lowering his now-empty weapon.
The gold cloak’s sneer dissolved into a slack, vacant expression, and he slumped to the floor with a sloshing sound that chilled Oliver’s bones.
Hews relaxed his arms. “Perhaps he does.”
Bailey turned to Kerry’s sprawled body. Only a small black-rimmed hole marred Kerry’s chest, but beneath him lay a slowly spreading pool of blood.
Not a bad way for it to end, Oliver thought. Better than the Chimney or the steam guns or any of the other horrors of this city.
The other three faced their fallen comrade and bowed their heads. Hews removed his hat.
“A great honour to die in the service of queen and country,” Bailey said, voice hard. “We salute this man who gave his life for the cause.”
“Flights of angels,” Hews muttered. “We shall see you at the gates, my friend.”
Bailey turned to face the rest of them, dismissing Kerry’s body like so much scenery. He gestured towards the cabinet.
“Everyone down.”
One by one they fled through the trapdoor. Hews came last, sealing it behind and fastening the unseen catch. They knelt and huddled close against the stinking, grime-heavy wind that greeted them below. Everyone took a moment to hide their weapons away and draw handkerchiefs to cover their mouths against the sickening air.
“How did they find you?” Hews asked, pressing his hat down to keep it from flying off.
Oliver almost reeled back at the anger that flashed in Bailey’s eyes. Bailey made a fist with his free hand. “Aaron has been captured.”
Oliver knew the name, having heard it passed in casual conversation between other revolutionaries. As usual, they hadn’t trusted him with the details of Aaron’s role. Oliver had assumed he was another agent like himself, but Hews’ startled gasp indicated otherwise.
“Lord in heaven,” Hews muttered.
“Contact your people and order them into hiding,” Bailey ordered. “Reconvene at the den in Dunbridge Tower.” He and Sims backed up, dropped off the edge of the beam, and disappeared.
Oliver turned to Hews. “Hiding? What did he mean?”
Hews ground his teeth, staring inwardly. “If Aaron gave up this hide, he’ll give up the rest of them, lad. Not a one of us is safe now.”
Oliver’s heart leapt back to a racehorse pace. “This man didn’t know my crew, Hews.”
“We can’t take any chances. Let’s get up and find a telegraph.”
Hews touched Oliver on the shoulder and pointed back the way they’d come.
“How’re we to get all the way to Dunbridge?” Oliver asked. “They’re certain to be watching the cars.”
Hews broke out of an internal reverie. “They didn’t seem to know our faces. It’s Bailey and Sims who have to be careful.”
They crawled in silence for a moment, walking on three limbs to counter the wind. Oliver glanced over several times at Hews, whose brow grew more and more wrinkled, and his manner drew more withdrawn.
“Hewey, who was this Aaron?”
Hews loosed a long, frustrated sigh.
“Our hope, lad. Our best bloody hope.”
Chapter 4
The first principle of the machine is Purpose. The machine designs itself to this chosen end, aligning all functionality to a single outcome. The machine, by its nature, cannot fathom or choose its purpose. It must be handed down, as revelation or as doctrine, from a being of higher stature. In this way could it be considered divine.
—IV. ii
Ticking: a thousand clocks echoing into endless dark, the motion of a million gears grinding and churning, a morass of straining forces clashing against shaped metal, a finely tuned symphony of coordinated motion, culminating in a single tick—repetitive, deafening, implacable.
The mind of Grandfather Clock.
Aaron had imagined himself shrieking and writhing, struggling against the bonds that held him. He imagined a line of Boiler Men at the entrance to his prison, standing ready with rifles, rods, and steam guns to block his eventual escape. He’d imagined a door locked with
The gold cloak’s sneer dissolved into a slack, vacant expression, and he slumped to the floor with a sloshing sound that chilled Oliver’s bones.
Hews relaxed his arms. “Perhaps he does.”
Bailey turned to Kerry’s sprawled body. Only a small black-rimmed hole marred Kerry’s chest, but beneath him lay a slowly spreading pool of blood.
Not a bad way for it to end, Oliver thought. Better than the Chimney or the steam guns or any of the other horrors of this city.
The other three faced their fallen comrade and bowed their heads. Hews removed his hat.
“A great honour to die in the service of queen and country,” Bailey said, voice hard. “We salute this man who gave his life for the cause.”
“Flights of angels,” Hews muttered. “We shall see you at the gates, my friend.”
Bailey turned to face the rest of them, dismissing Kerry’s body like so much scenery. He gestured towards the cabinet.
“Everyone down.”
One by one they fled through the trapdoor. Hews came last, sealing it behind and fastening the unseen catch. They knelt and huddled close against the stinking, grime-heavy wind that greeted them below. Everyone took a moment to hide their weapons away and draw handkerchiefs to cover their mouths against the sickening air.
“How did they find you?” Hews asked, pressing his hat down to keep it from flying off.
Oliver almost reeled back at the anger that flashed in Bailey’s eyes. Bailey made a fist with his free hand. “Aaron has been captured.”
Oliver knew the name, having heard it passed in casual conversation between other revolutionaries. As usual, they hadn’t trusted him with the details of Aaron’s role. Oliver had assumed he was another agent like himself, but Hews’ startled gasp indicated otherwise.
“Lord in heaven,” Hews muttered.
“Contact your people and order them into hiding,” Bailey ordered. “Reconvene at the den in Dunbridge Tower.” He and Sims backed up, dropped off the edge of the beam, and disappeared.
Oliver turned to Hews. “Hiding? What did he mean?”
Hews ground his teeth, staring inwardly. “If Aaron gave up this hide, he’ll give up the rest of them, lad. Not a one of us is safe now.”
Oliver’s heart leapt back to a racehorse pace. “This man didn’t know my crew, Hews.”
“We can’t take any chances. Let’s get up and find a telegraph.”
Hews touched Oliver on the shoulder and pointed back the way they’d come.
“How’re we to get all the way to Dunbridge?” Oliver asked. “They’re certain to be watching the cars.”
Hews broke out of an internal reverie. “They didn’t seem to know our faces. It’s Bailey and Sims who have to be careful.”
They crawled in silence for a moment, walking on three limbs to counter the wind. Oliver glanced over several times at Hews, whose brow grew more and more wrinkled, and his manner drew more withdrawn.
“Hewey, who was this Aaron?”
Hews loosed a long, frustrated sigh.
“Our hope, lad. Our best bloody hope.”
Chapter 4
The first principle of the machine is Purpose. The machine designs itself to this chosen end, aligning all functionality to a single outcome. The machine, by its nature, cannot fathom or choose its purpose. It must be handed down, as revelation or as doctrine, from a being of higher stature. In this way could it be considered divine.
—IV. ii
Ticking: a thousand clocks echoing into endless dark, the motion of a million gears grinding and churning, a morass of straining forces clashing against shaped metal, a finely tuned symphony of coordinated motion, culminating in a single tick—repetitive, deafening, implacable.
The mind of Grandfather Clock.
Aaron had imagined himself shrieking and writhing, struggling against the bonds that held him. He imagined a line of Boiler Men at the entrance to his prison, standing ready with rifles, rods, and steam guns to block his eventual escape. He’d imagined a door locked with
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