Steven Harper - The Doomsday Vault

“Wonderful!” His voice crackled thin and tinny. “Don’t fight me, and I’ll remember it as a kindness when I’m ruling London. Blow me a kiss, and I’ll make you my queen.”

The machine clanked into the shop, and its front opened like a drawbridge. It leaned down, long arms reaching. Alice scooted back, her eyes wide. She was panting in fear. Kemp lay trapped under a wooden beam, one of his eyes smashed, and Mr. Smeet had fled out a back door.

The machine scooped up handfuls of machine parts from the bins and shelves and dropped them into the opening, like a child stuffing his pockets with boiled sweets. “Memory wheels!” The young man laughed. “I’ll build myself an army! Blow me a kiss, and you’ll be my queen.”

He sang a little song as he worked.

Bring a bowl and plate and soup tureen

And shirt and collar of velveteen.

If you clean and oil my brass machine

And blow me a kiss, you’ll be my queen.

More parts went into the compartment. Outrage overcame some of Alice’s fear. He was a thief! A common thief! She scrambled to her feet as the machine shoved more parts into its chest cavity. But then to her horror, the machine plucked Norbert’s little automatons from Mr. Smeet’s counter and held them up so the driver could examine them through the glass bubble.

“Premade automatons,” he cried. “Yours, my queen? I’ll be grateful. May I have the honor of a dance?”

And then Alice knew him. He was the ash-blond man in a bad coat who had asked Louisa to dance at Lady Greenfellow’s ball. He was the second son who had seen Louisa home-and stayed for breakfast. He was even wearing the same badly cut coat.

“Patrick Barton!” she gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

Patrick’s machine leaned down for a closer look. His eyes were wide and wild. Clockwork madness. Alice wondered if he’d been infected with the clockwork plague before or after the ball and prayed it was after, for Louisa’s sake.

“Alice Michaels!” he said. “Well! I’ll be glad to make you my London queen, my luscious Boadicea, my warrior angel. Especially if you made these automatons. I’ll make you famous.”

A shot cracked through the air and ricocheted off the glass. It was quickly followed by another. Alice heard shouts and clattering hooves.

“Police always come in legions,” Patrick groaned. He stuffed the three automatons into his machine’s chest cavity, and it clanked shut. “I’ll come back for you, my Boadicea, my spider. Give my best to Louisa.”

With that, he turned and stomped away, leaving Alice in the shambles of the shop.

Gavin leapt from his horse and pushed through the crowd of people that surrounded the ruined shop. Smashed wood and twisted metal lay everywhere like random notes flung from a staff, and the discordant smell of fear hung in the air, though it did nothing to dispel the crowd, most of whom were waiting for the chance to make off with something. Everything he hated about London was in evidence-dirt, chaos, evil-minded people hovering about. Still, it was pure luck that he and Simon had been only a few blocks away when the report came over the wireless.“Move aside, please! Police!” he called. “Police! Let me through!”

The word police always did it. The crowd rippled aside to reveal the demolished shop front. Gavin hurriedly picked his way inside, his black leather jacket protecting him from snags and jabs. He didn’t bother to remove his simple workman’s cap. Clearly, the machine had come and gone, but it might have left clues-or victims-behind. His practiced eye automatically picked out several four-pronged claw marks in the walls and deep circular gouges in the floor that marked out huge footprints. Gavin noted their size and did some mental math. The machine had been between twenty and twenty-five feet tall, the same size as the mechanicals used during the Napoleonic Wars, and that made Gavin nervous. If the pattern he had become all too familiar with held true, the mechanical would be armed with a number of dangerous weapons. He sniffed the air. Paraffin oil. Some clockworkers had begun experimenting with new, more efficient fuels for their machines. This was clearly one of them. Several shop shelves, what remained of them, had been swept clean, indicating theft as a motive.

A figure popped up from behind the counter at the back of the shop, and Gavin reflexively went into a fighting stance. The figure, a woman, brandished a crowbar. Her hat was askew and she had a wild look in her eyes, but Gavin recognized her instantly. His heart did a little jump, and happy surprise thrilled through him. He swallowed a small lump in his throat and dashed across the shop, where he reached out to embrace her, then stopped himself at the last moment.

“Alice!” he gasped, and snatched off his cap. “Alice Michaels! What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

Alice dropped the crowbar and grabbed Gavin’s jacket lapels with both fists. He smelled her perfume, a sweet, roselike fragrance at odds with the frantic look on her face. “We have to get them back!” she barked. “Now!”

“Get what back?”

“The machines! He took the machines! We have to get them back before he figures out what they’re for and tells everyone when he comes back to make me his queen!”

For a terrible moment, Gavin was afraid Alice was the clockworker who had destroyed the shop. She was babbling like Dr. Clef on one of his bad days, and her expression said she wasn’t quite all there. Then he realized she was just upset, a victim.

“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “Just tell me what happened.”

“There isn’t time for that, you idiot. Let’s move!”

“Is someone going to help me up?” groaned a reedy voice from near Gavin’s feet. “Or am I to lie here until the scavengers strip my rivets?”

What Gavin had taken for a pile of debris on the floor in front of the counter turned out to be an automaton trapped under a beam. “Kemp?” Gavin asked. “Holy cow! Can you get up on your own?”

“Do you really expect me to answer that, sir? I believe Madam dropped a crowbar on the counter.”

“Quite a crowd out there.” Simon d’Arco stepped into the shattered shop. He wore a black coat and cap like Gavin’s and a large pack with indicator lights and dials on it. A crank stuck out one side. “Good heavens! I didn’t expect to see you again, Miss Michaels-or soon-to-be Mrs. Williamson. Are you enjoying your betrothal?”

“Oh dear Lord,” Alice groaned. “Mr. d’Arco, we must catch that clockworker immediately. We can use my carriage.”

“If you mean the one out front”-Simon cocked a thumb over his shoulder-“I think the mechanical stepped on it. There’s an awful wreck out there, and the horses are gone.”

“Damn it!” Alice shouted, and Gavin stepped back, shocked at hearing such language from a woman. “You brought horses of your own, didn’t you?”

Gavin asked, “Why are the machines so important, Miss Michaels? Tell us, and we’ll do our best.” He flashed what he hoped was a confident grin. “The Third Ward’s best will amaze even you.”

“I doubt that, Mr. Ennock,” she snapped. “Those machines belong to my fiance. They are extremely … valuable, and he’ll be very upset if they’re lost. We must recover them.”

Gavin found himself nodding. It had been a year since they’d parted, but she was just as he remembered her-furious, beautiful, and crackling with more energy than a Mozart symphony. He straightened the lapels on his black leather jacket. “We’ll get them back. I promise.”

Just then, several colored lights on Simon’s pack lit up. Gavin, adept at reading the codes they indicated, gave the crank a whirl and plucked a large round microphone from the side of the pack.