The Doomsday Vault

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  PART I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  PART II

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Teaser chapter

  LONDON AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Alice was surrounded—zombies to her left and right, a zombie in the cab ahead of her, and a brick wall behind. No doorways to dodge into, no stairs to climb. Nowhere to flee . . .

  “Get away!” she screamed at them. “Get away from me!”

  A shot cracked through the fog. The head of the zombie woman exploded like a ripe melon. An awful smell washed over Alice as the body dropped to the sidewalk. Alice gaped. A horse rode up—two horses, no, four—their iron shoes clattering on the cobblestones. One of the riders rushed at Alice, stomping over the zombie woman’s corpse.

  “Up you come,” the rider said, hauling Alice up behind the saddle. Alice barely had time to register the fact that her rescuer was a woman in leather trousers before the horse wheeled around and cantered back the way it had come.

  “Who are you?” Alice demanded. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re here to help,” the woman said.

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  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2011

  Copyright © Steven Piziks, 2011

  All rights reserved

  ISBN : 978-1-101-55883-6

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To my son, Aleksandr, the most amazing and

  resilient person I know. I love you always, Sasha.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to the members of the Untitled Writers Group (Cindy, Christian, Diana, Erica, Jonathan, Mary Beth, Merrie, Sarah, and Steve) for their endlessly patient critiques—and gourmet snack supply.

  PART I

  Chapter One

  The zombie lurched out of the yellow fog and reached for the door on Alice’s hansom cab. Alice Michaels shied away.

  “Driver!” she shouted.

  “I see it, miss.” The driver leaned down from his seat above and behind Alice and cracked the zombie smartly across the forearms with his carriage whip. The zombie groaned. Its face was a mass of open sores, and its skin had worn through in places, exposing red muscle beneath. Old rags barely covered its body. Fear and adrenaline thrilled through Alice’s veins as the zombie’s festering arm reached through the open sides of the cab. She pushed herself away from it, but there wasn’t much room in the little two-wheeled cab, and The Dress hindered her movements. The driver lashed down with the whip again. The zombie abruptly let the cab go, and the driver smacked the reins across the horse’s rump. Alice clutched a handle inside the cab as it bounced across the cobblestones, the wheels pounding as hard as her heart. Despite herself, she turned on the leather-covered seat and looked out the rear window. The zombie was already fading into the night and mist.

  A particularly rough bounce jolted Alice to her teeth. “You can slow down now,” she called. “It’s gone.”

  The driver obeyed, and Alice resettled The Dress about her. The Dress was a deep violet affair with multiple flounces, fashionably puffed sleeves, and a short matching shawl to ward off the damp spring chill. The layers formed a heavy shell around her, concealing her pounding heart and shaking knees beneath a veneer of smooth satin. It had cost Father an enormous sum, and Alice realized she had been more afraid of the zombie’s tearing The Dress than of the creature’s touching and infecting her.

  “You all right, miss?” the driver called down from his seat.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for fending it off.”

  The driver touched the brim of his high hat, and Alice realized she was required to tip him extra. She made a mental inventory of the coins in her purse and decided she could do it, but only if the driver on the return trip would be willing to wait while she ran into the house for tuppence. It would make her look foolish, but there was nothing for it.

  Yellow gaslights lit the London evening as the horse clopped through winding streets, the driver keeping carefully to the better-traveled avenues. Other carriages and cabs pulled by horses both living and mechanical joined them. Overhead, Alice heard the faint whup-whup-whup noise of a dirigible’s propellers, and its massive, blunt shape made a black spot among the misty stars. Restaurants and pubs kept their doors open and their windows lit—lights kept the zombies at bay. Smells of coal smoke, manure, and wet wool permeated the air. People strolled in couples or groups on the sidewalks, heading to or from concerts, plays, parties, celebrations, and other social events. It was a Saturday evening in May, and the London spring season was in full swing. Alice watched the men in their dark trousers and coats, and the women in their skirts that belled and swayed with every step, and s
he wondered what flaws each one was hiding beneath sartorial perfection.

