She looked into herself expecting nothing. Instead she found something. It was indefinable, a warmth maybe, or a vibration, an intense thought. It moaned and groaned, shook and rumbled. She felt heat in her veins, as if her blood had caught fire. This something flowed to her glove where it felt like a piece of the sun burning out of her fingertips.
The energy was painful, felt even a bit hateful, as if it was only grudgingly following her will, but what energy it was! She ignored these thoughts, just focused on the machine, on its inert circuits. Then, suddenly, her hand shook. She opened her eyes to watch a bright red bolt curve from her finger into the machine.
With a hum, her generator came to life.
She stared. Blinked. Stared again. It wasn’t possible.
A fellow student walked by, nodded a vague congratulations, then stopped and turned back, realizing who had sparked the machine. His eyebrows turned to a question, and Sylvaine couldn’t answer. Slowly she turned the dial on her machine. It shook, and for a moment she was afraid it would shoot smoke and die out on her, but then, it stilled itself. Æther-oil from the tank on the side poured into the long cylinder of the negative-density generator, and the machine started to creak, then hum, then lift off the table.
“What in all infernal assery?”
It was Rostialva’s voice, and with her curse the entire room turned to stare at Sylvaine’s machine. The negative-density generator was working! Too well, she realized suddenly, as it floated up and up to bump against the ceiling. She hadn’t attached the proper safety chains, she never had the faith she would need them. It was too far up now, wedging in the pipework of the ceiling. Unless…
She raised up her glove, sucked in, searched for something, and again found it. Reacting to the sparks of her glove, the chains sitting around desk flung themselves up, and welded themselves to the machine.
No, she chided herself, nothing flings itself, welds itself. She welded it, she pulled it down with a pull of æther, she repaired the scratches on the hull of the machine with a wave of her hand, and let it float up the height she desired.
“Amazing,” a student said.
“I would have never believed it.” Another.
They were as blown away as she was, unable to believe that a ferral could…
“I had a similar design, you know,” the first voice.
“Liar,” the second. “You would claim to have built Icaria itself if no one would correct you.”
“Yeah, well, I have to admit this is going to make my auto-miner look a bit underwhelming.”
They word weren’t focused on her. All thoughts were the machine.
Sylvaine heard laughter. It took her a moment to realize it was her own.
* * *
A few days later Sylvaine accepted an invitation to lunch with Lazarus Roache. They met at The Cable, a restaurant built in the shadows of one of the gargantuan suspension cables that tethered the city to the mountainside. It was more upscale than Sylvaine was used to, Bastillian cuisine, full of rich creams and towers of tiny pastries, all far beyond the wallet of a student.
“On me, of course,” Lazarus said.
The pastries weren’t the topic of conversation, though Sylvaine savored the custard tarts. Instead they went on about the workshop, Sylvaine’s machine, and the miraculous effect of the slickdust.
Lazarus took a sip of tea and smiled. “What did I tell you? You should have more faith in yourself, Sylvaine. You need to see the things in you that I see.”
She blushed. “It really impressed Professor Gearswit. Not just because I had made something functional, but he was impressed by the generator itself. He said, well, he had the same opinion your friend had.”
“Gath knows talent when he sees it,” Lazarus said. “Your professor is wise to look past the details of the slickdust.”
“Well…” Sylvaine said. “I didn’t actually mention that. It’s just…” she wasn’t sure why she had kept it a secret, but it just seemed unthinkable. As if it would stain her first true engineering victory.
“It’s just that you are bright enough to know how people would react,” Lazarus said, pouring her another glass. “They’d use it as some excuse, as if it should matter. Slickdust does nothing but heighten the potential you already have, it would be foolish to let another use it as some pretense to undermine you.”
Sylvaine nodded, sipping, wondering if she would agree with them.
“Sylvaine,” Lazarus said, “talent is talent, every engineer uses tools. If you must keep yours secret, don’t feel guilty about it. Your work defines you, not how you came to it.”
