The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle) (13 page)

‘How do you know this? You said there were two things that proved the Machine’s existence - what’s the other?’

‘Simply, we had a spy inside the Machine’s construction.’

‘What?’

‘Obviously not at the location itself. The tools you people use to make your devices - iron and steel - are painful to us; we could not venture too close. This was a spy at the Machine’s highest level of conception; one who was aware of the personnel, the leaders involved - it was he who found out about Berwick’s involvement, who prophesied that Berwick was the final piece, the one who could complete the device, that Berwick was the key to making the Machine work. Unfortunately, before he could inform us of anything else regarding the Machine, he was . . . removed from his position.’

‘So you
had
a spy, and don’t any more?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And the spy told you about Berwick?’

‘Not directly, but through contacts we found out about the spy’s discovery.’

‘It’s sickeningly complicated, isn’t it?’ muttered Lyle.

‘Quite. Doubtless the spy knows more than he has passed on, either to us or to those Tseiqin whom you categorized as “angel-demon people”. Unfortunately, he is at present beyond our capacity to communicate with.’

‘You mean you’ve lost him.’

‘No, no, we know exactly where he is.’

Lyle hissed in frustration. ‘All right, where is he?’

‘In a cell composed entirely of iron walls, bound with iron chains down an iron corridor constantly guarded by soldiers carrying magnets, underneath Pentonville Prison.’

There was a long silence. Feeling that something was expected of him, Lyle said, ‘That can’t be good.’

‘It is certainly not conducive to our efforts.’

‘I think I begin to see where this is leading.’

‘Doubtless the spy has useful intelligence.’

‘Doubtless.’

‘And as I’m sure you can understand, the Machine is a monstrosity. ’

‘I’m still divided as to that.’

‘You would have us all die?’

‘I’m not convinced of your nicer nature, Mr White, sir.’

‘Then it is because you are convinced of the more wicked nature of Augustus Havelock that you will help us.’ Statement: no room for saying no, nor any question that this would even cross Lyle’s mind.

‘If anyone can help you find Berwick, this man will - he who had knowledge of the Machine’s most intricate workings and who has made the greatest efforts to stop it.’

‘Let me get this clear. Berwick was building the Machine.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then, for reasons unknown, he fled.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now everyone’s looking for him - your lot, presumably, to kill him, to stop the Machine being built . . .’

‘That is not everyone’s wish -’

‘And looking for Havelock, so that Berwick can finish the Machine.’

‘Yes.’

‘And no one knows where he’s gone or why.’

‘Correct.’

‘But you had a spy involved in the Machine, who knows a lot about it, who may be able to help find Berwick and - assuming that’s a good thing - stop the Machine?’

‘Yes.’

‘But who is at this moment under hefty guard somewhere beneath Pentonville Prison.’

‘All of this is correct.’

‘Where you can’t get at him.’

‘Yes.’

Lyle’s rictus grin could have been put in place by a sadistic sculptor. ‘And I just bet you want me to try.’

‘Yes. I think that sums it up.’

‘I’ll consider it.’

‘You’ll
consider
it?’ Even Old Man White couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

‘Yes. That’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid.’

‘Mister Lyle, the Machine will kill us all!’

‘
May
kill
you
all, let’s not be reckless with those plural pronouns, shall we?’

‘Berwick was your friend!’

‘Yes, but remember, I still don’t have the smallest proof of anything you’ve said. And now I want to go home.’

‘Mister Lyle, there is not much time!’

‘What will you do? Play games with my mind? Compel me to help you? Change my thoughts, manipulate my brain, wipe all memories from me? How does that make you worth saving? I’m going home, Mr White, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll help you. But if I do, it’s
my
choice, my decision, my free will, the outcome of my own untarnished thought. Give me that, and I’ll help.’

For a moment, just a moment, he thought Mr White would say no; saw his face contract as he contemplated his options. Then the Tseiqin’s features relaxed, and he smiled, not so much at Lyle, but at a realization just dawning. He nodded, more at the carpet than anything else, as if appreciating it for the first time. ‘Very well, Mister Lyle,’ he said. ‘And may I say, it is a pleasure to have come to know you at last.’

CHAPTER 7

There were Tseiqin, and then there were Tseiqin. Some liked humans, some thought they were the scourge of the earth; some didn’t particularly mind iron so long as it kept a safe distance away from them and wasn’t particularly magnetic, and even then it would probably bring them out in a rash; some found the merest thought of going within five miles of the city painful, a crawl across their skin. Some liked Beethoven, some liked the populist delights of a Punch and Judy show, some despised both as impure cultural art forms and longed for the plangent twang of the nose flute - no way round it, there were Tseiqin and there were Tseiqin. And then there was Lin Zi.

And Lin Zi was . . .
different
. The fact that she walked unashamed through the streets of London in a top hat and black trousers a little too short for her, sporting a long black coat that flapped around her knees - this would be forgivable. After all, actresses and other creatures of the night were also rumoured to commit such travesties. Her obvious foreignness, her dark almond skin and laughing green eyes, would also have been pardonable, maybe even an object of curiosity as the masses turned to stare. Likewise even the fact that she enjoyed reading the newspapers and talked angrily about the generals in the Crimea and their ‘stupid incompetent mindless excuse for tactics’, emphasizing every word with sweeping, ungraceful gestures - that too could have been excused, as an eccentricity allowable in the very rich; say, a female of the land-owning class.

