by Mark Eller
Turner Wear, it said. Evidently Aaron had kept more secrets from her. The euphoria began leaving her as she unbuttoned the blouse and slipped it on. She buttoned it back up as her mind mused on recent events.
They would have a talk, she and Mister Turner. A long talk about buried silver and unknown enterprises and a child-woman who was so much more than Amanda had ever imagined anyone could possibly be.
* * *
Aaron ran his fingers through his wet hair as he left the bath. The male guard, Mister Hortbert, went before him. Mistress Gilcrest and the other woman waited. So did two men, both looking put out.
"You rich folk think the world runs to your saying," one man muttered as he pushed by. "We have schedules to keep, too."
"Keep to your own baths if you want privacy," the other man said, much louder.
Aaron started to apologize, but neither man waited to hear. The last one closed the door with a decided thump.
"They were not happy," Mistress Gilcrest said. She raised her nose and sniffed. "I must say, it's a relief you left your peculiar odor inside. You possessed a fragrance I wasn't particularly fond of." Her voice firmed. "Now then, it will be a while before the women are finished, so we might as well find some way to kill time. Why don't we start with you telling me how many people are out to kill you and how you envision me keeping them from their goal?"
The door to the women's baths swung open, and Heralda stepped out. Two others left the women's bath with her--one a child and the other a young woman. The strangers' faces were pictures of shock and quiet wonderment. Heralda looked worn and tired. When she saw Aaron, she walked up to him.
She stopped before him, her body inches away from his. Without speaking, she placed her hands on either side of his head and set her lips against his.
Aaron was too startled to react. Her kiss was long and hard while his hands hung helplessly down by his side.
Her lips paused, stilled, and pulled away, but her hands remained on either side of his head.
"Aaron Turner, I have been given a message for you. I am to say that you are loved by Father, Son, and Ward. I am to say They feel for the terrible anguish that tears inside you, and that They wish They could take the burden away--but that cannot be. You have a role to play, and that role requires that you learn to live with your strengths and with your weakness." Her face became soft, yielding, and somehow envious. "You are loved. You are so very loved, and They who love you forbid you the taking of your own life."
"I wasn't going to," Aaron said, struggling to get the words out.
"You lie. The ending would not be by your own hand, but by your inaction. You have allowed yourself to become weak. Your life is endangered, and yet you do not defend yourself." Her expression grew grave, serious.
Attempting to break her spell, Aaron shook himself. "I did all right last night."
"The Lord loaned you strength and renewed the small skill you once possessed. He will not do so again. You have ignored your training. You have taken to drink, and your main defense, the death that comes with noise, is no longer with you." She gestured at the guards. "Do not depend on them. You must see to your own safekeeping." She touched his cheek, softly, gently. "We will meet again, you and I."
She kissed the corner of his lips, and the kiss burned. She turned away, her walk almost stately as she departed, her new converts following closely behind.
Stopping at the end of the hall, Heralda turned back to fasten her eyes once more upon him. This time there was no mistake. Her features were filled with envy, but they also held deep pity.
"They love you so much that I doubt you will ever live happy."
And then she was gone.
The door to the women's baths opened again. Amanda stepped out, and her face was a study. She touched one side of her head like it was something precious.
"Mister Turner," she said, "the strangest thing has happened."
"Yes," Aaron answered. He looked to where Heralda had disappeared. "I know."
Chapter 23
"Gahgh," Saundra gasped. "YES! YES! Do it again."
Smack
"GAHHHH!"
The force of the blow doubled her over and drove the breath from her lungs. She fell to her knees, banging them on the tile floor with an audible crack. The delicious pains in her knees and her battered stomach and the dislocated fingers on her left hand made the muscles of her abdomen contract spastically. Ecstasy shivered through her body, centered in the small of her back, radiating down to her sex.
Her ribs bent beneath another blow. The force flung her off her knees and onto her side. An almost orgasmic scream started to build in her, waited for the next blow to fall, and dissipated into disappointment when she realized the beating was finished.
"Again," she begged. "Again."
"Saundra, you are one sick bitch," the Mister said. "You're so sick that I can't even punish you for screwing up."
Rising to her knees, Saundra enjoyed the feel of fresh bruises rubbing against the hard tile. She looked down the length of her body, past the bare, useless breasts, and loved the sight of the black bruise already forming on her stomach near the still unhealed burns.
Holding up her left hand, she admired the two outside fingers. Disjointed, their knuckles lay against the back of her hand. The sight and feel of it made her shiver. Arching, she threw her head back with shear enjoyment. She was naked and bruised and vulnerable at the Mister's feet. She ached for him to strike her again and again until the blood flowed from her body now that she no longer needed to keep her appearance pristine. The stolen money had seen to that. She no longer needed her looks to survive.
The Mister glared with impotent anger. His rage was a supreme intensity of delicious anticipation agitating against her naked skin. He was by far the best of them, the best of all her chosen ones. It would be a shame when she killed him. A waste, but there was nothing she could do about it. He had to die. Eventually, they all had to die. Besides, when he was gone, all his wonderful works would belong to her.
