by Mark Eller
"It's heating a powdered bronze that's made from a mixture of copper and tin until it's soft but not yet melted into a form," Miss Trunkle explained.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Continue, Miss Ardridge. Please remember that we already make sleeve bearings by sintering."
"Yes'm. I wondered what would happen if we sintered some bronze and saturated it with oil when pressing it into a form. I think that might make some sort of self-lubricating bearing. Some factories already sinter to make the old kind of bushings, so the equipment is available, already designed and manufactured. All that's needed is to add the exact amount of oil at the exact right time."
Miss Trunkle seemed almost stunned. "I don't believe it. Actual original thinking from one of my students. Mister Banigate, are you sure you had nothing to do with this idea?"
"A little guidance and a few bits of basic knowledge," he said. "Nothing else. I see no reason why her idea won't work as long as we're careful with the temperatures and percentages."
Sighing, Aaron thought of all the silver he had already committed to this project. The nine pounds he had received from Bronson were a godsend, but not an unending source of funds.
"Try it," he ordered. "I'll give you money for that, too. If it works, we can buy a small factory and make some quick money." He gave them a brief smile. "I have to tell you that I'm pleased with everything you've done. Personally, I think you make an impressive team. You're better than any engineering firm I could have hired."
"That was a very interesting statement," Miss Trunkle said. She looked over her fellow professor and the students. "We did do a good job, didn't we? We even," she gestured toward Ardridge, "showed signs of original thought. If we combine our wages from this job, we could form our own engineering firm."
"If you do," Aaron said, "don't forget to look me up. People I deal with will need a good bit of original engineering these next few years."
"We will," she said as she began rolling up the prints. "We definitely will. I'll see to ordering your equipment tonight."
"I'll pay you your bonuses tomorrow."
"We'd appreciate that," she said.
"I'll also have Miss Bivins form up some papers. I asked you to design roller bearings. The rod bearing idea comes straight from that, but this oil and sintering idea has nothing to do with why I hired you. I'll buy the factories to make the product, but you as a group will own the patent on that one so you had best sit down and figure out percentages and fees and what not." He smiled. "You have an interest in your own business now. Welcome to the world of headaches."
"Thanks," Miss Trunkle said cautiously.
"You're welcome," Aaron replied. Her hesitant smile was warming, but Aaron was already thinking of his next chore.
* * *
Several hours later Aaron listened to see if his transferring into the lower cellars of the Last Chance General Store had been noticed. He heard only silence, which did not surprise him. The hour was late so Steven Knight would have shut the store down, cleaned up, and headed home. Even if Steven had discovered Aaron's presence, it would not have mattered. These rooms were still Aaron's, locked behind thick doors, guarded by Knight's sense of duty and honor. Still, Aaron did not want to be discovered. Answering awkward questions was not on his agenda. He didn't want to talk about Cathy's failed marriage, and he didn't want to explain why he was avoiding Missy Bayne, Cathy's younger sister, to whom Aaron had gifted the local inn.
He loved this town and its people, but some memories were too painful to face when Sarah's murder was still a raw wound.
Frowning, Aaron raised his lantern and took a look around. Less than two dozen cartons and boxes of weapons and ammo remained. Most of the goods Aaron had brought over from Jefferson were gone. The silver and a few other items were buried high up in the mountains.
He looked at the collection with misgivings. Several of these weapons had already brought death. The empty .375s were stacked in one corner, useless remnants of a war Aaron should never have become involved in. He had provided those weapons to the Isabellan Guard along with the training to use them. The shame he felt for that far outweighed his remorse for his other actions. By becoming a military arms supplier, he had helped bring down a growing nation.
And now he would carry a weapon once more.
Grimacing, Aaron lifted his shoulder holster down from a peg on the wall. The .38 double action that he preferred was already pocketed in the leather. After slipping it on, he shuddered at the familiar, almost comfortable, weight. Pulling the gun free of the holster, he looked at it in the flickering lantern light. Black and gleaming and deadly. He could take the gun outside and fire it six times. With every shot a man or woman would die. Deadly aim, too, was part of his Talents.