There was, however, one problem which brought all others to light, and turned Lin Zi’s eccentricities into embarrassments, and it was this: she revelled in them. She would say appalling things about Queen Victoria (‘that short woman’) in the presence of peers of the realm just to see the monocle drop; she walked through the dirtiest streets of the city, hopping over the corpses of rats and beaming at everyone she passed, her oriental face offering a friendly grin that inspired xenophobic anxiety in all those who beheld it. It was rumoured, indeed, that she had contacts among the Chartists and wrote angry letters to parliament about pocket boroughs, signed, ‘a concerned gentlewoman’. Even among the more radical Tseiqin who knew her it was whispered that, somehow in Lin’s young life, she had taken the cause of human-protectionism too far, and gone just a little native. However, since ‘native’ society didn’t know where to put Lin or her mighty laugh, this conclusion was probably misplaced: Lin Zi drifted between worlds, enjoying every second of confusion she sowed in her wake.

This evening - now headed more towards morning - was no exception.

‘You all right, Mister Lyle?’

Lyle shifted uneasily in the carriage taking him back to Hammersmith. ‘Fine,’ he mumbled.

‘You look uncomfortable.’

‘Just a little stiff.’

‘Have you considered exercises?’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Can you put your elbows on the floor?’

‘What, now?’

‘Can you?’

‘Here?’

‘Yes!’

‘Possibly, why?’

‘With your legs straight, I mean.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘It’s an exercise.’

Lyle’s face was a picture of bemusement. ‘
Why?
’

‘Gets stiffness out of joints.’

‘Putting my elbows on the floor gets stiffness
out
of joints? What if I get stuck?’

‘You wouldn’t. Go on, can you?’

‘Right now?’

‘I’d be impressed. Keeping your balance would be a start.’

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

‘Lin Zi. Don’t try and get the intonation right, you’ll end up embarrassing yourself.’

‘The intonation?’

‘It’s not just Lin Zi,’ explained Lin patiently. ‘It’s L
i
n
Z
ds-ur!’

‘Zds-ur?’

‘That’s how it’s meant to be pronounced. You need to feel the end of your tongue buzzing . . .’ Lin stuck her tongue out to prove the point, ‘as if you’sh got thish bee on your tongue, yesh?’

‘Aren’t you the woman who threatened to cut my little finger off if I didn’t tell you where Berwick was?’ Lyle hazarded.

‘You remembered!’ exclaimed Lin. ‘It’s so nice to be recognized for my work.’

‘Oh my,’ muttered Lyle.

‘Oh my, what?’

‘This must be how Tess feels all the time.’

‘Which one’s Tess?’

‘What do you mean, “Which one’s Tess”?’

‘Which one of your little friends?’

‘I would have thought it was . . .’ Lyle’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

Lin beamed. ‘I knew Old Man was right when he said you were sharper than a bag of raisins!’

‘Razors.’

‘What?’

‘Razors,’ said Lyle in a strained little voice. ‘Not raisins. I’m sharper than a bag of razors.’

‘I know what I meant. Which one is it?’

‘What?’ Lyle could feel himself sweating with the effort of keeping up with Lin’s conversation.

‘Which one of your friends is Tess?’

‘Tess is the girl.’

‘Tess. And the other is . . .’

‘Thomas.’

‘And the boy?’

‘Thomas is the boy.’

‘Oh. And the dog?’

‘Tate.’

‘That’s a lot of “T”s.’

‘That’s hardly my fault!’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘You’re not like other Tseiqin, are you?’

‘See, there with the “T”s again - although arguably only because of your ignorant and incompetent transliteration system.’

‘That’s
definitely
not my fault.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m not like other Tseiqin.’

‘This is a very demanding conversation for three o’clock in the morning,’ whimpered Lyle, putting his head in his hands.

‘Really? What’s hard?’

‘You’re . . . very awake,’ he sighed.

‘So?’

‘Well, I’m not!’

‘If you like, I know a way to send you to . . .’

‘No, no! No mind games, no sending to sleep!’

‘I was just offering . . .’

‘Stay well clear of my head, thank you kindly!’

‘No need to get huffy about it.’

Something about her voice caught Lyle’s attention. He looked up, trying to put his finger on it, and said finally, ‘“Huffy”?’

‘I was just offering . . .’

‘I haven’t heard anyone use “huffy” for years.’

Lin fidgeted uneasily. ‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘I like these words, yes? I find such human things quaintly pleasing.’

‘My pa used to use it.’

‘It’s a good word,’ she admitted. ‘I doubt it’s in Dr Johnson’s dictionary, though.’

‘Probably not.’ He thought for about a moment, then added distantly, ‘“Blockhead” is, though.’

‘What are you implying?’ demanded Lin indignantly.

‘Nothing at all, honestly! It’s just such a good word, it should be used more often.’

‘Members of parliament,’ agreed Lin in a tone of disgust. ‘Blockheads. And may I say, I think it’s shocking that women aren’t allowed to vote.’

‘Neither are most men,’ pointed out Lyle.

‘That’s beside the point! When you hear these people campaigning for another Reform Act, do they ever mention women? Do they ever stand up and say, “Incidentally, the fairer sex has a good head on its shoulders and a strong grasp of the necessities of life, I wonder if we should extend the franchise to them?” Can you explain to me why this idea is not even contemplated except occasionally by the wives of vicars during their ministrations in Manchester?’

‘Erm . . .’

‘The “weaker” sex, they say, unable to understand politics, not to be burdened, a woman’s place is in the home, a man’s is in the world at large, gathering the goods. Even those among the Whigs who claim to be radicals blanch at the prospect of introducing even the slightest amendment that extends beyond the realm of local, church-hall governance! Well, I tell you . . .’

‘How are you so awake?’ wailed Lyle.

‘I’m the product of several thousand years of what Mr Darwin would dub “special evolution”, I think,’ explained Lin. ‘You’re just a monkey in a pair of shoes.’