"Sick," he repeated in disgust. "Sick and incompetent. I wanted a building burned and Filmore dead. I didn't want something that would turn into headline news for weeks on end. I didn't want you to leave Filmore someplace where he would not only be found, but recognized."
"Something happened," Saundra said. She grabbed her smallest finger and jerked it around. The sensation was absolutely fascinating. She could move it from the back of her hand, across its side, and down along her palm. With each movement she experienced subtle new agonies she had never encountered before. The pain made her face sweat and her head swim and eventually forced her to stop the rotating motion. She waited a few moments until her reeling senses settled back down. "Turner did something to upset the politicians. Know what I think? I think he blames the fire on them. I think he did something to really piss them off."
The Mister suddenly looked thoughtful. "You might be right. You just might be right." He ran a finger down the side of his face. "I'm tired of this game. Bring Turner to me. He'll tell me what he did with my silver, and then we'll kill him. Damn cripple deserves to die. That silver was intended to fund my army, but he stole it from me."
"Can I do the torture?"
He turned abruptly away and drew open the bedroom door. "Do whatever you like to the traitorous bastard."
The door shut behind him, and she was alone with her bruises and her pain and her dislocations.
Grinning, she looked down at her damaged hand. It looked beautiful with its misshapen fingers and the black of pooled blood beneath its skin. Only one thing could improve her hand's wondrous symmetry.
Grabbing the smallest finger with her good hand, Saundra pulled slowly, increasing the force as resistance built. The finger stretched until it would not move any further. Flinging back her head, Saundra twisted. Jerked. Lights flashed behind her closed lids. Her mouth dropped open in a euphoric moan. Skin ripped. Flesh parted, and her finger separated.
She opened her eyes and f
lung the remnant away. She manipulated the other dislocated finger while blood spurted past the exposed knucklebone. A practiced twist snapped the second finger back into its joint while blood shot out of her hand, and her head grew lighter.
Yes. Now her hand was perfect.
Perfect.
Chapter 24
"I wanted a life with little stress," Aaron reminded himself.
He leaned back in Amanda's office chair and closed his eyes. Arguments sounded from the reception room, but nobody confronted him in the office. He was alone, leaning back in a comfortable chair with his second large tumbler of Runeburg White by his hand, while the faint sounds of raised voices seeped through the small cracks in Amanda's office door.
From the few words Aaron could make out, the chaos in the front room was about him. Although he could not make out her words, Aaron knew Amanda demanded he be cooped up in the same building as the books. Mistress Gilcrest wanted him out of N'Ark. While that idea had merit, he was not too fond of it, not when he had engineering people to see, a wife to appease, and a blacksmith waiting for Aaron to explain how his life would soon be changed. Aaron also had to find a way to fulfill his obligation to the Clan and to figure out what was going on with the N'Ark Turner Houses.
His plate was full. Amanda Bivins could look to the politics and the law. He would deal with the rest.
No, this was his life. From this time forward he would make the calls. A man could not live by drifting on the strengths of others.
He rubbed the corner of his mouth. Well, he would make as many calls as was humanly possible. One or two things were still beyond his control. His appearance was one of those. Heralda's parting kiss had left a permanent imprint of her lips at the corner of his mouth.
More voices sounded at the door. A knock, and Aaron heard the door swing open. He opened his eyes in time to see Heidi O'Malley's head poke into view. She looked a little wild.
"Someone here to see you. Says his name is Bronson."
Aaron sat up and let his feet hit the floor. "Bronson! Well, show the man in. He's a friend." A friend and a business partner when Aaron had shipped goods into and out of Last Chance. Simpler and happier times. Gone now.
Heidi was gently pushed to the side.
"Well, Mister Turner, I have to thank you for that welcome. Truly I do." Bronson stood in the doorway, a wooden box clutched in his arms. After giving him a long look, Heidi moved back into the reception room.
"So what brings you here?" Aaron asked.
Bronson was a face from the older, better days. He was more acquaintance than friend, but at one time they had started to become close. Bronson was the freighter he had hired when he still ran his general store in Last Chance. It felt good to see him again.
"I'm here because I'm an honest man," Bronson said without modesty. "Not all our business has been concluded."
Puzzled, Aaron said, "I can't think of anything we forgot to settle."
"Do you remember that thing you called a solar calculator?" Bronson asked.
Aaron caught a fleeting impression of half a memory. Yes, he had given a calculator to Bronson so the man could sell it. As Aaron recalled, it was one that wrote answers out not only on the LED screen, but also on rolled paper.
"I remember," Aaron said, "although I forgot until you just now mentioned it. What about it?"
Walking further into the office, Bronson set the box down on the desk. "This is what about it. I finally sold it for what I thought it was worth. That there is your two-thirds. Nine pounds of silver, it is. I have another four and a half for me. I tell you, the eggheads were in a terrible tizzy to get it. Every one bid the next person up higher and then higher again. I never seen so many people anxious to get their hands on something that does no more than spit out numbers."
