The Doomsday Vault

straitjacket hobbled him, and the chain brought him up short. He growled and snarled like a dog on a leash.

“Out!” Phipps ordered.

Alice fled with the others right behind her. They slammed the door just as Barton began to howl. The heavy door cut the sound off. The trio stood in the hallway a moment, silent. Alice’s knees were weak.

“I don’t want to do that again,” she whispered at last. “I can’t.”

“How long before he dies?” Gavin asked.

“Three days, perhaps a week,” Phipps said. “And that’s puzzling. I don’t know how much you know about clockworkers and the clockwork plague, Miss Michaels.”

“Not much,” Alice admitted uncomfortably. “They don’t teach about it at finishing school, and clockworkers are. . well, you know.”

“Insane, yes,” Phipps said. “And people fear and dislike them, often with good reason, so they don’t discuss them in polite company. All right, listen-the Third Ward has made an extensive study of clockworkers and their pathology. Every case is different, but most follow a general pattern. When someone who is going to be a clockworker first catches the clockwork plague, their symptoms are very different. Most plague victims come down with fever and muscle tremors in the early stages. Those that survive are often scarred.”

Alice clenched her jaw. She remembered with absolute clarity when her father and mother and older brother came down with the fever and muscle tremors that heralded the clockwork plague, and she remembered the helpless terror she felt as her mother and brother worsened and died. Father had worsened as well, and then recovered, more or less. He never walked again, would never lift Alice above his head so she could see the Queen.

“The ones who don’t die right away or survive with scarring almost have it worse,” Phipps continued heartlessly. “Their symptoms intensify until they include delirium, loss of muscle tone, thinning of the skin, pustules, and sensitivity to light, which result in what the public likes to call plague zombies. Eventually they die as well.”

“I know how that aspect of the clockwork plague works,” Alice said icily.

“Your family is well acquainted with it,” Phipps acknowledged. “But clockworkers are different. People who will, through a mechanism we do not yet understand, become clockworkers, begin with different symptoms. The plague seems to work with their brains instead of against, at least for a time. In the first phase, which lasts three or four months, they show increased intelligence, insomnia, an interest in good music, and a strong dislike for bad music. They are not contagious, and we still don’t know why. In the second phase, their intelligence increases vastly, often within one or two specialties, such as biology or art. Their sensitivity to bad music leaps to include a sensitivity to tritones. They sleep very little, and they gain heightened physical endurance, as if their bodies were burning up future resources all at once. This allows them to work tirelessly on their strange machines and abstract mathematics. They also begin to think differently from normal people, which lets them commit acts of great brilliance or stunning cruelty. This stage can last anywhere from fourteen months to three years. The longest time on record that a clockworker in this phase lived was three years, two months, and four days.”

“Until your aunt Edwina came along,” Gavin added. “We’re still looking for her.”

“The third and final phase,” Phipps said, “is the one you just observed. The disease seems to devour the clockworker’s brain all at once. He loses all touch with reality.”

“What does this have to do with-oh! ” Alice exclaimed. “I see! If Patrick Barton was healthy at the Greenfellow ball just a year ago, he hasn’t had time to go through the entire plague yet. That’s what worries you.”

“Correct. We’ll interview his family and friends, of course, but even if he was somehow exposed to the plague at the ball-and it seems likely he was infected rather later-he should still be within the first or second phase. Why was the plague so advanced in him?”

“Was that a rhetorical question?” Alice countered. “Because I have no way of knowing the answer.”

“I can’t answer it, either,” Gavin pointed out.

“A great many odd questions seem to come up where you’re concerned, Miss Michaels.” Phipps straightened her uniform jacket. “As Agent Ennock pointed out, we still don’t know the true fate of your aunt Edwina. The clockworker who plays to zombies also seems to have an attachment to you, and you just happened to be in that shop when Mr. Barton robbed it. It’s very curious.”

“Are you insinuating something?” Alice asked hotly. “Because I resent the implication.”

“I’m insinuating nothing. I want you to work for me and bring all this clockworker strangeness with you.” She handed Alice a piece of paper from her pocket. “Look at this.”

Alice unfolded the letter and froze. Graceful script flowed across the page, and at the bottom was a seal in scarlet wax of a woman in a flowing dress mounted on a horse. The paper suddenly felt both heavy and delicate. “This is from the Queen. The Queen wrote to you.”

“In her own hand,” Phipps agreed. “She’s polite-she’s never anything else-but she still regrets to inform me that if I can’t capture the maniac who’s been stirring up plague zombies and wreaking havoc in London, she’ll find someone who can.”

Alice’s mouth was dry. She could imagine Victoria sitting at a desk with a gold pen and inkpot, her brow furrowed in thought. Her hands had caressed this bit of paper, and now Alice held the same bit. The connection felt almost too powerful to bear. “The Queen,” she murmured again.

“We need to find this grinning clockworker,” Phipps said, “and I think you can help. Please, Miss Michaels. Come work for us.”

“No.” The word popped out by reflex.

“Is it because of your position?” Phipps pressed. “A traditional lady doesn’t labor for money, I know, but actual work doesn’t seem to bother you. You could work for free, you know, or donate your salary to charity.”

“No.”

“You think your fiance would object? We might be able to persuade him. The Prime Minister doesn’t know we exist, but a few high-level officials do, and I’m sure one of them would be willing to discuss the matter with him and-”

“No.”

Alice couldn’t help flicking a glance at Gavin. His eyes, blue as an April sky, caught her earth brown ones and held them. At that moment, a powerful rush of emotion made her knees tremble beneath her borrowed dress. This man had saved her life, and she had saved his. He was handsome, and thrilling, and made the angels weep for envy of his music. If she joined the Third Ward and worked with this man, she would either give in to base temptation or weep every night for what she couldn’t have during the day.

Alice cleared her throat and spoke, though every word was a stone that crushed her down. “It’s simply impossible. But it’s nice to be wanted.”

Gavin’s face fell. He looked unhappier than Phipps, and Alice nearly recanted then and there.

“Lieutenant Phipps,” Alice said suddenly, “are you an Ad Hoc woman?”

A look of surprise crossed Phipps’s face. “Of course.”

“So you vote,” Alice pressed. “And your husband. .?”

“Doesn’t object in the slightest,” Phipps said. “He died of the clockwork plague years ago.”

“How do you cope?” Alice asked in abrupt desperation. “How do you deal with the death and hell you see in London every day?”

“Work, Miss Michaels. It keeps the body busy and gives the mind time to heal. Pick a cause and work for it. You’d be surprised at what can be accomplished by one person. Or by a small committee.”

Alice stared at her. Phipps stared back. “I’ve heard rumors,” Alice said slowly, “of an anonymous benefactor who helped the Hats-On Committee retain power by providing funds and connections. Someone who moves outside the normal social circles and has access to incredible resources. You wouldn’t know anything about such a person, would you, Lieutenant?”

“My offer of a position still stands, Miss Michaels,” Phipps said.

Alice felt Gavin’s eyes on her. Before she could give in to weakness, she shook her head and marched woodenly back to the lift.

Just as she was shutting the gate, Gavin darted between the closing bars. “Hold the lift, please,” he said with