The Engine itself was massive, taking up several rooms, and it consumed an enormous amount of energy. Gallons and gallons of petrol were required to heat the gallons and gallons of steam that pushed and pulled the gears, pulleys, and pipes that served as the system's life blood.
The Engine had really served as a proof of concept: that a device could be built that solved all kinds of mathematical problems. To the extent that the universe could be described mathematically, perhaps a machine could be built that could solve any problem. This was Waterhouse's real goal, and it had consumed him for most of his life. There were specialized machines for specific computational tasks, but Waterhouse's was the first that could work on any computation.
And it worked. It was amazing. Problems in calculus, trigonometry, logic, anything could be solved by the Engine. It could master any formal system. One just had to know how to feed it information, and how to get out the answers. It was one of the most exciting things David had ever been a part of. He'd never felt more alive than when he had first looked at the punch printout. The Engine was to be displayed at the World's Fair in Chicago in two years. It was going to be the crowning event of Waterhouse's career.
It was shocking that Waterhouse would put a halt to the work to go to New Boston. They had made progress, but there was still a great deal of work to do. The engine was capable of so much more. Presumably the machine would be going with him. It just didn't make any sense. It was possible that Waterhouse was a bigger patriot than David thought, but this surprised him. It just didn't fit.
It was true that a war was going to happen. The Spanish had continually infringed on American and English rights. Privateers, most likely funded by the Spanish, had been hijacking merchant ships and stealing their cargo. Rogue Spanish settlements were appearing in the colonies, violating the Treaty of 1946. The capture of the Calista would add flames to the fire. Maybe Waterhouse just wanted to play his part.
Certainly, David's father would have approved of the professor's actions. Nothing was more important to Jack Marr than his country, and even that took second place to the Navy. His father's death, or more accurately, the idea of his father's death lingered in his mind.
And there, in front of him, stood his father.
No, it wasn't his father, it was a man in a Captain's uniform. Was it the absinthe?
He was a stout man, bordering on plump. Short for a captain. His cheeks were ruddy. He was balding, but the lack of hair on his head was made up for by a long, curled mustache. He wore high naval boots and a bright blue double-breasted jacket with the twin epaulets of a Post-Captain.
"May I sit?"
David nodded, speechless.
"Let me introduce myself. My name is Charles Gibson."
"David Marr." He extended his hand.
"Yes, I know." He signaled to the waitress to bring him a pot of coffee. "Your colleagues told me that you were probably at home. I happened to stop here on my way there, and here we are."
"I'm sorry, have we met?"
"We have, but I haven't seen you since you were a small boy. You were in diapers at the time. But I recognized you instantly when I walked in. You've got your father's carriage."
David suspected he was recognized because he was the only Indian in the place.
"Oh, so you were a friend of my fathers."
"That's right, son. Jack and I were brought up together in the Navy. We were Midshipman on the Georgia back in '86. We were about your age, barely had fuzz on our cheeks, and we were both excited as hell to be up there."
He smiled and pointed his index finger up to the Heavens.
"Your father was a born sailor and he died a hero. The action that took his life was critical to our nation's security. I know it may be hard for you to understand, but your father wouldn't have changed his actions, even if he'd known the outcome."
It was actually quite easy for David to understand this. He knew his father.
"My ship, the U.S.S. Dakota arrived last night, and when I heard the news, I wanted to find you."
"Well thank you, sir. I appreciate it."
"So what are your plans now, son?" Captain Gibson had clearly prepared the first part of his introduction in advance. Now that he had to play the rest of the conversation by ear, he looked uncomfortable.
"Well, I'm a student here at the University, so, I'm sort of figuring things out..."
"Are you going to continue your studies?"
"I don't know..." said David, "My advisor's leaving and taking my work with him. I'm not sure what I'd do here. I was thinking of heading back East."
"To do what?"
"Find an engineering company, maybe. I don't know."
Gibson looked thoughtful.
"Listen, son. I'm not a man of words. I avoid 'em if I can, but I'll be blunt: I think it'd be a goddamn shame for Captain Marr's son to work for some New York City Engineering firm. Have you ever thought of joining the Navy?"
David shook his head slowly. Uh-oh. He could see where this was going.
"This is why I wanted to come find you. Your father was a great sailor, but he was dumber than a sack of nails when it came to money. I can't imagine he left you much in the way of means."
There was silence for a moment, but David eventually nodded.
"I can offer you an opportunity. There's space on my Midshipman's berth for a new recruit. You'd have the opportunity to join as an officer. It'd be a chance to start a life."
Although David had little interest in Naval affairs, there was no way one could be raised by a Post-Captain in the American Navy without having some knowledge of how a ship and its personnel operate. Midshipmen were officers, usually men about his age who were from good families and middle class backgrounds, whose families had gotten them positions as a way to begin a career in the Navy. Although they were technically officers and could command the hands on deck, they were really there to learn about being Naval officers. They were there to learn navigation, how to run a ship, and how to command. The captain himself often gave them lessons, and even though they were in command of enlisted sailors who were often many years their senior, men who knew the ship inside and out and were old enough to be their fathers, midshipman frequently knew very little about how a shipped worked. At least initially.
