The typewriter clacked, and Gavin’s words skittered across the scroll. Gavin paused in surprise. Alice leaned forward. Her fingers itched to take the side panels off the machine so she could examine how the insides worked, discover how many memory wheels it took to translate sound into written words. Phipps pressed a switch on the machine and it stopped.

“Ignore the transcription, Mr. Ennock,” she said. “It’s for our records. Continue.”

He did. When he finished, Phipps had Alice tell her story as well. The machine wrote it all down. Phipps tore the scroll off, rolled it up, and put it in a drawer.

“Is that all?” Alice asked. “Are we free to go?”

“One more point.” Phipps steepled her fingers, brass and steel on flesh. “I need you both to listen carefully. The Third Ward is a busy and chronically understaffed organization, and we’re crying for talent. Based on what I’ve learned about the two of you over the last several days, I’m prepared to offer you positions as agents with us. The salary starts at five hundred pounds per annum, and room and board at cost, if you desire it.”

Alice gaped. It was the last thing she’d been expecting to hear. She exchanged a quick glance with Gavin and understood that he felt the same way. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “What exactly does the Third Ward-”

“Did you say five hundred pounds?” Gavin interrupted.

“I did,” answered Phipps. “And before you answer, let me show you what it means to be an agent of the Third Ward.”

She strode for the door without looking behind. Alice and Gavin rushed to catch her up. Phipps marched ahead of them, her bearing straight as a tin soldier’s.

“You’ve probably guessed that I’ve already looked into your backgrounds,” she said. “Both of you are quick, intelligent thinkers, and you have talents we need. And”-she lifted a metal finger before either of them could interrupt-“I’m going to explain what we do as we walk, so listen and look.”

They passed a gymnasium where groups of men and women sparred with fists and feet. “The Third Ward was established during the reign of King George the Fourth by the Duke of Wellington,” Phipps began.

“The Iron Duke,” Alice said.

“Yes, and if you interrupt again, this will take longer,” Phipps admonished. “Wellington defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, but only just. The French had access to horrifying machines of war created by three clockworkers Napoleon had… persuaded to work for him. Wellington decided then and there that the best thing he could do for England was to gather up these madmen and — women and keep their inventions under control before one of them managed to destroy the country-or the world. He established the Third Ward to do that.”

“His Majesty George the Fourth was amenable to this?” Alice said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but that doesn’t sound like him. King George wasn’t known for-well, he was more of…”

“An insular sybarite? A man who found the contents of his bedchamber more important than the contents of his country? Yes. That was why Wellington kept the Ward a secret. He diverted Crown funds for it and kept it hidden from His Majesty until William the Fourth took the throne in 1830.”

“William was Victoria’s uncle, right?” Gavin said.

Phipps gave him a curt nod. “By then, the tradition of secrecy was well established, so even though the Crown supports the Ward, we don’t officially exist. Too many people would be unhappy if they were aware of what we were doing right under their noses.”

“What are we-you-doing?” Alice asked.

“I told you-we gather clockworkers. We give them a supervised place to work, and we harvest their inventions to serve the Empire. Why do you think England rules most of the known world?”

“And what about China?” Alice couldn’t help asking. Phipps’s snappy tone set her a bit on edge.

“They have their own system for dealing with clockworkers,” Phipps acknowledged. “And it’s why they’ve managed to hold their own against us.”

“The revolt over the Treaty of Nanking,” Gavin said. “And Lord Elgin’s fight with Emperor Xianfeng.”

Phipps looked at him. “Yes. How does a cabin boy from a shipping dirigible know about that?”

“I’m young, but I’m not stupid,” Gavin said airily, and Alice suppressed a smile.