Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (15 page)

“I'm not happy with this!” said Octavia. “Not happy at all.”

“What did you expect?” asked Tweed. “That we wouldn't have to do anything illegal? This is serious stuff, Songbird.”

Tweed twitched the curtain aside and peered out the window of his steamcoach. Despite his words, he was, in fact, concerned about the instructions Stepp had given them. It had all made sense when she explained it, and as far as Tweed could tell, it really was the only way to get inside the Ministry. But still, sitting there watching the evening rush-hour traffic clog up the arteries of the city, he couldn't help but worry.

“It'll be fine,” he said, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. “Just make sure you're ready to do your bit.”

Octavia leaned past Tweed and peered out the window. “Where are Carter and Jenny? Shouldn't they be around?”

“Oh, they are. You only see them if they want to be seen. Don't worry about them. They're good at what they do.”

“Which is robbing people?”

“Exactly,” said Tweed with relish. “The best in the biz. And they've taught me a few of their tricks. Surprisingly, a lot of it is about psychology, about making the mark think something diff—What?”

Octavia was staring at him in astonishment. “Are you
seriously
about to give me a lecture on the psychology of theft?”

“Well…not a
lecture
. More a…brief essay.”

Octavia shook her head in dismay. “You are so odd.”

“I resent that!”

“Do you deny it?”

“Well, no, but I still
resent
it.”

“Just pay attention please.” She nodded out the window. “Are you sure that's the right building?”

Tweed glanced across the street. The building was unremarkable. A bland set of stairs covered in pigeon droppings leading up to a black door. The building was three stories high, with small, square windows facing out onto the main street. It certainly didn't look like the main entrance to the most feared government ministry in the country.

“That's the address Horatio put down. What about him?” he added, as a well-dressed man exited the building and trotted down the steps onto the pavement. He put on a hat and lit a cigarette before walking away from the building.

“No,” said Octavia. “Too smartly dressed. Too good looking. He'd be missed.”

Tweed squinted at the man. He wouldn't call him good looking. Definitely average. “You think he's good looking?” Tweed asked doubtfully

“Indeed. He looks like an actor.”

“Any
specific
actor, or is it simply the fact that a person gets up onto a stage and repeats lines someone else wrote for them that you find so attractive?”

“What about her?” asked Octavia, blatantly ignoring Tweed's question. A middle-aged woman was leaving the building, buttoning up a jacket against the blustery wind.

“No,” said Tweed. “I'm not comfortable doing this to a woman.”

They waited for another ten minutes. Finally, an extremely tall man wearing a creased suit with a—Tweed leaned forward to get a better look—coffee stain down the front of his shirt, exited the building and clattered down the steps. He bumped into a passing pedestrian, spun around as he muttered an apology, then started to move in their direction.

“Perfect,” said Tweed. “Get ready with that thing.”

Octavia pushed a button on a large gramophone that Stepp had loaned them. The smooth sound disc started to spin. Octavia picked up a long hose attached to the device and held the listening horn next to the open window.

“Ready,” she said.

Tweed hopped out of the carriage, checking how close the man was. He walked away a few steps, then turned around as if he'd forgotten something. He patted his jacket and walked along the pavement, searching the ground. When he drew level with the carriage he paused and looked up. He had timed it exactly right.

“Theodore?” he said to the tall man. “Theodore…Smith?”

Smith? Really? That was the best he could come up with?

A look of surprise flashed across the man's features. He tried to step around Tweed, shaking his head as he did so.

“Theodore,” pressed Tweed. “It's me. Bartholomew. How are you?”

The man finally stopped walking. “I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is not Theodore.”

“Of course it is. Theodore from Oxford. We met at that coffee shop, after the opera? We drank wine and absinthe and then your wife came and dragged you away. I bet you were in trouble, eh?”

“I assure you, sir. I have never been to the opera in Oxford. Plus, I am not married.”

“Of course you are. Theodore Smith. Married to Jessie. Two children. How are the little tykes?”

“I have no children. Now if you will please let me get by…”

“No children? Really? But you and Jess—”

“Sir! My name is Maximilian Horton. I am
not
married. I do
not
have children. I have never been to the opera. I have most certainly never drunk wine and absinthe with you. Now, good day to you!”

Tweed smiled. “Sorry about this.”

Maximilian frowned. “Sorry about wha—?”

Jenny and Carter appeared from out of the crowd of pedestrians buffeting them on all sides. Jenny smiled at Maximilian. “Max! Baby! How you been?” She grabbed his arm and stuck the needle of a syringe into his bicep.

Carter grinned at the man and supported him on the other side as he slumped into their grip. Jenny was babbling on, laughing, leaning across Maximilian to speak to Carter as they smoothly moved him to the back of the carriage. Tweed hung back to make sure no one was taking an untoward interest in them. He needn't have worried. Everyone was too busy going about their own business to take any notice of what looked like three friends laughing and chatting together.