"I don't think so. My expertise is really in building things. I'm no sailor."
"Every ship has an Engine room. Your skills would be perfect for an apprenticeship with the ship's Master Engineer."
David looked doubtful.
"What if I told you there'd be a way to get some payback on the Spanish who killed your father?"
"What?"
"I have orders to go to New Boston, but after that, we're headed towards the space around New Madrid. We're hunting for the Sangria, the ship that captured the Calista. I volunteered to go on this mission. Those sons of whores who killed your father are probably still patrolling the region looking for ships to take. I sure as hell want revenge. Don't you?"
David looked at his hands, placed palm down on the table.
"Let me think about it."
Gibson nodded his approval. "Let me know either way. We depart in a week, God willing."
CHAPTER TWO
Urbana-Champaign was a pleasant place to live. The cobblestone on the streets was kept clean. There were few beggars, unlike Chicago, and crime was extremely low. The town was small enough to be fully served by a fleet of trolleys. Although the horses and carriages left their share of dung around the city, the carriages were all quite nice because of the wealth of the city. The university and the Naval base had made many merchants quite rich, and even the ordinary working guy had a pretty good life, at least compared to working in the slaughterhouses up in Chicago.
It was because of the fact that he lived in such a nice town, among simple, God-fearing folk, that it pained David to have to associate with someone like Thurston Timble. It was not Thurston Timble that he ran into while drinking a whisky at the Stork's Nest, but when he saw Fle
tch, he knew that he was going to be summoned.
"You look like you're in a good mood," grinned Fletch.
"I was."
"Come on, that's no way to greet an old friend." He put his arm around David. They were the same age, though Fletch had fewer teeth, greasier hair, and a scar that ran from his ear to his chin. He was wearing an expensive suit.
"He wants to see me?"
"There's no rush," he said ordering a drink. He sat down next to David. "I wanted to talk with you anyway."
"Oh really?" This gorilla could barely say his own name, so he was curious what he wanted to chat about. Politics? Art? Literature?
"Our relationship doesn't have to be...what do you call it? Antagonistic."
"It doesn't?"
"No way, buddy. You and I are after similar things. Money."
"I wouldn't say I'm after it. I just need it."
"Whatever. My point is, maybe you can help us out with something. You're good with machines, right?"
"You could say that."
"Could you make something that could break through a brick wall?"
David thought for a second, "How thick?"
"Two feet."
He could, but it was probably wiser to lie. He had no love of authority, but he wasn't interested in breaking the law. He had enough problems.
"Hmmm," said David. "I don't know of anything with that kind of power."
Fletch scowled, possibly sensing the lie. "Well, just think about it. It could solve your money problems."
He got up, and David finished off his drink and followed him to the carriage that was parked in front of the Stork's Nest. When David climbed in, he was surprised to see a girl of about 13, poorly dressed, thin, with long stringy red hair. She was pretty, but looked terrified, and didn't say anything when he and Fletch entered the carriage. Fletch ignored her, so David did the same.
They took off with a start, and headed out towards North Champaign. The tall Victorians changed to smaller, more working class homes as they got closer to Thurston's tavern.
When they arrived, the girl started crying. She went on for a while until Fletch told her to shut up. She stopped crying, but shuddered in a noiseless sob. He grabbed her, and entered the tavern. David clenched his jaw but said nothing.
The tavern itself was large, old, and dirty. There were few customers, but there weren't really supposed to be as the location served mainly as a front for Thurston's money lending business.
"You know where he is," said Fletch holding onto the girl. "Oh, and think some more about what I said earlier."
David left him and climbed the back stairs to Thurston's office. Thurston was sitting with his feet on his desk, smoking a pipe, and reading Darwin's Origin of Species. Counting money at a table by the window was Ethel, his muscle. She was a large woman who would make a formidable opponent for anyone foolish enough to fight her.
"Have you ever read this book?"
"Yes."
"Fascinating."
"It is."
"So I hear you've come into some money."
David couldn't hide his surprise. He hadn't told a soul about Waterhouse's money.
"I'll take your silence as a yes. How much does he owe me, E?"
Without looking up, she said, "$892.23." Her massive hands never paused in counting the bills.
David had needed the money for the basics: tuition, housing, food. His father wasn't paying his bills, and unlike his father, there was no way a bank would be willing to lend him any money. Why would one? He was unemployed and had no prospects. Borrowing money from Thurston was not the smartest thing he'd ever done, but he didn't have much of a choice if he wanted to stay in school. He'd borrowed the money two years ago, and paid back what he could with money from odd jobs at the university, fixing machines and tutoring undergraduates. He'd barely been able to stay on top of the interest and just ahead of a beating, but Thurston was clearly growing tired of the arrangement. He must have seen an opportunity here to be done with David.
"Cash, please," said Thurston.
David took out his wallet and counted out the bills and put them on the table. He heard muffled crying from downstairs. The girl.
Ethel gave him his change.
"What's the girl here for?"
"She's the payoff on a debt," said Thurston.
"How much?"
"A hundred bucks." That was eight months rent in north Champaign. He stood there for a moment, and then handed the money to Thurston.
