This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list.
I did not accompany Holmes to the
other mechanics, choosing instead to go back to Baker Street and catch up on
the day’s news and the stack of medical journals that had been sitting on the floor
for two weeks. Holmes returned much later than I expected him, staggering into
the flat and dumping the MAID in a corner. He collapsed into his armchair and
requested that I bring him his pipe and tobacco.
After
the pipe was smoking comfortably, I ventured to inquire as to whether he had
got a second opinion.
“Yes,”
grumbled Holmes.
“And?”
“He
was unable to find any damage.”
“Ah.”
“Neither
could the one after him.”
“You
went to another?”
“Nor
could his successor.”
“You
went to a third mechanic?”
“And
a fourth. And a fifth. And a sixth.” Holmes admitted this belligerently.
“Six
mechanics? No wonder you’re fagged out. And
none of them found a thing?”
“Nothing.
Six of the best mechanics in London, all men, and not one could find a cause.”
Holmes stared into the fire.
“What!
Then Miss Morstan…”
“Was
perfectly correct in her analysis.” Holmes shook his head. “I’m missing
something, Watson.”
At
that moment, we heard a commotion on the stairs. A young Martian police officer
burst into the room, severely winded. His rust-coloured forehead glistened with
sweat and he brushed a few loose strands of his elbow-length purple hair, tied
back in a “ponytail”, from his eyes. “Mr. Holmes, sir? Lestrade needs you
urgently!”
Holmes
sat up. “What is it?”
“Another
robot murder, sir! Not ten minutes ago!”
Holmes
leapt to his feet. “Quick, Watson!”
We
dashed into the house within a quarter hour, having run all the way there. The
Martian lad fairly collapsed on our arrival, but Holmes, barely pausing to
catch his breath, strode into the house. “Where?” he demanded of Lestrade.
Before
Lestrade could answer, however, Holmes cocked his head and motioned for
silence. In the stillness that followed I heard a door closing in another part
of the house. Holmes bolted towards the sound, leaving the police officers
standing puzzled in the hallway. I followed him to the back of the house, where
we dashed out the door and scrambled over the fence. Holmes pointed at a
figure, sprinting away down the street.
“There!
He escaped when all attention was turned to our arrival!”
We
started running after him. I noticed Holmes draw his revolver, and I resolved
to flip out the knife in my hand when I could do so without fear of cutting
myself.
We
ran through the murky streets of London for what seemed an hour, growing ever
closer to our prey. He led us all the way down to the banks of the
foul-smelling Thames, where we all three slowed, for there was much fog that
night and none of us wanted to fall in. The man kept us in a merry dance around
a blackened warehouse, darting just out of sight behind the boxes and barrels.
I
believe we nearly had him then, in the dark of night. He seemed to be lurking
behind a large wooden crate. Holmes crept towards it, his gun drawn, his
footsteps as light as a Martian’s. (Martians, as I can tell you from
experience, are extremely quiet on their feet.)
I
noticed then that the customary whirring of my arm had changed subtly in pitch.
Glancing at it, I was surprised to see that the knife had folded out. I thought
I must have done it unconsciously until my arm began to move.
I
did not direct it, and indeed tried to hold it still, but to my horror the
mechanical limb shifted, of its own accord, so that the blade of the knife was against my own throat!
“Holmes!”
I whispered. “Help me!”
Holmes
whirled around, irritated, but his expression changed to puzzlement when he saw
my predicament. “Watson, what on earth are you—”
“I’m
not doing anything! It’s doing this on its own!”
Holmes’s
eyes widened and a low chuckle resonated from behind the crate.
“Not
entirely on its own, I think, Doctor Watson.”
Holmes
turned back, his gun pointed directly at the source of the voice. At the same
time the blade pressed harder into my throat.
“Do
drop the gun, Mr. Holmes. We wouldn’t want someone to get hurt, would we?”
“I
don’t know,” responded Holmes calmly. “I should very much like to see you hurt.”
I
felt a trickle of blood slide down my neck.
“Holmes!”
He
set the gun on the floor.
“Kick
it away,” commanded the voice. Holmes scowled and sent the weapon spinning into
the darkness. The pressure of the knife eased.
“Thank
you. Now, we can talk.”
“Who
are you?” Holmes’s voice was taut with anger.
“You
needn’t know my name if you cannot deduce it.”
“What
do you want?”
Our
unseen foe laughed again. “I think the question for you is rather, ‘How am I
going to get it?’ You’ve already seen the
effects of my little contrivance here.”
Holmes
glanced at me and nodded slowly. “It controls mechanical devices remotely.”
“Precisely.”
Holmes
nodded again. “And you are building a bigger one. The monographs on Spence’s
walls. The books. Theories of electrical impulses and remote controls.”
“Very
good! A little too good, in fact,” said
the voice. “I shall be going now. I advise that neither of you move or attempt
to follow me. That would have most unfortunate consequences. For you, that is.”
The
figure emerged from his shelter and started off towards the entrance of the
warehouse. He paused a moment and said, “It is only through my mercy, of
course, that you do not lie dead at this moment. I could easily kill you both.
But what satisfaction would that give me? No, Holmes, I think it will be much
more gratifying to leave you alive for now, so that you can witness my greatest
triumph, my rise to infinite power, and, after I have control over every robot,
airship, locomotive and bionic limb in England, you shall be able to despair
and know that I beat you before I strike the fatal blow.”
“A
nice touch. One would almost believe that you are actually carrying a weapon.”
Our
foe stiffened, as if in irritation. In the darkness he was indistinct, but I
caught a gleam of metal from the device he held. “Until we meet again, Mr.
Holmes…” he said softly, turning to leave.
We
waited in tense silence as he walked away. After what felt like an eternity, my
arm began to obey my commands once more. It jerked away from my neck the moment
he had left the warehouse. The knife folded itself away. I sat down on a nearby
crate, pressing my tie to my throat to stop the bleeding.
Holmes
ran to the end of the warehouse and looked after our foe. “He took a boat.
There’s no catching him now,” he reported, coming back to help me. “Watson, are
you all right?”
I
nodded wordlessly, although I felt far from well. My arm—my own limb—had been
taken from my control and been forced by another as a way to hurt, or even kill
me. A part of my body had been under another’s control. The raw sense of
betrayal would take some time to fade, and I doubted I would ever fully trust
my arm again.
“Why
did he not carry a weapon?” I asked after a few minutes, when I had regained
some of my composure.
“He
was over-confidant in the abilities of his machine,” responded Holmes, “and
expected that he would be able to get away more easily than he did. Why he did
not simply kill us with your arm, I do not know, but I think that his
melodramatic speech was at least partly true. Megalomaniacs of his sort often
lust for fame.”
“Why
couldn’t he get away? He had half an hour before we arrived.”
“He
had disguised himself as a human servant. I suppose that house must have a
few.” (Human servants were much more rare these days, as much of the lower
classes had been shipped off to start colonies on other planets, but there were
still a few household functions that required a human to carry them out.) “He
was making his escape with what he took—I presume you saw the shoulder-bag he
carried?—when his victim made some sound and he was intercepted. There was
enough of a commotion that his presence was not spotted, but he could not get
away until we arrived and the attention was focused elsewhere.” Holmes took my
arm—my natural one—and guided me to the door. “Come. We should examine the
crime scene while we have the chance.”
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