Automated Utopia :: Chapter Three.
Title: Automated Utopia
Author: fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG-13 though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Warning: Warnings for descriptions of violence and blood.
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.


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Preview of Character Sketches (click for larger, two more under the cut).



Character Sketches (Mr. Angel and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's sketches coming soon.)


Automated Utopia :: Chapter Three.
Gunn found it odd that Spike would always volunteer to fetch the carriage from the mews. It was quite a long walk from Fairfax Street to Mayfair, but Spike was first on his feet to offer his services to the task each and every time they needed to travel. On a number of occasions, the blonde vampire had suggested the use of the carriage when their destination was within walking distance. Angel had grown suspicious of why exactly Spike was so eager to go without provocation, when normally he was stubborn to do anything when asked. Gunn wrapped his coat tighter around himself as the wind picked up and was beginning to regret that Angel had enlisted him to accompany Spike on this outing to discover what the draw of the carriage house was to him. Spike seemed to have similar feelings as he walked more briskly, easily able to keep quite a distance between himself and his forced companion.

"Wouldn't it be quicker to cut across Bond Street?" Gunn called out. "We're nearly to Oxford."

Spike replied hurriedly without so much as a look over his shoulder to the other man, "I know a short-cut. Believe me, it's much faster."

They continued on in an uncomfortable silence until, within the bat of an eye, Gunn realised that he had lost sight of his charge. He quickened his pace to a sprint, looking down each alley for any sign of him. Gunn thought to himself that Angel should invest in some sort of tether for Spike if keeping tabs on him was so important. He jogged along, his breath visible in the cold night air, until he finally spotted Spike standing motionless in front of a residence in Grosvenor Square. He took a moment to catch his breath, looking around at the fine homes, feeling slightly ill-at-ease.

"They changed the numbers again," Spike mused, pointing up at the door.

Gunn gave him a peculiar look, "Is this why it takes you so long to get the carriage? I knew that vampires had queer tendencies, but do you amuse yourself by staring at addresses?"

A small smile played on Spike's lips, "When I was a child, this was number fifteen. A few decades ago it was number seventeen. Now, it is number eighteen. I suspect that before we reach the new century, it'll be number twenty." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his long grey overcoat. "I think I liked it at fifteen better."

"You used to live here?" Gunn glanced around at the impressive homes, a far-cry from the area into which he had been born.

"I like to check on the place from time to time," Spike paused, his eyes were somewhat distant. He opened his mouth again as if to elaborate, but he quietly turned and said, "I suppose we better move along before Angel has a stroke."

As they walked south towards Mayfair, the streets were still and silent; the only noises were the shuffling of their shoes and the rustling of their coats. When they reached the Mayfair Mews, Spike pulled the jumble of keys from within his leather side-bag and unlocked their carriage's stall. He tossed the lock to Gunn and then pulled open the heavy metal grates to the stall. The carriage was a Savile '68, not the newest model but Fred had added definite improvements, such as a third boiler and tesla-lights in the front. It made driving at night much safer.

"Why do they call 'em "mews" anymore anyway?" Gunn asked as Spike cranked the engine, the roaring sound of the pistons firing and boilers heating up echoing off every surface in the dead of night. "There aren't any horses in the city except in the Royal Parks for the nobles and their brats."

"Funny thing, that," Spike spoke climbing into the driver's seat and putting the carriage into gear, "Mews were never meant for horses; they were for hawks and falcons."

"Now they hold big wastes of space that stink up the streets and make a lot of racket."

Spike quirked an eyebrow as he adjusted his driving goggles, "Not much different than horses in that regard." He eased the carriage out of its stall to the street.

Gunn quickly replaced the lock on the grates and jumped into the front passenger seat. The carriage rattled and shook on the cobbled streets as they bounded back to Fairfax Street to pick up their party.

As they made a rather sharp turn onto Bond Street, Gunn clasped the interior of the carriage door. He looked over at Spike; the blonde's eyes were focused on the road. Gunn breeched the silence, "I won't say anything to Angel about your detours. It's not really his business."

Spike did not meet his companion's gaze, but his voice conveyed a quiet gratitude, "I appreciate that, Charlie."


