by Kin S. Law
“We simply held out a hand, and the cabbie swung round the corner,” said Cezette. “I’d read it was impossible to hail cabs in this city. Wonderful book, with sepia photograms. Not very accurate, I think.”
“I wonder….” Arturo said. He began to root round the compartments of the cab, opening wood panels, unlatching patched sheets of upholstery. In a pocket over their heads, he surfaced with another missive, this time written on a crinkled parking ticket.
Five Corners, beneath the bridge. Goldilocks awaits. –I
Arturo flipped the ticket over.
Sorry about the stabbing. –I
“Our benefactor has a funny idea of assistance….” Arturo grumbled. Nevertheless, he showed Cid the message. The old man pulled up to a ramshackle newsstand to ask for directions. His gruff demeanor seemed to work on the ragtag populace hurtling up and down the street, with their multicolored accents and stoic marching rhythm. Arturo sometimes forgot this man had been a pirate with the infamous Manchu Marauder, and Samuel J. Clemens before him. All of this must have seemed all too pedestrian, while Arturo was still wanting for the top hats and discreet parlors of the queen’s London. As they drove out of the concrete jungle and into the groves of patchwork buildings, their fronts plastered in every language, Arturo suddenly felt a crushing sensation of impotence. He was starting to feel these were the only four people who made any sense to him, here in the most densely populated city in the world. It was terribly lonely.
With Alphonse and the Cook box safely stowed in the Huckleberry’s hold, Hargreaves looked toward getting the most she could out of the record book she had liberated from Burgess. It had been a delicate operation. Zampano Ivanov had been sad to see her go, but it was unfeasible to tell him about Albion’s presence in the city. For one thing, Ivanov was a legitimate businessman now. Hargreaves did not wish to drag anyone down with her. For another, he might actually be able to help, which would complicate matters. Zampano Ivanov had never been the discrete type.
In the city that never sleeps, the logistics of moving Alphonse turned out to be surprisingly easy to arrange. Ivanov insisted on hiring a moving engine, a flat, stubby wagon with a dozen small wheels beneath. The contraption was slower than paint but it had the torque of a bull elephant. One had to drive it oneself, so after Vera lowered the big bundle of tarpaulin-covered automata with the loading crane, the inspector climbed into the driver’s perch. Hargreaves had to wonder if it was the spirit of independence behind the custom, or simple avarice on the part of the owner not to pay a driver’s wages.
“You will write, da?” Ivanov said from under the raised driver’s perch. From above, the great bear looked more like a sad pup.
“Da, Ivanov. If I can,” Hargreaves replied. Ivanov was a wonder. Was he the only sentimental Russian in the world? Certainly the only one plying the cutthroat skies, she thought.
They had chosen mid-morning to drive the engine up from Coney Island. The wide road was packed granules of granite set in asphaltum, making for a smooth ride. There were innumerable Feints and Fjords zipping along on the road, but practically no horse-and-fours or lone riders. In the loose traffic, Hargreaves could see the odd equestrian shy away from the hot, hard road and instead ride along the flat beach and grassy wetland of the shore.
America had long embraced industry, and this country had never had much use for British customs like gentleman’s horsemanship. The vehicles passing her now were cheap, efficient transport, working man’s steamers. Most of the dock men and subway riders had not spoken much English, and she imagined they did not have much time to learn. Hargreaves recalled the words glimpsed through a pocket-glass as Ivanov’s vessel passed into the harbor; “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.” The statue had never promised they would cease to be any of those things.
Hargreaves took the slow lane up the Kings-Queens Carriageway, where she glimpsed domestic airships mooring at the oblique towers of Brooklyn. The shore opposite Manhattan had been transformed into an interminable line of docks and train platforms, inexplicably dotted by residential brownstones. Vast warehouses framed the raised highway, held up by steel girders surely forged in even greater heartland manufactories. The road was pitted and scarred, and there seemed to be an endless battle against entropy waged by orange-suited workers dotted here and there on the dividers. Some were actually laying new tar and spreading bags of gravel. Others looked to be languishing in the gray smoke hanging in a permanent cloud over the road.
