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I stepped out, feeling stifled and panicky from the few moments I’d spent inside.
“Close the door,” Bentham said.
When I hesitated the assistant moved to do it, but I blocked his way. “It’s my hollow,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
I planted my feet and grabbed the handle and then—though I tried not to—looked into the hollow’s face. Its great black eyes were wide and frightened, all out of proportion with its body, small and shriveled like a cluster of figs. It was still and would always be a disgusting creature, but it looked so pathetic that I felt unaccountably terrible, like I was about to put to sleep a dog who didn’t understand why it was being punished.
All hollowgast need to die, I told myself. I knew I was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
I pulled on the door and it screamed shut. Bentham’s assistant hooked a giant padlock through its handles, then went back to the machine’s controls and began twiddling dials.
“You did the right thing,” Emma whispered in my ear.
Gears began to turn, pistons to pump, the machine itself to thrum with a rhythm that shook the entire room. Bentham clapped his hands and grinned, happy as a schoolkid. Then from inside the chamber came a scream the likes of which I’d never heard.
“You said it wouldn’t hurt him!” I shouted at Bentham.
He turned to shout at his assistant. “The gas! You forgot the anesthesia!”
The assistant scrambled to pull another lever. There was a loud hiss of compressed air. A wisp of white smoke curled from a crack in the chamber door. The hollow’s screams gradually faded.
“There,” said Bentham. “Now it feels nothing.”
I wished for a moment that Bentham was in that chamber instead of my hollow.
Other pieces of the machine came alive. There was the sound of liquid sloshing through the pipes above our heads. Several small valves near the ceiling rang like bells. Black fluid began dripping down through the machine’s guts. It wasn’t oil, but something even darker and more pungent—the fluid that the hollowgast produced almost constantly, that wept from its eyes and dripped from its teeth. Its blood.
I’d seen enough and walked out of the room feeling sick to my stomach. Emma followed me.
“Are you okay?”
I couldn’t expect her to understand my reaction. I hardly understood it myself. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “This is the right thing.”
“It’s the only thing,” she said. “We’re so close.”
Bentham hobbled out of the room. “PT, upstairs!” he said, and he tipped himself into the bear’s waiting arms.
“Is it working now?” Emma said.
“We’re going to find out,” Bentham replied.
With my hollow restrained, sedated, and locked inside an iron chamber, there was little danger in leaving him behind—and yet I lingered by the door.
Sleep, I said. Sleep, and don’t wake up until this is over.
I followed the others out through the machine rooms and up several flights of stairs. We came to the long, carpeted hallway that was lined with exotically named rooms. The walls hummed with energy; the house seemed alive.
PT set Bentham on the carpet. “Moment of truth!” he said.
He marched to the nearest door and flung it open.
A humid breeze blew into the hall.
I stepped forward to look inside. What I saw gave me goose-bumps. Like the Siberia Room, it was portal to another time and place. The room’s simple furniture—bed, wardrobe, side table—was caked with sand. The rear wall was missing. Beyond it was a curving palm-fringed beach.
“I give you Rarotonga, 1752!” Bentham declared proudly. “Hello, Sammy! Long time!”
Squatting in the near distance was a small man cleaning a fish. He regarded us with mild surprise, then raised the fish and waved to us with it. “Long time,” he agreed.
“This is good, then?” Emma said to Bentham. “This is what you wanted?”
“What I wanted, what I’ve been dreaming of …” Bentham laughed as he hurried off to throw open another door. Inside was a yawning, tree-filled canyon, a narrow bridge suspended across it. “British Columbia, 1929!” he crowed.
He pirouetted down the hall to open a third door—by now we were chasing him—inside which I could see hulking stone pillars, the dusty ruins of an ancient city.
“Palymra!” he shouted, slapping his hand against the wall. “Huzzah! The damned thing works!”
* * *
Bentham could hardly contain himself. “My beloved Panloopticon,” he cried, throwing his arms wide. “How I missed you!”
“Congratulations,” Sharon said. “I’m glad I could be here to witness this.”
Bentham’s excitement was infectious. It was an astounding thing, his machine: a universe contained in a single hallway. Looking down it, I could see hints of other worlds peeking out—wind moaning behind one door, grains of sand blowing into the hall from beneath another. At any other time, under any other circumstances, I would’ve run and thrown them open. But right now there was only one door I cared about opening.
“Which of these leads inside the wights’ fortress?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, to business,” Bentham said, reining himself in. “My apologies if I got a bit carried away. I’ve put my life into this machine, and it’s good to see it up and running again.”
He leaned against a wall, suddenly sapped of energy. “Getting you into the fortress should be a simple enough proposition. Behind these doors are at least a half dozen crossover points. The question is, what will you do once you get there?”
“That depends,” Emma said. “What are we going to find when we get there?”
“It’s been a long time since I was inside,” Bentham said, “so my knowledge is dated. My brother’s Panloopticon doesn’t look like mine—it is arranged vertically, in a high tower. The prisoners are kept elsewhere. They’ll be in separate cells under heavy guard.”
“The guards will be our biggest problem,” I said
.
“I may be able help with them,” said Sharon.
“You’re coming with us?” Emma said.
“Absolutely not!” Sharon said. “But I’d like to do my bit somehow—with minimal risk to myself, of course. I’ll create a disturbance outside the fortress walls that will draw the guards’ attention. That should make it easier for you to skulk about unnoticed.”
“What kind of disturbance?” I asked.
“The wights’ least favorite kind: a civil one. I’ll get those layabouts on Smoking Street to catapult nasty, flaming things at the walls until we’ve got the whole guard force after us.”
“And why would they help you?” Emma said.
“Because there’s lots more where this came from.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out the vial of ambro he’d snatched from Emma. “Promise them enough of it and they’ll do just about anything.”
“Put it away, sir!” Bentham snapped. “You know I don’t allow that in my house.”
Sharon apologized and stuffed the vial back into his cloak.
Bentham consulted his pocket watch. “Now, it’s just after four-thirty in the morning. Sharon, I imagine your disturbers of the peace are asleep. Could you have them riled and ready by six?”
“Absolutely,” Sharon said.
“Then see to it.”
“Happy to be of service.” And with a swoosh of his cloak, Sharon turned and hurried away down the hall.
“That gives you an hour and a half to prepare,” Bentham said—though it wasn’t immediately clear what preparations could be made. “Anything I have is at your disposal.”
“Think,” Emma said. “What would be useful in a raid?”
“Do you have any guns?” I asked.
Bentham shook his head. “PT here is all the protection I need.”
“Explosives?” Emma said.
“I’m afraid not.”