Trips in the carriage ofttimes began in the same manner. There was the inevitable argument of who would drive. Angel was most adamant about his driving abilities, but everyone who had to ride in the Savile was most grateful, as always, that their employer would acquiesce to Spike's far louder and much more bratish demands to be allowed to drive, as his skills in maneuvering the vehicle were innumerably better than the older vampire's. The actual trip to the museum went without further incident though the interior of the carriage was cramped with six passengers, especially when five of said passengers were men with fairly broad shoulders. Fred and Wesley were sitting in the front with Spike while Gunn, Angel, and Lorne were struggling to keep from sitting on one another in the back.

After hitting a particularly deep pot-hole in the street, Fred was jostled shoulder-to-shoulder against Spike. His eyes flicked to meet hers for a moment, and he smiled as Fred righted herself in the seat though she kept closer to him than she had previously. Wesley started to say something to her, possibly that there was more room closer to his side of the seat if she needed it, but he saw her small hand resting gingerly on Spike's knee, the white of her silk glove standing out starkly in the darkness. Her fingers traced little circles in the fabric of his trousers. It was an innocent enough flirtation, Wesley tried to tell himself, but he could not help the heat that rose into his face as he turned away to look out the window at the dimly-lit sidewalks as they drove by, feeling as though he was intruding on their interlude.

Turning off of Tottenham Court and onto Great Russell Street, the columned Parthenon-esque exterior of the British Museum was well-illuminated, making it stand out in bright contrast to the surrounding area, like the temples that it was derived from preparing for some celebration to the gods. The only difference being a Greek temple would have been crawling with priests ready to make sacrifices to Athena or whatever god they serviced instead of uniformed police officers investigating a crime scene.

"Never seen so many bloody peelers in one place," Spike remarked as he parked the carriage outside the museum's front walk.

As they exited the Savile, Angel adjusted his coat, "They've come for the show."

Surely enough, the two-dozen-or-more officers who loitered on the shallow steps of the museum's entrance were smoking cigarettes and stopping in the middle of their conversations to take notice of the carriage and its occupants, many smirking and whispering comments to one another. Angel gripped the top of his walking cane, which served both as fashionable accessory and weapon, a small volley gun concealed in the figurehead at the top of the cane.

"They could at least send the hat around if they are looking for entertainment, raise a little dosh for better uniforms, something less drab," Lorne quipped, drawing up the collar of his blue wool coat around his face, hoping that the loudness of his clothes would detract from the loudness of his skin.

Mounting the steps quickly to avoid the cold, they were met by Chief Inspector Bartholomew Appleyard and Inspector Danielle Pleydell. Appleyard was a boil of a man with a blotchy beet-red complexion, a great walrus mustache, a squat rotund build, and a constantly irritated expression. He glowered and blustered everywhere he went and at everyone, but he was a dedicated man to serving the people of London with the protection of the law they deserved. Inspector Pleydell was a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman of medium build who was not afraid to show pride in her position of one of seven high-ranking female officers in the Police Service. More capable than most of her peers and more deserving of the Chief Inspector position moreso than Appleyard, she possessed a quick wit and an acidic tongue.

"Well, it's about time," Appleyard barked snidely, tossing his half-finished cigarette at Angel's feet. "Our city's taxpayers aren't lining your pockets so you can drive 'round at your leisure."

"We're as much taxpayers of the city as the next person," Welsey remarked with all the crispness that his good breeding afforded him.

Lorne gave a nervous laugh, "I'm not technically a British citizen so taxes are a no for me..."

"Me too," Fred added.

"I haven't paid taxes since aught-four," Spike smirked, taking pleasure in tormenting Appleyard and Pleydell almost as much as he enjoyed pestering Angel. He received a sharp nudge from his grandsire, a signal to stop instigating, as Angel pushed the cigarette out of his path with the silver tip of his cane.

"Be that as it may," Pleydell spoke in her careful, clipped speech giving pointed looks to both vampires while her partner harrumphed, "we would like to clear the scene before dawn. Given you and your friend's condition, I'm sure you would be appreciative of that as well."