Jenny and Carter managed to get Maximilian into the back of the carriage and pulled the door shut. Tweed hopped into the driver's seat, pulled his smoke goggles down, and set off into traffic, heading back to Norfolk Street to pick up Stepp and her equipment.

Phase one complete. Only…Tweed tried to count how many phases were left, then gave up after he got to ten, feeling the depression start to creep in. How in the name of all that's holy were they going to pull this off?

Tweed pulled the back door of the steamcoach open to find Stepp glaring at him, clutching her precious computing equipment to her chest while trying to hold the rest down with her feet.

“You drive like a drunken baboon!” she snapped. “This is delicate machinery here.”

“Sorry.”

The back of the carriage was rather crowded. Stepp, Jenny, Carter, and Octavia all squashed together in the cramped space, plus Maximilian curled into a ball on the floor. Tweed had to find alternate routes to their destination because the carriage wouldn't make it up any hills.

“Is he still alive?” asked Tweed.

Maximilian's knees were pushed up to his chest, his head twisted to the side as if his neck had been broken.

“He's fine,” said Jenny. “Not our fault he's so tall. He'll have a stiff neck, that's all.”

They climbed out of the carriage one by one, stretching cramped muscles, then pulled Maximilian out, laying him on the damp cobbles. Tweed glanced at the mouth of the alley, where it fed onto the busier street, but the nightly autumn mist had rolled in as they were driving, drifting across the streetlights and turning people into half-seen ghosts.

Stepp stopped clutching her equipment to her chest and put it on the floor, neatly rearranging everything. Then she lifted the trapdoor so the Tesla transceiver slid up from its hidden compartment. Tweed put the receiver into his ear and waited while Stepp picked up the transmitter and pushed the trigger.

“Hello? Hello?” she said softly.

It sounded as if Stepp was whispering directly into his ear. He gave her a thumb's up.

“Have you got the codes?” she asked.

Tweed patted his jacket pocket. “In here.”

“Good.”

Tweed reached inside the carriage and pulled out the heavy sack he'd picked up from home. He hefted it over his shoulder and nodded a farewell to Stepp.

“Good luck.”

“I don't need luck,” said Stepp. “I need neatly ordered numbers and reliable people.” She narrowed her eyes at where Jenny and Carter were trying rather unsuccessfully to pick up the limp form of Maximilian without him folding in half. “But you, on the other hand, need all the luck you can get. I'll see you later Tweed, yes?”

Tweed nodded and closed the carriage door. Octavia was carrying a closed case that looked about as heavy as his sack. Jenny and Carter had finally managed to get Maximilian into a position that allowed them to carry him.

Tweed led the way along the wall until they came to the hidden entrance, slipped into the semi-darkness of the corridor, then took the stairs that led underground. Octavia was right behind him, and bringing up the rear were Jenny and Carter, struggling and swearing as they tried to maneuver Maximilian down the narrow stairwell without banging his head every time they took a step.

They staggered onto the concourse of the abandoned railway station, and everybody laid their burdens down on the white tiles.

“How can someone so thin be so hard to carry?” complained Carter. “He looks like he's as light as a bird.”

“We should get a move on,” said Octavia, picking up her box. “We don't know how many people use this entrance.”

“The words of common sense are rarely welcomed, you know,” said Jenny, picking up Maximilian's legs. She nodded at Carter. “Come on, then. And this time, try to do a little of the work. Leaving all the heavy lifting to your wife is, frankly, quite embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” said Carter haughtily. “I may be many things, dear heart, but embarrassing is not one of them.”

Carter lifted the top half of Maximilian and pulled him back. Unfortunately, he hadn't noticed how close he was to the edge of the platform. He stepped into midair and vanished from sight, dropping Maximilian onto the platform. Jenny swore and leaped forward, grabbing hold of Maximilian's shirt as the top half of his body started to slide over the edge.

Carter leaped to his feet. “I'm all right,” he said, waving his hand in the air.

Jenny just shook her head wearily.

They maneuvered their equipment onto the track and moved into the dark tunnel, heading quickly to the metal door that Horatio had shown them. Jenny and Carter propped Maximilian up against the wall and Octavia placed the large box next to him. She winced and shook her arms, trying to loosen them up.

Jenny turned to Tweed and said, “Come on then, lover boy. You're up. What have you got hidden in that mysterious bag of yours?”

Tweed dropped the sack onto the floor and untied the string. He upended it, the contents spilling out onto the metal tracks.

He looked at the others’ surprised faces. “You'll have to give me a hand with this,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later an automaton stood on the tracks. It twisted from side to side, measuring the give in the suit. Then it did a few
rather limited squats. Metal plates clinked and shifted, scraping together, but even so, maneuverability was better than Tweed had thought it would be.

“I just wish you'd told us this was your amazing idea,” said Octavia.

“Why's that?” asked Tweed, bending over to see if he could touch his toes.

“Because it would have given us a chance to come up with something else. This is insane!”

“Why is it insane? Barnaby built this to be an exact replica of an automaton. It's perfect.”

“It
is
a couple of years out of date,” said Carter dubiously.