The moving engine rolled into Manhattan some time in the afternoon, taking the Eastside Highway towards the spot where Albion Clemens exited the subterranean tunnels. The pirates were already waiting for her behind a chain-mesh fence. They parked the engine in the mouth of the tunnel, and Hargreaves got into Alphonse to move the hermetically sealed box. Straight and regularly riveted, the box gave her the overwhelming feeling of handling a morgue drawer, even through Alphonse’s steel hands. Hargreaves felt a little superstitious paranoia at a job gone too smoothly.
“What about the engine?” Hargreaves inquired of Ivanov’s rental.
“Albion’s moving it a few blocks over. We’ll wire the firm with the location,” Rosa explained. “Now, you’ve had a long, sweaty day. How about a bath? We’ve installed a real tub, with room for two.”
“You’ve been taking a few too many liberties with this ship, my dear,” Hargreaves commented.
“I don’t hear a no, gorgeous!” Rosa trilled.
“Ah. Why not? We can tease the captain with its happening later.”
10
The Captain’s Prerogative
At that moment, Albion was treating himself to a pasteboard container of potsticker dumplings, eaten out of a greasy paper bag. There was a policy he abided by: never waste an opportunity to snack.
Five Corners in New York was exceptionally tempting. The hodgepodge of different cuisines reminded him a bit of Kowloon, like visiting all of China in a ten-block radius. Nestled in the New York tenement apartments were all manner of Chinese immigrants, who had chosen those few gritty buildings to live and work close to one another. Albion went from hole in the wall to hole in the wall, tasting his native Cantonese soup noodles with roast goose, Shanghai drunken chicken, and the infamous Beijing duck, savory and sweet with scallions and brown sauce.
Not to mention, the neighborhood was remarkably convenient. Located off the rows of restaurants on Mott Street were rows of hardware merchants, banks and markets. There was even a telegraph office, selling stationery next to incense and hell money. Clemens sent a message in Vanessa Hargreaves’ name to the moving engine company. The Fujian clerk with the distinctive dialect looked at him funny when he handed off the greasy message slip, taking in the burgundy coat with its shiny clasps, the high collar, and the goggles on Clemens’ forehead. The clerk decided to conduct the transaction in a broken, lilting English.
Five Corners lay some distance from the mouth of the tunnel where the Berry sat hidden, but it took twice as long to walk there, what with all those small mom and pop delicacy shops. Tiny egg cakes cooked on a honeycombed skillet, deep-fried drumsticks—there were even the egg tarts Albion was so fond of having in Kowloon’s tea restaurants. It wasn’t often he came to Five Corners, and, by helping Hargreaves, he might be leaving New York quite soon. When he finally arrived at the mouth of the access tunnel beneath the bridge, he was loaded down with paper sacks of goodies.
What Albion never saw, as he climbed through the fence and loped toward the gaping opening, was the figure trailing along behind him.
11
Grindhouse Double Feature
“About time you got back. What did you do, take the engine out for a joyride?” Rosa Marija accused Albion as he stepped into the galley.
“The blasted thing can barely hit forty. What about you? You girls look like you’ve been gallivanting about in your own way.”
Both Marija and Hargreaves lounged by the steaming row of pipes in the galley. Tall, cold drinks occupied their hands. Auntie
was just sitting down to join them. All three had their hair bound up in towels, and their faces were soft and flushed.
“What did you think we did?” Rosa asked pleasantly.
“I say, it has been awhile since I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality,” said Hargreaves.
“I hope you girls know we’re helping the inspector commit treason. Those days of going on holiday and just happening to saving the world are over,” Clemens said, flopping down on his armchair. When none of the ladies paid him any mind, he went on. “You people act like this mystery is going to solve itself. What, like Dragonwell and Alphonse are going to lumber around and shake things up for—”Albion never got to finish, for as he mouthed the words, everything not nailed down decide to take a step to the left. It would have been hilarious watching the occupants scrabble on the floor, if not for the ominous rumbling. Outside the porthole, the dark tunnel lit up with a bloom of orange fire.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Hargreaves screamed from the floor, where she now sprawled helplessly.
