Obsidian Blues

by J. S. Miller

  When Coppersworth re-emerged, he’d cloaked himself in a silence so profound and furious I almost couldn’t bring myself to break it. Almost. I needed directions, after all.

  “Sorry to drop it on you like that,” I said. “But I thought it relevant to my ongoing unexplodedness.”

  “How did this happen? Speak, knave!”

  “Listen, I'm looking for someone and just need directions. And hey, I fixed one of your belts, so the way I see it, you kinda owe me …”

  “You fixed my what?” Coppersworth asked. Then, for the first time since waking, he glanced down. His chest panel still hung slightly ajar. He gasped, fixed his blue eyes on me as if he’d just found out I roofied him, and growled, “How dare you?”

  “You’d still be decorating the base of that tree if not for me. I expected a little gratitude.”

  “Gratitude?! I should feel grateful some ne’er-do-well chose to tinker with my tallywag? I ought to box your ears.”

  At first, I felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation. But then something unsettling occurred to me — yes, more unsettling than the allegation that I’d “tinkered with his tallywag,” whatever that meant — and I peered more intently into the robot’s flickering eyes.

  “You’re not an 'it,' are you?” I asked. “You’re a him.”

  “Answer my questions, or I shall thrash you soundly!”

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot. As I mentioned before, I’m new here, and it sounds like we’re both looking for information. Maybe we can help each other out. Do you remember anything about what happened here?”

  Coppersworth’s eyelights shifted momentarily back to the house.

  “I do, in point of fact,” he said. “Men, clad in red leather. Hardy stock, though my Bull-Dog slew a score of them.” He patted the arm cannon affectionately.

  “Wait, men in red leather?”

  “Quite. Wasn’t a man among them who could have bested me in single combat — in a gentleman’s duel. Yet their numbers never flagged.”

  “Were they also wearing white masks?”

  “Indeed … have you encountered them as well? ‘Twas a chilling sight, to be sure.”

  “No kidding,” I said as my stomach churned. Apparently there were “scores” of those things running around. Fan-freaking-tastic.

  “Come now, all this talk of haberdashery is getting us nowhere. You said you are looking for someone. Whom do you seek?”

  “A woman. Her name is Elena Volkova.”

  “Those fiends … they abducted your woman?”

  “She’s not my woman.”

  “But you love her.”

  It wasn’t a question. I glanced around uncomfortably, as if Elena herself were hiding behind a nearby bush, waiting to leap out and laugh at my answer.

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. I mean, we’ve never even been on a real date.”

  “Your eyes and actions tell a different tale,” Coppersworth said, and I detected a hint of a smirk in his tone. “Why else would you have come so far?”

  “I … it’s my fault. My fault she got taken.”

  “Poppycock. Wallowing in self-pity achieves naught but wasted tears. Those devils are the ones responsible. We shall dispatch them, save her, and make her yours.”

  “You’re kind of old-fashioned, aren’t you?”

  “Courage consigns itself to no era,” he said. “I merely strive to act as a courageous man should … can you say the same?”

  “I guess I’m just trying not to repeat old mistakes.”

  “An admirable goal. So, I take it you were on their trail when you, ahem, woke me?”

  For the first time since reviving Coppersworth, I glanced around and realized with dismay that the trail of black blood was nowhere in sight. What’s more, thousands of red and blue leaves were blowing in a gentle breeze, covering all tracks through the forest.

  “I seem to have lost it,” I said.

  “No matter. I will assist in any way I can. But first, tea. Surely your travels have left you parched. There is also a very fine map inside. Would you care to join me?”

  “It’s not going be a cup of motor oil, is it?”

  “How very droll,” he said. “This way, chum.”

  I followed my brand new BFF back inside the ruined building. We stepped over planks of burnt and shattered wood. Despite Coppersworth's size, his feet moved delicately, brushing aside wires and webs and everything else in his path, as if he wished to avoid damaging the place further.

  “The map is in the study, directly ahead,” he said as we stepped through a doorway into what looked like a kitchen, albeit one shipped in from another continent over a century ago. “I should warn you before we venture farther … Arthur was an eccentric man, and he safeguarded his home with a ferocity most would call insanity. Be wary of tra—”

  A loose tile clicked beneath my foot. Coppersworth spun, his eyebrows flattening against the brim of his bowler. Something on the counter also moved. It resembled a toaster, only covered with tubes and bulbs and dials, and it turned toward me as though I’d just insulted its mother.