The Inspectors led the way through the mammoth museum complex, a near-labyrinth of corridors and galleries. Over the course of the past few decades, the deaths of several prominent trustees and new archaeological expeditions being launched at a fevered pace, the British Museum was in a constant state of expansion, adding new wings and buildings for its growing collections.

"The curators were moving some artifacts from one end of the museum to the other when... Well, I suppose it's best to let them tell you though they weren't making much sense before, raving about trolls or some such nonsense," Appleyard stopped mid-sentence and gave a sideways glance at the three demons in his presence. "Perhaps, not nonsense in the strictest sense, but maybe you'll be able to make heads or tails of it." The Chief Inspector had a manner of speaking that drawled out in the way that people do when they try to hide whatever accent they were born into in favour of something higher class.

At the very center of the museum was the Round Reading Room, a huge Pantheon Revival with a large domed ceiling and three levels of stacks, more books than a single person could read in a lifetime. The resplendent nature of the room was diminished by the overturned reading tables, chairs, and the three corpses laying in massive pools of blood on the floor.

"It's a tad extreme for a robbery," Wesley said, putting his handkerchief to his face as he inspected the bodies a little closer, obviously disconcerted by the defiling of a repository of knowledge.

"If it were a mere robbery, we wouldn't 'ave called you," Appleyard groused, some of his constructed accent slipping.

Pleydell gestured them in the direction of an older gentleman sitting at a still-righted table towards the center of the room, obviously distressed with a very frazzled-looking woman at his side, "This is Sir Augustus Franks, the Chief Curator of the collections, and Dr. Phyllydia Breedlove, the Chief Librarian. They witnessed the..." Pleydell's eyes shifted to the three prone bodies splayed on the floor and paled somewhat, "to the event."

"Oh, what we will do, Phyllydia?" wailed Sir Augustus, pulling at his white hair. "We lost all three of them! What will we do?"

"I'm sure the victims' families will appreciate your concern, Sir Augustus, but we really do have some questions that need answering," Appleyard interjected, taking a small notepad and pencil from his breast-pocket.

Sir Augustus seemed to awaken from his hysterics at the commanding voice of the Chief Inspector. He had a confused expression on his withered face, "The families? What the devil are you talking about? -- Oh! Not them," the old curate said with a very disdainful wave of his hand to the corner of the room with the corpses. "The books! We've lost them to those... those fiends! Who would do such a thing?" He made a good show at theatrics, clasping at his colleague's hand and grasping at his shirtfront as though his heart would explode from his chest.

After a few minutes of Sir Augustus's sniveling, Spike thought to himself, "I love a good book as much as the next hackneyed penny-poet, but this has gotten a tad silly."

"I'm terribly sorry, but you must understand that Sir Augustus's life are the collections. Losing even one artifact is like losing a child," Dr. Breedlove said quickly, quietly disentangling her hand from the curator's wrenching grip. "You see, the books that were taken were part of a bequest that had certain stipulations that must be kept-"

"Ma'am, if you could just start at the beginning," interrupted Pleydell.

"Of course," Dr. Breedlove took a few deep breaths and sat down at the table, "Two years ago, one of our trustees passed on and bequeathed us all of the objects he had amassed in his many expeditions to Greece. However, his will had two stipulations: one, that the collection have a gallery to itself, and two, that none of the objects be separated. If these stipulations are not met, the entire collection must be returned to members of his immediate family. We had just seen to the completion of the Northead Gallery in the White Wing yesterday, and we had planned to move the items tonight when it would be easier to maneuver the packing crates through the building."

Angel's brow furrowed, "So now that pieces of the bequest are missing, the museum will lose the entire collection?"

"Not to mention be out all the expense for the gallery's construction," Fred nodded, taking her own notes in her leather-bound journal.

"We can always fill the gallery with something else, but the collection is the thing! It would have been the first showing of artifacts from the excavations of the Sanctuary of Aphrodite in Palaepaphos, Cyprus," Sir Augustus was clearly distraught as he continued to bemoan the situation, "What could trolls possibly want with those lovely books?!"

Wesley turned from his examination of the bodies, "Excuse me, sir, but did you say 'trolls?'"