Aaron suddenly realized that he hated his Talents. He hated them with an intensity that shook him to his core. He possessed grand Talents, fantastic Talents, Talents that had caused misery and death. Because of his Talents, lives had changed, had ended. Without his Talent he wouldn't have arrived in Last Chance. If he had not arrived, Beech wouldn't have killed Sarah and Ernest while seeking Aaron's weapons and Talent Stones. If Beech hadn't murdered his family, Aaron wouldn't have killed the Clan's messiah. If he had not killed their messiah, the Clan wouldn't be looking for Aaron to solve this mess he helped create. If--
He licked his lips.
The dark hole, the bore, was fascinating. Its promise was complete, irrevocable. Bringing the barrel up to his eye, he looked down its length. Almost, he saw the rounded end of a .38 bullet inside the chamber.
He pulled the hammer back to full cock.
Chatham had died because he knew too much. Sturm and Cory was now without a head. The company might fold. The employees might lose their jobs. It was possible that--
His finger pressed against the trigger. Looking past the barrel he saw the hammer quiver. Easy. So easy.
Aaron was powerless. He could do nothing for the Clan. Tremon would have to use politics to win what she wanted. Delmac would--
Delmac?
Delmac had named him Death and called him Bringer. Delmac had predicted that Aaron would take this very step. Delmac would be disappointed that he missed this moment.
Heralda's face appeared, centered and small in the barrel of the gun. Her eyes were sad and accusing.
"They love you," she whispered. "They love you so much."
The imprint of her kiss burned.
Delmac would laugh. He would laugh, and he would gloat over the tale again and again. Delmac would--.
"To hell with you," Aaron cursed at the absent clansman. Shuddering, he moved the barrel away. He had only played a game. Pretending, but for some reason, his hand shook.
Heralda's visage turned approving.
"They love you. They trust you."
Aaron smiled grimly. Delmac's fury would only increase if he ever learned that his spite had stopped this moment.
But Heralda also was part of it. Her eyes had reached into him. Her personality had touched him. She and all the Clan Aaron had met were intelligent people. It was only that--.
And then Aaron Turner smiled.
He had an idea.
* * *
Aaron wore his fake happy face.
Jorrin frowned.
"I can make out something of all these fancy drawings," Jorrin said. "I'll tell you true, I can't make these machines."
Aaron refused to laugh. He owed Jorrin too much for that. "You aren't supposed to make them. You only have to see them installed properly. The equipment and lots of spare parts are on their way. Do you remember Mister Bronson? He's the shipper."
Jorrin nodded. "We'll see how it works out, but I have my doubts. I think Kit changed her mind about your project."
"Why would you think that?"
Jorrin shrugged. "The woman seems a little ambivalent. I don't think she'll let it continue."
"She doesn't have much choice," Aaron said. "The manor will be broke without the factory
. I don't see the cattle market turning around for years."
"Yeah--well." Jorrin raised a hand and then let it fall. "So what do you want me to do?"
"What I want," Aaron said, "is for you to get this place running profitably. I want you to show that the days of using oiled rags as bearings, that using straight metal to metal with a few drops of oil or a finger full of grease between bearing surfaces is past. This is a new technique. Once Miss Bivins finishes patenting, and we start manufacturing, we'll have a corner on the bearing market for the next thirty years."
Jorrin scratched his head and looked around the small factory. "I hate to tell you this, but there ain't no way this little place can make that many bearings."
"We'll build more factories. We'll also sell Rights of Manufacture to anyone willing to meet our terms. Jorrin, my friend, before this is over you'll be a rich man."
Jorrin nodded. "I can't say I mind the idea of being rich, but it might be best if you went up to the manor now. Mistress Turner hasn't been happy with you."
Aaron's face fell. Not even acting would allow him to keep up the pretense of cheerfulness when facing Kit.