  Mere clothing wouldn’t hide Alice’s shortcomings. A new dress couldn’t smooth over the fact that she was still unmarried at the age of twenty-two, or that twelve years ago, her mother and brother had died in the same outbreak of clockwork plague that had left her father a cripple, or that three years ago, Alice had become engaged to Frederick, heir to the Earl of Trent, only to watch the clockwork plague kill him as well. After that, no one wanted anything much to do with the Michaels family. Their fortunes, both monetary and social, had declined sharply. Alice would gladly have found some kind of useful work, but traditional society had long ago decreed that the daughter of a baron was expected to be a lady of leisure, no matter how badly her family might need money, and her family’s history with the clockwork plague precluded her from trying to find a position as a lady-in-waiting. This dance was her last chance to redeem the Michaelses’ social graces.

  The cab drew up to a large three-story town house with a cobblestoned courtyard and fountain out front. Electric lights, the new fashion, blazed in all the windows, and a short line of cabs and carriages snaked around the courtyard. Alice checked the pocket watch inside her purse. Nine fifteen. She had arrived late, but not fashionably late—all part of her strategy. The majority of the guests would arrive after ten, and Alice hoped her arrival to a nearly empty ballroom would allow her lack of an escort to go unnoticed, or at least unremarked. Alice’s mother would have been her first choice as escort, of course, and her brother second, but neither of them was available.

  While they were waiting in line, Alice paid—and generously tipped—the driver so she wouldn’t have to do so in front of her hosts. The daughter of a traditional baron didn’t handle financial transactions, but Alice didn’t have much choice, sitting in the shabby cab she had hired herself. She couldn’t help but notice that many of the other conveyances were richly appointed private carriages or, at a minimum, hired cabs of a better class than hers. A few were pulled by steam-snorting mechanical horses. The couple directly behind Alice arrived in a rickshaw pulled by a brass automaton shaped roughly like a man. Alice stared thoughtfully at it, trying to trace how the gears underneath its smooth metal skin would be put together, where the pistons would be placed, how the boiler would deliver proper power. It would be so much more interesting to spend the evening pulling the automaton apart and putting it back together than—

  The woman in the rickshaw glanced at Alice’s little hired hansom, cracked open her fan, and whispered something behind it to her male companion. They both laughed. Alice’s cheeks burned, and she sat rigidly upright in her seat, determined to brazen this out. Father had used up his final favors among certain business contacts to get Alice this invitation, and she wasn’t going to fail him.

  At last, Alice’s cab came to the front door. A footman in gold livery helped her down, but she had to walk through the double doors into the house by herself. Light music—all sweet strings in a major key—drifted from the house’s interior. Inside was a large, marble-floored foyer, where a starched servant girl took Alice’s shawl and pointed her toward the main ballroom. Alice, back straight, pleasant smile on her lips, swayed toward the door, where Lady Greenfellow, the hostess, had stationed herself to greet her guests. She was a heavyset woman whose wrinkled face belied her jet-black hair, and her dark green dress wrapped her high and low. Alice extended a gloved hand.

  “Thank you so much for inviting me, Lady Greenfellow,” she said earnestly.

  “Of course,” Lady Greenfellow replied. “My husband was quite insistent that you should come, on account of your father. And how is dear Arthur these days?”

  “He’s well,” Alice said.

  “Wonderful to hear.” The warmth in Lady Greenfellow’s tone was as false as her hair color. “How time flies. I still remember that day I found you on the street with those adorable urchins. How long ago was that?”

  For a terrible moment, Alice’s hand moved to slap Lady Greenfellow’s wrinkly cheek. Instead, she opened her fan and waved it idly. “My impetuous days are long behind me.”

  “Of course. And you do look lovely tonight.”

  Alice hoped that was true. Her honey brown hair was pinned up in the latest style, leaving a single stream of curls trailing down the left side of her face, and her cosmetics were artful enough that no one could tell she was wearing any at all. She had a triangular chin and pert nose, and The Dress hid the fact that her legs and body had grown rather thin in recent months. Her shoes had no heel to conceal her height. “Thank you,” she said.

  “But, my dear”—Lady Greenfellow peered over Alice’s shoulder at the foyer behind her—“you didn’t even bring a maid! You’re not here on your own, are you? I didn’t think Arthur would allow his daughter to become one of those new Ad Hoc women.”

  “Not at all. Bridget tripped and sprained her ankle just as we were leaving,” Alice said, giving her prepared lie. A trickle of sweat ran down her back. “It was too late to engage another maid, so here I am.”