  Before I could apologize, the deranged little toaster launched itself into the air. As it flew, twin hatchet blades sprang out like two extra dark slices of murder. I had no time to react. Was this how it ended? Impaled by a berserk kitchen appliance? Oh, the charmed life of an alchemist.

  The toaster clunked against my jacket and clattered to the floor. I looked down. No blood. Not even a mark on the leather. Just like with The Laughing Man.

  “Remarkable,” Coppersworth murmured as he tugged at my sleeve. “Alchemy! You did this? The formula appears similar to Arthur’s Lacquer of Stoneskin. Impressive.”

  The genuine admiration in Coppersworth’s voice surprised me. Years of randomly splashed chemicals from unrecorded experiments had apparently turned my old leather jacket into some kind of cloak of indestructibility. I decided not to tell him I’d accomplished it by accident.

  “Your maker,” I said. “This Arthur Rundale. He was an alchemist?"

  “My … yes, he was,” Coppersworth said, attempting to straighten his steel waistcoat, which wouldn’t have budged in a blizzard. “His secrets, however, are most likely buried with him, wherever he is. Even I dare not dig them up. Come.”

  As we pushed farther into the house, winding through hallways with more twists and turns than a stack of airport novels, most of my attention was on my own feet — on trying not to trigger a swinging log, fall into a pit of spikes, or step on the tail of Cerberus itself.

  “How heavily booby-trapped is this place, exactly?” I asked. “A rough estimate is fine. Just want to make sure I don’t straighten the wrong picture and set off a Rube Goldberg machine that burns the house down.”

  My companion remained silent.

  “Just kidding, big guy,” I said. “I know this must be difficult for you.”

  No response. I looked up. The robot was gone. Worse still, this part of the house was totally unfamiliar. The walls and floors had been crafted from planks of that same swirling, purple wood, but the space was mostly unadorned aside from brass candle holders hung with wax stalactites. The single window at one end of the hall sported an armored shutter that blocked out most of the incoming moonlight. Great. I'd been so worried about avoiding danger I'd gotten myself lost in this sadistic funhouse.

  “Coppersworth?” I asked, raising my voice.

  No one answered, but on the bright side, that included the vengeful spirits I presumed were too busy playing Parcheesi to rise from the grave and go all poltergeist on my sorry ass. I started walking again, in the same direction as before; maybe Coppersworth was waiting around the next bend, wondering what had held me up.

  Rounding the corner, I found a dead end. Sitting to one side was a washbasin, the older type that comes with a mirrored stand, but aside from that the corridor was bare and terminated abruptly in a thick, sturdy-looking slab of riveted steel.

  I stepped up to the slab
and ran my hands over the cool metal. It wouldn’t so much as budge, but I could feel something beyond it. An illuminated presence, glowing in my mind like blood under a black light. A promise of strength, focus, and power. It pulled at me, called to me, beckoned for me to find it. The feeling was vaguely familiar but stronger than I’d ever felt before. Had it been calling to me this whole time? Had it led me here?

  “Lost your way, did you?” said a buzzing voice from behind me, making me jump.

  “You’re killin’ me, Jeeves,” I said to Coppersworth. “How does someone as big as you even sneak?”

  “I was not sneaking. You were transfixed. I found you gazing at this wall as if reunited with your lady love.”

  “Oh, uh …” I muttered, glancing back at the wall. “It’s nothing. Let’s find this map you mentioned and get moving.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Follow me. And do try to keep up this time.”

  Chapter 8

  We wandered back through the maze until we reached a set of large double doors. Benches and chairs were piled up against it, forming a makeshift barricade. Coppersworth began lifting pieces from the pile and stacking them neatly off to one side. He moved with the caution of a man who hoped to come back one day and rebuild. A part of me felt sorry for him. Another could relate.

  Tall bookshelves lined the walls inside the room, and shards of glass glittered on the floor. Beneath the shattered bay window, an antique armchair sat in two pieces, split where the seat met the back. Thick cobwebs bridged the chasm between the halves, as if the spiders had been trying to stitch it back together.

  Coppersworth headed for a large desk made of polished purple wood. A map so huge it could have passed for wallpaper was pinned up behind it. It appeared to have been drawn by hand, with numerous small, neat notations printed across a single, massive continent surrounded by blue.

  “Have you any notion where to go first?” Coppersworth asked.

  “Well, I guess we could start with any evil castles in the area. That’s where beautiful, kidnapped women usually end up, right?”

  “You jest,” Coppersworth said, pointing to a patch of Tolkien-style trees labeled Newton’s Hollow. “But based on my prior explorations of the area, there are indeed several eerie castles in this forest alone.”

  I stared at him incredulously.