She swallowed, feeling the warmth in her stomach, and tasting the wisdom of the man’s words. “Yes. It just all happened so quickly. One day I was a pen’s dash away from failure, the next that very same professor is introducing me as his greatest prodigy.”
Sylvaine looked up at the great negative-density towers that loomed over the city, and then at the cable that gave their table shade, its far ends installed deep into the mountainside.
“I think he has that stereotypical engineer’s dream,” Sylvaine said, “that someday Icaria will fly again. I can’t say I share it. But at least it’ll get my project some attention.”
“Yes. Yes.” Lazarus nodded. “But leave the old dreams to old fools.” He sipped. “You know, there’s a job working for me if you’re interested. Javad is already on board, but we could use someone with your talent.”
Sylvaine twisted her hair, an act more of anxiety than flirtation. “I’m not sure. I need to finish my studies.”
She felt cornered, afraid to disappoint Lazarus. It surprised her how important impressing him seemed to matter, but she also couldn’t leave before she had proved herself officially as an engineer. She took in his gaze, a mask without clear emotion. Sweat formed at the pores of her fur, had she ruined everything? Would Lazarus leave her, and take the slickdust? Could she lose it all?
Then he laughed, and all was right again.
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your studies, or worse, have you think I just introduced you to slickdust to get an employee. No, you’re more than that, Sylvaine, and the fact that I can help push you the extra step is enough for me.”
Sylvaine smiled back, not even hiding the sharp tips of her canines.
“You know,” she said, taking a nibble of her tart, “Gearswit said he was going to sponsor my project at the Academy Exhibition in three weeks. Half the engineers in the city will be there.” She knew that when they saw her with her generator they wouldn’t see a ferral, wouldn’t see a beast. They would see an engineer, same as any other.
“Wonderful!” Lazarus clapped. “Which reminds me.” He presented a yellow paper bag. “A gift for you.”
Sylvaine opened the bag and pulled out indigo cloth. It was a dress, embroidered with abstract shapes and designs, giving the impression of an engineer’s drawing. In its neck sat a pin in the shape of a hammer centered among the teeth of a gear: the Insignia of the Guild, in greater detail than she had ever seen, covered in gold leaf.
“Oh, I can’t, I mean I don’t…” Sylvaine stammered, staring at the dress. She had tried wearing dresses when she was young, but all it did was increase the mockery, ‘Look, the monkey’s playing dress-up!’
“…I’m not sure something like that would work on me,” she finally concluded.
“Nonsense,” Lazarus said, “it would look great on you.”
Sylvaine glanced at the busy street to her right. Even in the bustle of Icaria, where everyone had three things on their mind at once and were jogging because they were five minutes late, some still took the time give a confused glance to the ferral holding a dress.
“People would think…” she began.
“Who cares what people would think!” he interrupted, grabbing her hand suddenly. “People are idiots who only see what they want to see. It doesn’t matter what they think, they don’t matter, only you m
atter.” Lazarus smiled perfect marble teeth. “So come on, try the dress.”
His words were as silky as the cloth, and Sylvaine found herself examining the dress again. Perhaps he was right, she had spent her whole life worrying what random strangers would think, how they would see her, and it hadn’t helped her a moment. They saw what they wanted to see. She had brought life to metal, a task said impossible for Ferrals, but now it was easy as opening a door. Lazarus was the only one who understood what she was capable of, and she had proved him right. Those people on the street, those people who had mocked her, they could think what they want, because they didn’t matter in the end.
“Okay!” Sylvaine said, with confidence that she didn’t know she possessed.
Chapter 11
It was long past evening by the time Marcel made it back to Huile proper. A junker autocab took him to the gate just in time to make the last trolley ride. It was largely empty, only night workers and half-wasted Huile-folk back from a night of cheap booze and cards.