  Lady Greenfellow clicked her tongue. “Misfortune does follow you. Well, the ballroom is through there, and sitting rooms are that way. Our supper buffet begins at one.”

  Approved and dismissed, Alice nodded with relief and stepped into the main ballroom. The main hurdle was over.

  The ballroom was a two-storied affair, with a balcony that ran around the upper half. Lush arrangements of fresh red and white roses covered the balcony rail and hung nearly to the floor below, filling the air with the sweet smells of nectar. The string players were stationed upstairs, their rubber-tipped fingers weaving a soft, melodic tapestry at odds with their hard metal faces. High windows looked out on the city, and an enormous electric chandelier—the showpiece of the house—provided bright light. Refreshment tables and sitting areas ringed the polished oak dance floor. Barely twenty people wandered among them, every one much older than Alice, who at twenty-two was fast becoming an old maid. She handed one of her name cards to the elderly butler stationed at the door.

  “The Honorable Alice B. Michaels,” he announced over the music.

  Reflexively, everyone in the room turned, nodded at Alice, and went back to their conversations. Alice allowed herself a moment of relief—her unescorted entry hadn’t caused even a ripple. Expression pleasant, she drifted toward a refreshment table and found herself falling back into a rhythm she hadn’t felt since Frederick’s death had cast her from the social rolls: pluck a dance card from the tray at the table, tie the ribbon to her fan so she could flash it at eligible gentlemen or conceal it from less desirable ones, select a glass of champagne from the arrangement, let her gaze wander about the room to see who else had arrived. So far she didn’t recognize anyone, which made things awkward—women could converse only with other women, and only a man could ask for a dance. She made herself pointedly available for approach, either for a dance or for conversation.

  No one came near her. After a bit, she went up to the balcony to look at the orchestra. A dozen faceless automatons played violin, viola, cello, drum, and other instruments. No music stands or music stood before them, and no conductor waved a baton. Their brass skins gleamed in the light of the chandelier, and Alice was surprised at the sweet precision of the music they produced. Their movements, however, jarred. The fingers moved with quick grace, but the torsos remained motionless, in stark contrast to human musicians, who played with their entire bodies. This orchestra were really nothing more than a giant music box, and Alice decided she’d much rather let a set of live musicians sweep her away.

  The cello player faltered. Its bow squawked across the strings, and the dissonance tore through the delicate music. The other musicians continued to play as if nothing had happened. On the floor below, several dancers winced and faltered in their steps. Without thinking, Alice reached in and plucked the bow from the cello player’s fingers. The cello went silent, and the waltz continued with a missing instrument. The cello player jerked i
n its seat, fingers twitching spasmodically over the strings.

  “What’s going on up here?” demanded Lady Greenfellow, skirts still swirling from her indignant scurry up the staircase. “What on earth are you doing to my musicians?”

  Alice suppressed a desire to hide the bow behind her back. “I think something went wrong with your cello player,” she said, ignoring the accusation. “I took the bow away before the noise could ruin the dance. Do you have an automatist on staff?”

  “No.” Lady Greenfellow’s face flushed. “And we’ll never find one at this time of night. Now what do I do?”

  Alice hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I could have a quick look,” she offered. And before Lady Greenfellow could object, Alice scooted around behind the players, stripped off her gloves, and leaned in to pop the rear panel off the errant cellist. The musicians played mechanically on as Alice peered inside one of their number. Gears whirled, oil dripped, and the wheels of an analytical engine spun merrily, trying to direct a body that refused to obey properly. A fascinating little world, where everything was connected to everything else. Alice found herself drawn in, searching for the patterns and for the flaw causing the problem. Her heart quickened a little, and she had to admit she was showing off a bit for her hostess. It wasn’t correct ballroom behavior for a traditional lady, but Alice had been shunned so far. What did she have to lose?

  “I don’t think this is quite—” Lady Greenfellow began.

  “There’s your problem,” Alice said. “One of the drive pistons has become disconnected, and it’s throwing off the machinery. Easy enough to fix.” Without thinking, she drew back her sleeve to midforearm and reached inside. Lady Greenfellow huffily turned her back and spread herself as wide as she could to provide cover. Alice reconnected the piston and snatched her hand free as it started up again. She put the panel back on, delicately wiped machine oil from her fingers with a handkerchief, and handed the bow back to the cellist, who rejoined the song in progress.