Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin Page B

rotting steps and along the passageway to the door by which we had first entered.
    Outside, the bitter air, tinged with its foul reek, stung our faces after the heat and smoke of the den below. The strife had expanded into the street; police sirens and garish lights pierced through the night mist, illuminating the traffic which jostled in every direction, setting an appropriate backdrop for the bloody battle which raged inside the building and out.
    A few policemen, well accoutered in full battle regalia, ran past us through the open door of the Foul Fish and Fowl club whence we had just emerged. Among them I recognized the bulldog countenance and grim-set features of Inspector Lestrade. He did not pause to greet his amateur counterpart, and I admit that neither Holmes nor I spared a thought for the official forces as we swept over the scene in search of our prey.
    “There!” Holmes pointed to a figure, dimly visible through the yellow swirling currents seamed with black shadows, in the act of throwing a bulky bundle into a steam gurney some distance away. “There they are!”
    I started to run thither, but Holmes' hand stayed me. He pulled a long thin bird whistle out of his cuff and blew it three times; a moment later, just as I despaired that our quarry's getaway vehicle had vanished into the gloom, the rumbling of a powerful motor eclipsed the terrible noise around us, and the Widowmak'r sped around the corner and screeched to a halt before us. I scarcely saw the boy who drove it to Holmes' summons; he seemed to have vanished before ever the Widow came to a full stop. Holmes had instantly leaped astride the seat, and I, without a moment's hesitation, vaulted into the sidecar, and we roared off down the street in the direction of the retreating gurney.
    We had not long to drive before we were at their heels, wending furiously along narrow and pitted paths between the dockyards. I saw then that there were at least three vehicles, careening along the streets at a frightful speed. We steadily shortened the distance between us, until we could see the barrels pointed at us from out of the backs of the vehicles we pursued.
    A series of bullets sang past my ear; Holmes signaled to me to return their fire. I replied by raising my arm to fire my rocket-launcher. Though lights in the dockyards and alleys were sparse and altogether dim, my target was plainly visible in the powerful beam of light emitted by the compact Ruhmkorrf lamp fixed between the Widowmak'r's handlebars, and presently a dart-sized missile shot forth from its propulsive nest jutting from my arm, just as the Widow swerved around a protrusion in our path. The diminutive rocket traced a wild course and exploded into flame in the side of a sprawling warehouse.
    I braced my arm again, took steadier aim, and fired. A burning rush of energy shot up into the flesh of my shoulder as another missile dislodged itself from its constricts and, trailing a glittering emission, crashed into the vehicle before us.
    Holmes' lightning reflexes only just saved us from partaking first-hand of the blazing conflagration that had been the steam-gurney in front of us. The Widow sheered wantonly to the left, narrowly abrading the devastated vehicle and its unfortunate occupants, and stormed up a ramp into a boat-builder's shed, through the blackness of which we careened and skidded noisily until Holmes had brought us full-circle, with a few minor collisions along the way, and back down into the street.
    During the moments in which we had been diverted from the chase, our prey had turned away from the maze of streets between the docks, and had far outdistanced us across a broken-up grassy plot expanding into the countryside panorama beyond the industrial fisheries, boat-repairers and clustered warehouses on this side of the river. We followed in their trail, Holmes ever unconscious of the colossal bumps and jostles to which he submitted his vehicle's springs, though we did not achieve our