"Yeah--I know."
"You had just better get up there."
* * *
Chet, or maybe Bret, was learning to run. The child's small face showed intense concentration when he made his legs totter faster.
Aaron grinned. That was his son. His, Aaron Turner's. A small bit of drool ran down the child's chin and fell on his bib. Aaron wanted to rush forward to wipe it away.
"Hey there, little man," Kit encouraged. "Come to Momma. You can do it, lad me buck. There you go."
The child cooed and let go of the couch's seat. He looked at his mother and took off at a shambling run. His legs pumped excitedly, baby fat jiggled up and down on his heavy thighs. Eight steps took him to his goal. Laughing, he threw himself onto his mother's arms. She scooped him high in the air.
Ernest was gone. Sarah was gone. Aaron could not escape those two facts, nor could he escape the fact that he was still a father. He had three living children, each the same age, delivered during the same birth.
Kit held the baby over her head and shook him gently. Gurgling, he grabbed at Kit's wrist.
Aaron supposed he could love them. He did love them. That love might pale beside the love he still felt for Sarah and Ernest--it paled even beside the love he felt for Cathy--but he did love them.
Lowering the baby, Kit walked him back to the couch. Against the child's protests, she sat him on the floor and retook her position. Reaching out her arms, she called. "Here baby. Come to Momma."
Aaron cleared his throat.
Kit's scowl ran down to touch her chin when she saw Aaron. Picking up the baby, she turned toward the hallway. "We'll talk after I put Chet with the others. Wait here."
She left, but soon returned. Arms crossed, she watched Aaron through narrow eyes. "Well?"
"Um. Did you get my note?" Aaron tried to look his most pleasing. She did not look happy.
"Note?" she asked in a flat voice. "Why yes, I believe I did. I'm surprised you were thoughtful enough to leave me one."
"Things got busy for a while," Aaron explained. "I've almost constantly been stuck with people, so I didn't get a chance to transfer back to you."
His head hurt. Why did his head so often hurt when he was around Kit? She always made him squirm--even when he had done nothing to squirm about.
Her scowl lightened. "Don't forget that my finding Talent allows me to know exactly where you are. I knew you were on the move. I thought that might mean you were safe. I also thought it might mean you were the prisoner of someone else who could travel the same way you can."
Aaron pulled over a chair, sat down. Rubbing his temples, he wished he had a bottle of his Runeburg White to help ease his headache.
"Didn't think of that one, did you?" Kit said. She watched him, her silence making it clear she would not continue until she got an answer. She still frowned, but Aaron thought her frown did not signify anger, but instead indicated unhappiness.
"No," he admitted quietly. "I didn't see that one coming. It never occurred to me that someone else might do the same thing as me."
"I don't know why not. Beech could. Just about everybody in the civilized world has some Talent. I'll let you in on an open secret. There are a finite number of Talents. They are all duplicated time and time again. A number of Talents run in families. The only reason you don't see more of them repeated is because so few people have the strength to use their ability."
If sarcasm were a poison, hers would be dripping from her lips.
"I never thought," he admitted.
"No, you never. You haven't thought of a few other things either. One is in that paper over there." She gestured toward a folded newspaper on the polished oak coffee table. "Read that."
Sensing a trap, Aaron leaned forward and lifted the newspaper. He frowned when he saw it was one of those combination newspaper/scandal rags that publish true stories perhaps half the time. The other stories were always sensationalist speculation.
Carefully unfolding the paper, he read the front headlines but saw nothing unusual.
"Page three," Kit said. "Top of the page. Column on the far right. You can't miss it."
Turner Houses Become Work Houses the headline read.
Unbelieving, Aaron scanned the article. Children worked long hours on little food, it said. Escapees from the rigorous regimen were telling horrendous tales of abuse, sleepless nights, missed meals, public whippings, and endless hours sitting in front of a sewing machine making Turner wear clothing. Rumor held that more than one unmarked grave--.