“Never mind that. I’ve lost my towel. Somebody give me my towel!” ordered Rosa. The three of them sans Auntie bolted for the door at the same time, toppling into each other as the ship righted itself. Rosa’s hair swept out in a damp sheet, whipping across Hargreaves’ face. It was like being slapped by a fish.
“Nobody’s at the helm!” Albion said, dashing toward the bridge.
“What happened to Prissy Jack?” Hargreaves demanded.
“Prissy Jake left to start his flying restaurant business!”
“What?”
Hargreaves took up her underthings, hobbling forward on one leg as she tried to slip them on. Blasted tight stays! Rosa nearly knocked her over in the rush to get to the bridge. By the time Hargreaves made it down the passage, she had her knickers, the ingenious corset, and a pair of striped leggings wrangled. Auntie whistled, and when Hargreaves turned a straight-cut navy jacket with tarnished buttons hit her square in the chest.
“Put it on!” said Auntie. Hargreaves blushed, knowing it was a full-body rouge.
The garment was hellishly tight, but it cinched at her hips, covered everything, and the sleeves were flat to the wrist, surely making for a lovely draw on a weapon. A double-breasted military uniform cut for a woman, with hidden panels so her bust and hips wouldn’t catch. There was so much structure to it that she could wear it without underthings. Best of all, there were pockets!
“Where the blazes did you get this?” said Hargreaves.
Auntie gave a thumbs-up and made a shooing motion with her other hand. Hargreaves went.
She reached the bridge to find Elric Blair’s voice hollering through the speaking trumpets. The wobbly-headed dolls decorating the consoles wobbled vigorously. A second brilliant light flared up directly in front of them, enough to see a strange shape at the other end of the tunnel. It was approaching quickly, and even more disturbingly, there was more than one shadow. A third blast scraped some splinters of carpentry from the bow of the ship, throwing a wave of water onto the deck.
“Automata!” said Hargreaves. “There’s three of them!”
“With six legs? What kind of monster are we talking about here?” Albion said. In the middle of the sentence, his own two legs came out from under him.
Meanwhile, Rosa was unhurriedly flipping toggles and throwing levers, determinedly preventing the Berry from suffering further damage. Her hips firmly braced against a support behind the wheel. The contact kept her towel just firmly in place, but that soon became a thing of the past as the ship shuddered, knocking the cloth to the ground. Rosa hurled the wheel to port as the wall there shattered, never minding for a second that she was in her altogether. Eventually Albion reached a locker, holding on for dear life as Rosa pitched the deck this way and that. Her hair swept about her curves, framing muscles in action that looked carved out of tiger’s eye stones. Never mind the burlesque, thought Hargreaves. This was her dance. This was where Rosa Marija belonged.
Albion resurfaced with a long shirt that looked like it was the under-suit for some sort of heavier equipment. He swung with his ship, pitching the bundle to drape near Rosa. By then the tunnel outside began to drift past at a steady clip. As a blast detonated somewhere farther astern, Rosa took the opportunity to throw on the undersuit, which was long enough to drape as a white linen dress on her. She began to laboriously lash herself against the padded strut with some built-in straps.
“Alby, there’s a set of locks at the far end of this tunnel.”
Immediately, the silliness was gone from Albion. Efficiently and fluidly, the captain took off down a different set of stairs. Hargreaves looked on, trying to find a way to be useful, but ultimately settled on strapping herself into a seat and trying to stay out of the way.
“Good idea! Try to use the scopes to find the gears!” said Rosa.
“Err… right! Exactly what I planned!” Hargreaves agreed. She began to manipulate the controls before her. There was a scope at eye level that had a smooth rubber bezel, and she pressed her face to it–only to see a pair of bugged-out eyes staring back at her.
“Christ, what the blazes?” cried Hargreaves. The eyes were gone almost as soon as the words left her lips. There was a jolt rumbling through the ship, and then something landed upon the deck with a loud crunch. A glimpse of fabric whistled over the deck, the only trace of Dragonwell flying overhead. When Hargreaves managed to stand up, she was able to see the wet corpse of something metal and six-legged on the deck. Though each of the still legs was curled against the body, they would be about the length of a man when fully extended.