Marcel’s muscles groaned, and his head felt stuffed with dust, which the fresher air of the city was unable to clear away. The short expedition had worn him down, with its claustrophobic hallways and sharp discourse. He found his head bobbing in dyssynchrony with the rattling trolley, his juggled theories dropping from his mind as it slumped towards the black borders of sleep.
He leaned back on his seat, and found himself, in panicked jolts, back in the darkened passageways under Lazacorp. Memories once stomped deep grabbed up at him. He could feel the gas mask, hear the screams, feel his leg burning away to nothing.
A stone in the track was able to knock him back into coherence, and he gripped on to wakefulness. The meandering corridors and acrid-scented machinery had dug up more than he realized, but he wouldn’t let himself fall back into old terrors. With this lingering fear came a hint of embarrassment, he was still in his twenties; had his vigor abandoned him already?
On a normal night he’d be in bed by now, and his squeaking mattress called for him. It would be so easy to take an early stop, stumble home, fold into his bed’s worn sheets, and let the mystery sleep.
Peacetime’s monotony had in two years starved away his night owl youth. After classes in Phenia University he would spend hours drinking and singing at Madame Vin’s Cinderbird, swapping exaggerated tales of drunken exploits or overwrought political diatribes while watching the exotic twirls of dancers hailing from all corners of the explored world, from Vidish forests valleys to the distant plains of Khulizwe. Or, if not that, then he would wander the endless dockworks, where great iron behemoths spewed out both steam and workers long past midnight. Or he would hit up a show, live or cinegraph, artistic or bawdy, or just pass out on a friend’s floor.
Even when he had been trekking the Border States with Desct, before the two had heard about the brewing conflict in Huile and decided, on an inebriated oath, that their destiny lay to the north, he would hike through abandoned hilltop ruins well past nightfall, or explore tantalizingly perverse midnight quarters of cities whose official allegiance with the United Confederacy had not deterred them from opening their gates to the more spendthrift of raider-folk.
Desct would have given him Inferno for napping now, and Alba… thinking of what she’d say spun his guts in a knot.
As the trolley turned down Viexus Boulevard, Marcel pulled the chain and hopped out. He jogged the last metres to City Hall, where all but the lights of the grand atrium sat dim. There, at a desk beneath the story-tall Banner of the Phoenix, he found a young policeman, who informed him that Lambert had gone in for the night.
“If it’s an emergency,” the man said, “I could ring Mr. Henra up. I mean, it might take a minute to get a warrant.”
“He already got me one.” Marcel waved the document, too tired for patience. “I just need access for the apartment complex on twelve-fifty-one Durand Street.”
The cop looked over the paper, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Well, I should probably get my captain, I think.”
“Never mind,” Marcel muttered, taking the papers back. He grunted out a thanks and jogged down the steps out into the street.
After searching around the street for an idling streetcab that wasn’t there, he walked the half-kilometre to Fareau’s apartment. Maybe it would matter, most likely it wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to wait the night. He held down a shiver of thrill that he hadn’t felt since Desct’s death, and to be honest, a good while before that.
Perhaps he would have had more excitement in his life if he had remained closer with Desct, if the two hadn’t let their separate careers and sour memories of wartime push them apart. Perhaps the memories wouldn’t have been so painful if they had only fought in the Battle for Huile Field, if the Sewer Rats hadn’t been assigned to Roache’s eleventh hour plan. Perhaps then Alba would have stayed, and perhaps the others would have lived and...
No, he was on business, regrets were for personal time.
Fareau’s apartment was housed in one of Lazarus’s new complexes; seven stories tall, almost a skyscraper by Huile standards. The darkened leadlight that arched over the front entryway displayed a discordant scene, bellowing shriekbirds, weaving grapevines, great oak trees, and men in antiquated autoarmor.
Marcel pulled out a military grade lockpick. One of the rewards of urban-recon training was a practical expertise in breaking and entering. And one of the benefits of a war hero status was that no one had ever confiscated Marcel’s equipment. It took him a few minutes, but soon he prodded the tumblers in place, and the door slid open.