Aaron flung the paper away and bent over, hands clenched to his stomach, guts spewing out over the hardwood floor. The bile tasted foul and acidic, but not nearly so foul as the words he had read. Stomach fluids poured out of his mouth, over his shoes, and across the throw carpet to the side of the couch. He coughed and heaved until there was nothing left, then he dry-heaved and wished his stomach would rip itself free and spew out of his mouth.
Work houses! If this article was correct, he was running workhouses and had not possessed a clue!
DAMN!
He had not had a clue because he had not kept a check on the system he originally set up. He had been so self-absorbed in his own life, so involved with his continuing series of self-pitying episodes, that he had not taken the time to notice!
"I guess that means you didn't know about it," Kit said. Her previous scowl little more than a slight frown. "I didn't think you'd be involved in something like that, but you are sometimes a hard person to know. Is this one of the troubles you've been having?"
She held out a child's bib. Taking it with a shaking hand, Aaron wiped his mouth and chin. His stomach still rolled and churned. His mouth burned, and so did his nose.
His hands shook.
"No," he finally said. "It isn't."
A sudden memory struck him--a child shining his shoes. She had run and left her supplies when he told her his name.
"Aaron, I hate to say this, but you are a lightning rod." Kit's deep frown suddenly returned. "Things happen where you are. Sometimes those things are horrible."
"I don't know if it can get much worse than this," Aaron said miserably, but inside, anger simmered. He had to find out what was happening to his children. "There's a lot going on. I have a way to resolve some of it. I think."
"But will this be the end of it?" Kit asked in a thin voice. Tears trailed down her cheeks. "Can you promise me that nobody will ever have cause to come looking here if it becomes common knowledge that your children live in this house?"
"No," Aaron said. Beneath the anger, he felt cold and lost and alone. The world seemed to be closing in on him, hemming him into a small cocoon, cutting away the options he once owned because people were after him. Some of those people, like Saundra and her Mister, knew he had a wife and kids. "No, I can't."
She openly cried. "I--I don't think so
either. Aaron--you--you--you have to go. You have to leave and not come back. I--I--Damn it!"
She slammed her fist into her thigh. "The children need a good life. They don't need to live in fear because a father they hardly know is a danger to them. You can't come back. You can't build the factory and you--you-- just can't come back!" Kit punctuated each of her last words with a slam of her fist.
In a distant room, one of the children began crying. The forlorn song was taken up by the other babies. Aaron allowed the sound to soak into his skin. He allowed their nerve-wrenching cries to enter his mind and his memory, and he felt tears flowing down his face, tears matching those flowing across Kit's cheeks.
He would not hear that crying again. He would not see his children past this last night, and he would never again hold them in his arms.
In that moment, the angst he had been feeling seemed nothing more than the emotional tantrums of a child.
Gods! He did love his children. He loved all three of them with every bit of the love he had felt for Ernest. Now that they were lost, his emotions had finally opened wide, spilling out a truth he had denied.
He must have spoken aloud.
"I love them, too," Kit whispered. "That's why you have to go. Our babies need to live a normal life, and they can't have that with you around."
Aaron wished he had known how he truly felt. He wished he had taken the time to play with his children just one more time, to talk to them, and to sing them to sleep.
Too little. Too late.
"Before I leave," he said, "we need to speak with Jorrin.
* * *
Jorrin waited in the factory.
"I'm giving the factory to the two of you," Aaron told the smith when he and Kit approached Jorrin. "All the supplies you need, the instructions, and even a couple engineering students will be sent to you." He looked at Kit one last time. "I won't be back this way again. Kit and I talked it over. I'm too dangerous for her and the kids so she'll change back to her maiden name and pretend she's never been married. I think it's likely the local people who know we're married will take the hint and keep it quiet. A few of my enemies in N'Aark know, but N'Aark is a long way from here. I doubt they'll bother Kit and the kids unless I act like I care about them, not when it will take months of travel for uncertain results once they get here."