“Like a cat leaving us a present,” said Rosa, and she looked like she wanted to spit. “Can you find him? We saw two more of those things.” The ship hovered steadily, and no more explosions shook them. Apparently the Berry was tougher than expected, or Albion was putting up a very good fight. Rosa flicked on the ship arclamps, lighting a patch of the cavernous flood drain. Hargreaves puttered about the scopes, and soon had a fine view of Dragonwell.
“There!” said Hargreaves. She indicated the heading. “Don’t blind him!”
In response, Rosa shifted the airship until Dragonwell came into view. She kept the lights pointed away, and the tableau before them was a strange stage indeed.
Albion had put the gear high up on one of the floodgates, and it looked like he was fencing with an enormous cutlass. The sewer was dark, but the metal caught the arclight as it danced here and there. Flashes showed fearsome, stabbing legs. Suddenly, bang! Something went off in Dragonwell’s hand, and a second later the water below them belched as it swallowed whatever had been shot.
“Gear-sized blunderbuss,” Rosa explained briefly. Hargreaves could see the weapon as it was stowed: a brassy trumpet shape that would have been akin to a French horn to a person.
Albion was not done. As soon as the creature toppled off the edge, a second one seemed to appear from the shadows, crawling along the wall. Dragonwell took a step—turned away from the creature.
Albion didn’t see!
“Captain!”
“Alby!”
The two women cried out simultaneously, but it was Rosa who seized a length of cable along the bridge ceiling. When she pulled on it the ship’s foghorn unleashed the Berry’s sizable bellow, cascading into the flood drain like a thunderclap. Dragonwell spun on its heel, and as the spidery metal claw lashed out, so did Albion’s enormous blade. A sound like a snapped guitar string rang out, and the claw tumbled end-over-end, severed from the gear.
To everyone’s surprise, the gear began to scream, a rasping sound like steel wool over a grate. Then it began to rapidly crawl away, and was soon lost to the darkness beyond their lamps.
“Follow it, Albion!” said Hargreaves. But Dragonwell seemed to settle on its haunches, unwilling to move. When Hargreaves checked the scope, she could see Albion struggling with the controls. Perhaps the gear had been damaged. Rosa steered the Berry closer, and by the time they were
within a stone’s throw, Dragonwell was aloft.
Soon they had their captain back on the deck, and as Albion dropped down from Dragonwell’s cockpit, Rosa ran up to give him a kiss. Whatever affection Hargreaves entertained for Albion, she was happy to see the captain reciprocate deeply, his arms around his helmswoman. They clung to each other for a moment while the inspector inspected the one wrecked gear that lay at Dragonwell’s feet.
“So what do you make of this?” asked Albion as Rosa finally let go.
“Right,” said Hargreaves, not moving from her crouch beside the gear. “This is less of a machine and more of a… creature.”
Rosa’s brow raised, and Albion gestured at the riveted carapace, the brass cylinders slung under the copious abdomen, and the glass eyes now lifeless and dull. The only sign of anything animal was the copious amounts of gritty, purplish-brown liquid dribbling out of a cutlass-sized hole in the carapace. The wound was full of it. But the stream also bled a collection of broken gears and worm screws broken off inside the spider.
“First of all, can you see a cockpit? It is barely big enough to hold a person,” said Hargreaves. “For another thing, this creature looks like a patchwork of scrap.”
The inspector kicked the spider over, where a patch of the carapace didn’t look the same as the rest. There was a face of a pig on it, scuffed in long silver lines. It looked like a repair done with a crudely cut piece of white-painted aluminum.
“Wait; I know this pig,” said Rosa. “Rosso’s. It’s a pork and salami distributor in the meatpacking district. A truck comes every week with this pig on it.”
“Burgess owns it,” said Hargreaves. “In name or just in practice. There’s a Rosso’s in the log book. It wasn’t coded, and the figures look like he was laundering money through it, but not much else.”
“Definitely suspicious,” said Rosa, but there was a smile on her face. Her captain picked up on it too.
