Lore of Yore
Histories of the known universe... and beyond
The great city of London remains alive even in the pitch of night, its streets resounding to the footfalls of people going about their concerns in their multitudes. It also resounds to the subtle scurry of the underclasses, more fleet of foot, conducting shadier business. It means criminals are abroad.
Constable Hulme prefers them abroad. It means he has fewer of them to deal with here in the capital. These days, there are many who consider the Thames River Police an outdated organisation, what with cosmonauts wheeling along the starways of the Fifteen Galaxies far overhead. Still, officers like Hulme, Earth-born and staunchly Human, maintain their diligence. "Looking to the stars only means you miss what's under your feet," he likes to say. Under his feet right now is a fish; a minnow, rare on the Thames, flopping on the wet deck of the duty boat. It has been disturbed from the gentle ebb and ooze of the river, enough to pitch itself onto the boards of Hulme's patroller. He deduces there is something beneath the waters making greater waves than himself. He calls on his duty pilot, Cobb, and the searchlight sweeps across the face of Billingsgate Market down to the river's ink-black surface. Hulme peers into its illuminated depths, finding little besides the menagerie of litter tipped from the embankments over the years. Then, a flash of light; Cobb's beam hits riveted metal, and the duty boat is jostled by the wake of something from below. Hulme grabs the rail to stop himself toppling over the side, and Cobb gives a shout just as the shadow ruptures the surface. Monstrous and wailing, the amalgam of metal and cogwork rears up in front of the Billingsgate arches, scaring a flock of gulls into the sky and scattering a cluster of nattering oyster-wives, and a hatch creaks open from on top. A figure thrusts itself from the copper carapace, streaming with river water. "You up there," Hulme yells. "Stop in the name of the Constabulary!" The figure turns to him, arms outstretched, and fixes its goggles on the riverman. "Doctor Nementor stops for nothing save the winds of entropy themselves!" In his gloved hand, a glowing vial bubbling with something thick and noxious. "And I have come to blow down the towers of your festering city!" Nementor's great submersible creaks into motion, whirring metallic tentacles rising from the depths like spinning turbine blades, and the insane doctor laughs triumphantly. It's going to be one of those nights, Hulme tells himself. The constable squares his shoulders, and reaches for his baton.
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