"Again, you must forgive Sir Augustus; it was a very confusing situation," Dr. Breedlove dabbed at her eyes with a small linen handkerchief.

"Could you explain, please, what you saw, Doctor, and what exactly was taken?" Angel scanned the room and ignored the glares from Appleyard, who no doubt felt his investigation was being usurped yet again by the independent investigators. Angel knew trolls would have done more damage than this, wouldn't have left survivors. Besides a few pieces of overturned furniture and smashed crates, the room was relatively intact. The bodies of the dead would have been ripped to pieces and beaten to pulp if trolls had been responsible, but the cause of death was not immediately apparent.

Dr. Breedlove steadied her voice and began, "We had been keeping the collection in the storage area here in the Reading Room since many of the excavated articles were very delicate, and it gave us a chance to study them more closely before the debut." As she spoke, a young well-dressed man brought out a tea tray and arranged it on the table. "Thank you, Silas," she said, holding her teacup with both hands. After a few shaky sips, she continued, "Sir Augustus and I were overseeing the other curators as they moved the crates when we were set upon by..." Dr. Breedlove stopped and searched her vast vocabulary for the correct term. "...homunculi."

"Homunco-what?" Gunn turned to look down at Fred's notes.

"Homunculi are humanoid creatures thought to have been the bi-products of alchemy," she explained.

Dr. Breedlove nodded, "That is the only way to which I can describe them. They were very short with disfigured faces, knobby gray protrusions all over." She shuddered, the teacup rattling as she set it on its saucer. "Some of the bigger ones wore robes. They came at us, breaking open the crates. When Robert and the others tried to stop them..."

"It was gruesome, like mad dogs," Sir Augustus stated, the tea calming his nerves. "We hid in the stacks until the beasts were gone."

"They took some pottery and some jewelry, not the most impressive of the dig's spoils," Dr. Breedlove motioned for Silas, and he laid a large folio on the desk. She pulled out several pages of notes and laid them out for the investigators to see. "However, they took the item of the most importance as well." Indicating the drawings and diagrams of a large ornate case, she continued, "This was the pride of Dr. Northead's collection. This chest contained three books that we had just begun to translate. The largest book, central in the chest, was written in Arcado-Cypriot, and the two smaller books were of an unknown language."

Sir Augustus rubbed his hands over his eyes, "To think of the knowledge that could have been gleaned from those pages! A whole new language never before discerned!"

Fred picked up the Dr. Breedlove's notes, scanning them, "We'd like to keep these for our investigation, if you please?"

"Of course, anything that could help," Dr. Breedlove responded.

"The museum will surely offer a sufficient reward for the safe return of the books," Sir Augustus added.

Angel narrowed his eyes, "And to find who is responsible for the murder of three innocent people."

Appleyard snapped his notepad closed, "I think that's enough for now. We thank you for help in the matter, and we'll see to it that Constables accompany you all home safely."

As the Chief Inspector lead the curate, librarian, and assistant away, Pleydell turned to Angel and said, "Now that we have the initial witness statements, we were instructed by the higher-ups to turn the investigation over to you and your associates. Tell the Constables outside when you're done so that they can send for the ambulance." And as she swept by Angel, she gave him a sharp tap on the chest, "Just be sure to courier your reports to our offices this time."

Finally able to breath a sigh of relief after the officials from the Met were gone, Angel was glad to be able to deal with the business at hand without outside interference. He divvied up the usual assignments.

"Fred, Wesley, I want you to look over the notes the doctor left and see why these books would be important enough to steal. Lorne, walk the room and try to feel out any odd vibrations. Spike, check the inventory for clues- Stop rolling your eyes at me!" Angel raised his voice to the unruly blonde, who only laughed. Calming down, he turned to Gunn, "You're with me. We're going to take the perimeter and see how they got inside the museum."

"Somebody's a wee bit tense," Spike muttered as soon as Angel was out of the room. He sauntered over to a packing crate and began rifling through the contents, checking what was left against the packing order adhered to the side of each box.

Fred smiled softly as she organized the notes so that she and Wesley could dissect the amalgam of cramped writing and drawings, "I think Angel is tired of not being able to investigate on his own terms anymore."