"Miss Bivins!" Aaron called. This had been one of those trivial matters he had forgotten about, and yet it had born a great yield. He wondered what other things might have slipped his memory.
She entered the room. "I thought you might like privacy, but we need to talk before you see the others."
"There are nine pounds of silver in that box," Aaron told her. "Will three be enough to meet our present needs?"
She suddenly became all smiles. "More than enough."
"Then I'll take the rest. I've an industry to start, and I promised Kit I'd give her a pound to get the manor out of trouble. Mister Bronson, I have a new contract you might be interested in."
"Well, now," Bronson replied. "Before I can say one way or the other, you'll have to do something for me."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?"
"You'll have to give me a more proper introduction to that secretary out there. She's a feisty one. Had to screech at her for ten minutes before she let me through." He smiled. "Thought maybe I owe her something for giving her a hard time."
"That," said Aaron, "is something you'll have to ask her about."
"Well, then, I think I'll just do that."
* * *
After Bronson left, voices started arguing in the waiting room again. After a brief pause, Amanda's low murmur sounded, and then Miss Trunkle, with several of her engineering students in tow, burst through the office door. With a quick swing of her arm, she flung a bundle of papers across the desk.
"These are what we've come up with for a bearing factory. Plans, material lists, and the equipment we need to start."
"An appointment would have been appreciated," Aaron said dryly.
She waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah. Right. Anyway, the grinders will have to be built from scratch. There are a few other pieces of equipment that will need to be redesigned, too. In all, I think the project can be started up on a small scale for around nine hundred silver if you build it in N'Ark. Since you insist on shipping it off to the frontier, it's going to cost you around nine seventy."
After one brief glance at the papers, Aaron decided he had been smart to hire people who knew what they were doing. The sketches and figures meant absolutely nothing to him. Looking up, he studied the small group of students for a moment before turning his gaze onto Miss Trunkle. Since she was here, he probably should deal with this now.
"Start thinking of other ways to make some type of usable bearing," he told the group. "One method that crossed my mind was to have rods inset into some sort of chase or circular type thing that fits around a shaft. The shaft can spin on the rods and the rods can spin in their housing and--."
Miss Trunkle gave him the strangest look. "Mister Turner, have you any idea of how difficult it was to figure out how to make all these round balls you wanted?"
"I assumed it would be difficult," Aaron said. He looked around at the waiting students. Some looked as if they were anxious to be paid; others looked as if they thought he was an idiot.
She sighed. "The first step in making these ball bearings is called the 'heading.' That is where we cut short lengths of wire, or small rods, and press them between dies to make the spheres. Now then, I'm sure you are not an engineer--."
"I'll say," one of the students muttered.
"BUT--," Miss Trunkle gave the entire group a glare, "you might want to notice that the very first step of the process is the cutting of rod-shaped material. In other words, sir, yes, the rod bearings are a feasible idea. They are also an easier product to design and manufacture. In fact, we attempted to bring this to the attention of Miss Bivins quite some time ago, but she said this was a matter you needed to deal with. Now, may we get on with the lecture?"
Aaron shrugged sheepishly. "I suppose."
"Fine. Once the spheres are formed they need to be deflashed. That's nothing more than the removal of the ridge line that's made during the forming process. As you can see here," she said as she flipped to a series of sheets, "all we need to deflash is to roll the spheres between two heavy plates. After that we need to heat-treat the bronze with an alloy of mirantite, and then we need to descale it. After that comes the really difficult part."
She flipp
ed through several more sheets, pulled out an entire section of prints and flopped them on top of the pile in front of Aaron. "Here's the machine that will make the bearings really round. We need very meticulously spaced hard grinders capable of taking the balls down to within one ten-thousandths of an inch of true round. After that it becomes simple again. We run them through a chemical bath, do some polishing, and they are finished. Of course we then need to build the inner and outer rings that will hold the bearings in place, and then we need to make a race to bracket their sides. We also need a cage assembly to keep the balls separated. We designed those machines for you, too." She smiled. "It's amazing how much work you can get done with a roomful of motivated students and instructors. I've worked for engineering firms that would have taken a year to get this far."
One of the students shuffled her feet, hesitated, and cleared her throat.
"Yes?" Miss Trunkle inquired. "What is it, Miss Ardridge?"
"Ma'am, Mister Banigate and I came up with an idea that we thought might work for another type of bearing surface. I worked out the math and talked to some people who actually work with metal, and I think it will work, but I don't know that it will work."
"Leave me out of it," Mister Banigate said proudly. "Miss Ardridge came up with this one all on her own. She only came to me for counseling."
"Well enough," Miss Trunkle said impatiently. "Go ahead, Miss Ardridge."
The student smiled nervously, ran a hand across the back of her head, and cleared her throat. She looked shy and nervous and excited all at once. So many emotions seemed to be running through her that she almost made Aaron dizzy.
"Well, you see, I was thinking. I know that some of our products are made by sintering so I thought--."
"One moment," Aaron interrupted. ""I know you are all very intelligent people who know absolutely everything, but I'm not very smart. What is sintering?"