Tweed turned to face him, trying to move like an automaton. “It's the only chance we've got. All Ministry employees are trained to recognize each other. But nobody notices automata. They're background objects. Like wallpaper.”

Jenny put her arm around Tweed. “Well, I think it's a glorious idea.”

“Thank you,” said Tweed. “I
was
rather proud of it.”

“Oh, good grief,” said Octavia. “Let's just get this over with then.”

She turned to the wall and opened up the box she'd been carrying, revealing the gramophone. She unspooled the hose, but instead of the receiver that had been attached to it earlier, this time it ended at a metal cone. She unfolded a small handle and wound the device up.

“Ready,” she said.

Carter and Jenny manhandled Maximilian to his feet, turning him to face the door.

“Ready,” said Carter.

Tweed took a deep breath, surveying the others through the tiny eyeholes that Barnaby had given the suit. He nodded.

“Ready.”

Carter lifted Maximilian's hand and laid it flat against the metal panel on the door. Tweed heard a buzzing sound, and a moment later a second panel slid aside at eye height, revealing a large glass lens with a red glow in its center. Jenny and Carter both jerked aside, but Tweed didn't think they had to worry. It would be attached to the Babbage. No one else should be watching.

“Do it,” he whispered.

Jenny and Carter pushed Maximilian up to the lens, Jenny peeling his eyelid back while Carter held his head in the correct position. The red light glowed brighter, pulsing into the dark tunnel.

They waited, but nothing happened. Jenny pushed Maximilian closer, pressing his nose against the actual door.

Still nothing.

“It's not working,” said Octavia. “We should—”

She was cut off by the panel sliding abruptly back across the lens. The tunnel was plunged into darkness again.

The four glanced uncertainly at each other. Had it worked? Or were they about to be confronted by a gang of Ministry security?

“Do it,” said Tweed.

Octavia switched the gramophone on. The sound disc started to spin. She put the needle down onto it and a crackling sound issued from the metal cone. She extended the hose and held it to the door. Tweed pointed out a tiny metal grill about halfway up, and she nodded and moved the cone directly in front of it.

A scratchy voice issued from the cone. It took Tweed a moment to realize it was his own. He winced in embarrassment. He didn't sound like that, did he?

“—really? But you and Jess—” Then Maximilian's voice interrupted his. “Sir! My name is Maximilian Horton. I—”

Octavia quickly lifted the needle from the sound disc.

No one spoke. They stared intently at the door, waiting. Tweed held his breath. He was already sweating inside the suit. He could feel it dripping down the back of his neck.

With a quiet little click, the door opened, swinging back against the wall to reveal a dark corridor. The lights flickered on, stuttering and winking from inside the protective metal cages bolted to the roof.

They stared into the corridor. The harsh light revealed brick walls and a stone floor. It looked abandoned. Like a passage you would find in an empty tenement.

“Charming,” said Jenny.

Tweed moved forward, turning to the others before he stepped over the threshold. “You all know what to do?” he asked, his voice sounding muffled behind the mask.

“Do
you
?” asked Octavia, coming to stand before him.

He nodded. “I think so.”

She smiled nervously at him. “Then good luck, Tweed. Don't mess it up, eh?”

“I'll try not to.”

Tweed took a deep breath, then stepped into the Ministry complex. He turned around. The others stood framed in the doorway.

Then Carter saluted him and pushed the door closed. Tweed heard it lock and seal itself. There was a hiss of air, as if the pressure was equalizing.

He stared at the metal door. He was on his own now. Time to prove to everyone that he really was as brilliant as he made himself out to be.

Tweed had spent most of the past couple of hours staring at automata, studying their movements, how they walked. He'd grown up with
constructs. They'd always been there. But like everything over-familiar, he'd never actually
seen
them. They were just background decoration.

He reckoned he'd got the movements right though. The suit helped a lot, forcing him to move in the stiff-legged, rolling gait that all automata used, his arms swinging slightly but not bending. Then it was a matter of mastering the head movements. Constructs turned corners oddly. The head turned first, while the body still faced in the direction it had originally been moving, then once the head had turned, the body swiveled to follow. It made sense. They needed to see where they were going, so they turned their head first. Simple when you thought about it.

He clumped down the hallway, making sure to put enough weight and force behind each footstep. The caged lights lit a long passage, and it was only when he felt his upper body pulling on him that he realized it was sloping quite steeply downward, tunneling beneath the streets of London.

The passage finally stopped in front of a second metal door. He opened it a crack and peered out. Another corridor waited beyond, but this one was slightly less bare than the one he was in. Admittedly, it
did
look like the corridor of a school, with pipes angling along the upper half of the walls, and bright, unpleasant lighting. But at least the walls were painted.

Even if they were painted green.

As Tweed watched, a woman dressed in a suit similar to Octavia's walked past, checking a thick file she was holding. A moment later three men in severe charcoal suits hurried by, all whispering to each other. They were followed by an automaton carrying heavy-looking boxes, after which came another two women.