"And I think this is one case that is better left to the proper authorities," Wesley said, holding the notes closer to the desk lamp. "Honestly, even if supernatural creatures committed the crime, it is not far-fetched to believe that members of this... Dr. Northead's family are behind the theft in hopes of repossessing the relics for their own person gain, perhaps to sell them to a private collector or dealer."

"But where would they find trolls or homunculi or whatever they were for hire?" Fred asked.

"Many of the older and aristocratic families in Britain have ties to those who deal in the less-than-natural things in this world," Spike crouched down by one of the broken crates and sniffed cautiously at a drying smear of blood, "but whatever smashed through these was human."

Lorne paced around the room using his empathic powers to search the area, his arms out-stretched to the entrances, "I'm not getting any mystical inklings either."

"This is ridiculous," Wesley stated, pouring over the notes, "Either Dr. Breedlove ill-transcribed the larger book, or it's all just gibberish. I can only read every two or three words of every section." He pointed to one of the pages in his hand, "From the first leaf of the book, the only thing I can make out is 'outopia.'" He continued reading a small passage until Spike interrupted him.

"Let me see that," Spike's brow was furrowed as he jerked the page from Wesley's hand and ignored the other man's protests. "It's not gibberish; it's Greek all right, but it's different kinds."

Wesley snatched the page back, scanning it again, "What do you mean?"

"What you just read was modern Greek, not ancient. The Doctor got it wrong; this isn't Arcado-Cyprus-whatever; it's just a mixture of ancient and modern Greek. Honestly, Wesley, didn't they teach you anything about classic language in school?" Spike looked disgusted. He gathered up the stack of drawings and looked through them. "They're fakes!" he announced triumphantly, after viewing the diagrams and illustrations of the books in particular. "When they kept saying "books" I thought it was a figure of speech, but these are literal books! The ancients wouldn't have bound their works like that," he shoved the leaflet containing an image of books themselves across the table, "least the Library at Alexandria would have been filled with them instead of caskets of scrolls."

Wesley removed his spectacles, looking over the diagram once more. The thought never occurred to him to inquire about the form of the books themselves. "When did you become a scholar in antiquities?" he inquired, his tone not snappish or mean but genuinely curious.

"You live as long as I have, and you pick up things along the way," Spike said with a shrug and went back to the crates. It wasn't anyone's business that he had been a very well-educated man in life. If people find out that you are educated, they begin to expect things of you, Spike had often told himself.

Without giving the curators' opinions the benefit of correctness any longer, Wesley went over the notes again, and once more the only words he could make out for the first page were "epinoisi kardia tou thuroros outopia." Something struck him about that phrasage. He couldn't place his finger on it until- "Aha!" he startled Fred who was engrossed in reading the transcriptions of the two smaller books. "They are indeed fakes!"

Spike rolled his eyes in a very I-told-you-so type of manner. He picked up an amphora from the newspaper wrappings inside the crate and brought it to the table. Setting it down, he said in a very crisp, posh accent, "And what evidence have you discovered, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?"

Wesley gave him a little glare, feeling as though he was being mocked, but continued anyway, "Utopia! This part talks about utopia, but that is not a concept that would have been around in 1200BC! It's an Enlightenment concept; Thomas More coined the term, I believe."

Spike seemed impressed. He said, "That would fit with this," and held up the amphora. "This is fairly new. It doesn't have the same scent as some of the other vessels they were carting, and it appears to be far too pristine. Four more amphorae are missing from this crate along with two rings from another box."

"One could suppose that if the books were fake and were taken that perhaps the other items that were stolen were facsimiles as well," Wesley pondered aloud.

"No one, besides someone with an ulterior motive, would need that many amphorae," Spike joked.

"I don't imagine the museum would want it to be known that they had a gallery full of forgeries," Fred spoke, running her hand over the amphora's smooth surface. She agreed with Spike; the vessel was too impeccably clean to have been buried under ruins like the others.