He strolled through the well-lit but unmanned foyer and took the far stairway up. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d be looking for, but his luck had always held strong during previous investigations. Documentation was a common hook; more than one Principate spy had been found out with a stack of letters, or detailed logbook. One idiot had even kept a personal journal, a moronic feat of self-incrimination.
As Marcel reached the sixth floor he noticed a flash of light from under an otherwise darkened door. 62, read the copper letters. Marcel slunk slowly up. He pressed his ear by the keyhole. Footsteps, a single pair, heavy, and the clatter of objects tossed to the floor. Someone was making a mess in there.
Marcel put down his bag, pulled out his Frasco six-shooter, and loaded it. The door was wooden and didn’t look all that strong. He braced himself with one arm against the stairway banister. There were upsides to having a metal leg.
A quick kick. The door splintered and flew open, Marcel stumbling in after, pistol out.
“Get down on the ground!” he shouted.
The handtorch light flashed towards him, blinding. A chair was flung past his head, and Marcel jumped for cover, firing off two bullets, as he landed behind a couch.
“Gall! If that’s you, come easy. It’ll be better for both of us that way,” Marcel shouted.
There was a crack and what sounded like a mechanical groan or a distant scream. The couch burst into a strange vivid black. Marcel jumped back, suddenly aware of an intense heat. The couch was on fire!
He dashed around it, to the back of a small table, and aimed. The figure was running out a broken window, smashing the last pieces of glass as he leapt down the fire escape. Marcel couldn’t get a good glance at the man; he was large, with a hooded jacket covering up his features.
He thought about chasing for a moment—he had his pistol, and a glance was all he needed, but the flames demanded his attention.
The living room lit up from the crackling light. He rushed past the nearby kitchen nook and into the small bedroom where he found a taurhide leather duvet on the unmade bed. He grabbed it, sprinted back, and tossed it onto the couch, pushing it down to snuff out all air.
Half a minute later, Marcel peeled off the leather to reveal a couple burnt cushions but not much else.
He kneeled down and sniffed, shuddering. Sangleum. He hadn’t seen what lit it, and there was no
sign of a match or lighter. The only plausible theory he could summon was that a spark from an ætherglove had done so. The strange thing is, he hadn’t even recognized the flames as fire for a moment. It had seemed briefly to burn black.
Marcel rubbed his forehead, perhaps it had just been a burst of smoke, or the manifestations of weary eyes, he was damn tired. He got up and grabbed the light his assailant had dropped. He wanted to label the figure as Gall, but he couldn’t be positive, all he had been able to make out was that the intruder had been generally largish.
A few waves of the handtorch made it clear that whoever the man had been he had torn up the place in a frenzy. It wasn’t a large or well-furnished apartment, just a cabinet, a couch, some cooking utensils, a closet-sized bathroom, and a bedroom, but the place looked as though some wild animal had been set loose. Two metal boxes lay on the floor, one still locked. The other had its padlock shattered, the papers it had been holding sprawled out. Those closest to the couch were burnt, a few more pages had been scattered by the scramble, fluttering about by the broken window. It was clear enough what the intruder had been looking for.
Marcel holstered his pistol and searched the apartment. The man’s living quarters were sparse. Gileon clearly had not been much of a reader, judging by the empty shelves. Nor, despite his supposed inebriation at death, was there much evidence of the man being a drinker. Marcel was only able to find a lone, half-filled bottle of “Trolltears” pale ale on the side of the kitchen sink. The trash was mostly rotten foodstuff, and Fareau’s wardrobe held only a couple of hanging garments.
There was another box of the same design under the man’s bed. These two still-locked boxes were easily picked, and like the smashed box, each overflowed with documents and stationary.
He gathered the papers up and took the pile downstairs, where he was able to find a vocaphone in a back office. He made a quick call to Lambert, whose voice cleared from a relaxed grog at the news of the flame-tossing burglar. Lambert hung up to call his men, while Marcel sat down to inspect his prize.
The Sightless City Page 11