"She's not that pretty, kid," laughed Thurston, "save your money and spread it around on the girls on Race St."
"Send her home."
"You can't be serious."
"It's my good deed for the day."
Thurston gave him a strange look, and then shrugged. "It's your money."
"So we're square?"
"Yep."
David turned to leave.
"We'll miss you around here, kid," said Thurston, smiling.
"Can't say the same."
He heard Thurston laugh as he entered the bar. He saw Fletch with the girl at a table and went over.
"I paid off Thurston," said David.
"So what." Fletch's eyes never left the girl, who was trying to shrink into her chair.
"Not for me, for the girl. She's square, so she can go home. You can ask Thurston."
This got Fletch's attention. He turned his malevolent gaze on David. "What?"
"She's free to go. Ask Thurston," he said again, lighting a cigarette.
"I don't give a fuck what Thurston says or doesn't say," said Fletch. He stood up, and the chair fell behind him. "Get the hell out of here. I'm working her, so it's my call."
David thought for a moment, wishing he had a drink. Then he threw himself at Fletch with the same blind, self-destructive intensity with which he approached so many things in his life.
As an Indian kid growing up in white communities in the South, he'd been in his fair share of fights. He learned early that two things usually gave him an advantage: surprise and fighting dirty.
As his knee made contact with Fletch's groin, David reflected over his decision to throw down with Fletch. This was the wrong call. A quick conversation with Thurston would have cleared up everything, and Fletch would have had no choice but to give in with his tail between his legs. But David was angry. Maybe it was because after the afternoon's transaction, he was now broke again. Maybe it was because he hated seeing someone taken advantage of. Maybe it was because his father was dead. Whatever it was, he needed to take it out on somebody.
After this, he would have to leave town.
Fletch didn't expect a thing. He doubled over, completely unprepared for the knee. David shoved his cigarette into Fletch's ear, and kneed him in the face. Fletch screamed. Blood splattered onto the floor after he heard a crunch from Fletch's broken nose.
While Fletch was moaning on the floor, clutching his groin, David grabbed the girl, dragging her from her seat, and headed towards the door.
He wasn't going to miss this place at all.
He told her to hurry. To her credit, even though she was astonished by her apparent freedom, she nodded a thanks to David and hurried off towards downtown.
David walked home.
CHAPTER THREE
"War!" shouted the newsboy. "Read all about it."
David flipped through the paper. He was leaning against the wall of a small downtown cafe. Everyone in sight was reading a paper.
Three U.S. merchantmen had been captured by the Spanish near New Madrid, and the U.S. was finally about to declare war. The Spanish had been harassing American ships for the past few months with the goal of drawing the Americans into a war. A war, it should be mentioned, in which it wasn't altogether clear the Americans would win. The Spanish colonial position was much stronger than that of the Americans. Of the twenty colonial planets, the Spanish had complete control over five and major colonies on five others. The Americans only controlled three planets and these planets represe
nted the entire U.S. colonial position: New Boston, New New York, and Jefferson. In addition to these, there was on American colony on New Madrid. These planets had vast deposits of gold, and gold was the key to space travel. The Spanish wanted it.
President Clinton was going to press Congress to declare war. With these recent outrages against American ships, she would have no problem. The American people wanted blood.
Everyone near David was reading a paper. The corner of Main and Race St. was dead silent. There were no horses trotting down the cobblestone street, no broughams, and no trolley. There was only the low murmur of voices, some filled with anger at the Spanish, some expressing disbelief. A businessman wearing a suit and a new bowler hat laughed out loud. He looked as though he wanted to celebrate.
Some of the younger folk looked grim. A group of young men laughed and boasted to their friends about signing up to fight the Emperor that day. They'd do it before lunch and pick up girls in their new uniforms that night. This was met with more laughs. They were eager for a righteous war. Who could blame them? Their only knowledge of warfare came from tales their grandfathers told them in front of the fire. Stories about fire fights in British Columbia back in the fifties or about their great-great-grandfathers fighting in the Civil War. They wanted to be heroes.
There were also sailors in the crowd. Many read the paper and nodded approval. There was no way in Hell they were going to let those Spaniards take a shot at 'em without answering in kind. Spanish Privateers had been taking merchantmen and harassing warships for months. They had friends and old shipmates who had come out of those scrapes, and more than a few who had not. Yes, the Emperor had earned some payback. And speaking of payback, they would be on full wartime pay now.
But still, there were plenty of youngsters who looked grim. These were students. A war could only mean one thing: a draft. The discussion of a draft had consumed the campus over the past few months, and now that war was almost a certainty, so was the end of their student lifestyles. A young person in a port city like Champaign-Urbana was especially vulnerable. Young adults could be enlisted with little or no warning as long as they were healthy. Being of sound mind was optional. The most prudent thing would be to leave town, maybe head to Chicago or St. Louis where the grip of the Navy was less strong. They might stay with friends or relatives. Of course, this would mean putting studies on hold for a while, maybe for a year or two during the duration of the war, but the life of the mind isn't worth much if you're dead.
The Gold Engine (The Gold Chronicles) Page 3