Lorne perused the small boxes containing the jewelry, "I think we all can agree it's hard to believe that someone whose "life's work" was antiquities wouldn't notice an impostor amongst the genuine article." He settled next to Fred, "If they wanted to get rid of the item, it might cause a bit of a scandal to just give the items back to the family."

"Sir Augustus did say that they always have artifacts ready to take the place of any exhibit they lose," Fred added.

"A staged theft might allow the museum to sell the items to unsuspecting buyers under-the-table, but, on the other hand, three murders would probably be more of a scandal than impugning the honour of a dead archaeologist," Lorne sank back in his chair, having talked his theory into a circle.

Spike thought over that, his arms crossed over his chest, "Maybe the deaths were accidental, unplanned."

"Sir Augustus and Dr. Breedlove sounded as though they suspiciously stayed away from the actual moving of the crates. If they were involved, maybe they thought that the three men would have run for cover instead of attempting to engage the attackers-" Fred theorized.

"Hang on," Spike held up his hand, his head cocked to the side listening carefully. Taking a few steps backwards, he turned slowly towards the stacks. Something didn't sound right. At first he thought that Angel and Gunn were returning, but quickly he discerned that it was not normal footsteps he heard; there was an odd shuffling accompanied by a dragging sound.

Fred stood up, keeping her eyes on Spike's careful movements, knowing that he had sensed some form of danger. Wesley helped her shuffle the doctor's notes into her own journal in case they needed to make a hasty retreat. Deep in the darkness between the rows of bookshelves, Spike could see two glowing green pin-pricks that he assumed were eyes.

"All right, beastie. Come out from there; I'll make it real' quick for you," he kept his voice calm and level as he removed his coat, tossing it to the ground, to have better access to his weaponry. He heard a low growling as the eyes grew smaller and smaller; the creature was backing up. Spike knew that if he let it get away, it could do to someone else what it and its pals did to the innocent bastards at the room's edge.

Spike kept his hand on the key to his gatling gun wrist-strap, ready to wind it at a moment's notice. However, the creature was not making a retreat as Spike had thought; it was readying itself to launch an attack. Spike tried to keep the creature as it flung itself of his neck, biting down hard on his shoulder. He stumbled back into the centre of the room.

Having just pulled her sonic disruption rifle from its holster beneath her skirts, Fred rushed to Spike's aid, using the butt of the rifle like a croquet mallet to knock the creature off his body. The blow sent the small gray-skinned demon careening away and skittering behind an overturned desk, letting out a shrill wail. Spike sat up and clutched at his shoulder, blood oozing through his shirt and dripping onto his trousers. Wesley hedged around the table, crossbow withdrawn from inside his coat. There was a whimpering sound, almost childlike. the demon was about two and a half feet tall and had the appearance of a very small gorilla with its bowed legs and front-forward knuckles dragging the ground. The filthy robe it wore was far too large for its frame. The demon appeared to be crying, clutching at its arm where Fred had struck it.

"Good Lord," Wesley exclaimed, "this is a baby Valkren'nesh demon," and lowered his crossbow.

"Felt like it's got all of its teeth," Spike groaned, getting to his feet.

"I don't understand," Lorne spoke, easing down to the floor and began to hum softly, trying to coax the little creature out, "Valkren'nesh demons are peaceful. Murdering and thievery are not in their nature." The baby Valkren'nesh eventually toddled up into the Pylean's arms. "I'm going to name him Norman."


Meanwhile, Angel and Gunn had literally been beating the bushes around the museum's perimeter nearest the Round Reading Room.

"This feels like an inside job," Gunn said, shining a tesla-light into some hedges. "Who else would know the ends and outs of this place?"

"Whoever planned the heist had less than twenty-four hours to work out the details. None of the doors have been tampered with. This wasn't an ordinary smash-and-grab; someone let whatever attacked the curators in," Angel said, checking the latch on a window. A flash of blonde through the surrounding shrubbery caught of Angel's attention, and he called out, "Very amusing, Spike. Don't you have anything more useful to do than try to ambush me?" Pushing aside some of the branches, he found himself nose-to-nose with a pistol.

A female voice and a sparkling blue eyes met him behind the gun's barrel, "Hello, Angel."

"Hello, Inspector Lockley..."


To be continued...