  “OK, well, maybe before we launch a two-man assault on all possible lairs in the tristate area, we should do a little recon. How about here?” I pointed to a patch of buildings drawn inside a large circle on the map. The notations labeled the place Astoria, and it looked like a major city — the only one on the continent. “We can start by asking some questions there. What’s this big circle around it?”

  “That is easier seen than explained,” Coppersworth said. “However, traveling there is out of the question. I will not parley with those savages. You no doubt saw the sign?”

  “The one forewarning my imminent death? Yeah, charming.”

  “It was put there to frighten off the denizens of that rookery.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “Well, they … they skulked about the property constantly! I invited them in for tea on more than one occasion, but every single time they ran off. Thus, I put up the sign. Shortly after that …” his voice went cold. “Came the attack.”

  “So you’ve passed judgment on these people without any evidence?”

  “Well, I suppose. But the rascals were quite unneighborly.”

  “How would you react if you were wandering in the forest, possibly foraging for food, and an enormous mechanical man invited you in for tea? Poor bastards probably thought they’d been eating the wrong mushrooms.”

  “I resent this impugnment of my ability to judge character,” he said in a huff. “If you wish to travel to Astoria, you must do so alone.”

  Jeez. I’d been lucky enough to find this big lug and talk him into being my guide, and now I was going to lose him over some neighborhood squabble?

  “You’re absolutely sure you never want to go there?” I asked.

  “Must you carry on with these circumlocutions? My answer is firm. No.”

  “OK, guess I’ll have to carry on alone. It’s a shame, though.”

  “What is?”

  “That you’ll never find out what happened here.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well, the way I see it, we both want answers, and our best chance at getting them is in that city. You said there’s a lot of these masked weirdos, so maybe someone in Astoria’s seen something. That’s where I’m going. If you want to stay here, wandering around this dusty old place all by yourself for the rest of eternity, that’s your call.”

  Coppersworth stared at me for a long moment, his eyelights shifting over me in a peculiar fashion. His scrutiny made me uncomfortable, but I refused to look away.

  “My initial assessment was evidently correct,” he said at last. “You are a scoundrel.”

  I grinned.

  “Do not think you have fooled me with reverse psychology,” he said. “I am not a child.”

  “Wouldn't dream of underestimating you, C-Dub. Simply stating the facts, that's all.”

  “See … dub? You may speak nonsense half the time, but when you do state facts, they are compelling, I admit. Fine. If you will not listen to reason, I shall accompany you to Astoria and assist in performing reconnaissance.”

  “Glad to hear it. What’s our next step?”

  “Shall I presume that everything you packed for the journey is visible on your person?”

  “Uh, yeah, sort of.”

  “As I suspected. First, I shall gather provisions. Food, tools, firewood …”

  “And tea?”

  “Of course tea!”

  He stormed out, and for a moment I simply waited in silence. But then I glanced around the room, and a giddy thrill ran through me: I was alone in an alchemist’s study. A real one, who’d presumably learned from living, breathing teachers, not just out-of-print textbooks and eyebrow-scorching trial and error.

  Several items caught my eye. First, I recognized many of the shelved tomes about chemistry and alchemy, but these were older even than my editions, bound in worn leather and labeled with gold leaf. All signs pointed to this Arthur Rundale having earned his ring at the Royal Academy, and that made a certain amount of sense. Hadn’t Elena said that the hole in my home was not the first? How long had these doorways been opening? And where was I, exactly?

  Next, the large desk was nearly buried under drafting documents and scribbled notes. Most appeared to be schematics for defensive emplacements, each one an ingenious combination of alchemical principles and Victorian technology. Steam-powered steel shutters, small vehicles and robots designed to carry explosives, and an air cannon that launched glass balls filled with alchemical payloads, not unlike my Chemslinger. Arthur Rundale had known a fight was coming.

  “I have gathered a fortnight’s worth of — I say, what are you doing?”

  I started and looked up. Coppersworth wore a large bronze bowl on his back, which made him look part Spartan warrior and part Ninja Turtle. He also had a sack slung over one shoulder and a puzzled expression on his surprisingly emotive face.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just looking around.”

  The android somehow narrowed his shining blue eyes. I got the impression his monocle was scanning me.

  “Yes, well, if you are truly an alchemist, I understand your curiosity,” Coppersworth said as he moved to the wall, gently took down and folded the map, and stowed it in his chest compartment. “However, as I said, my creator was an eccentric man. You’d do well to avoid following in his footsteps.”

  “I think I’m going to need all the knowledge I can get.”

  “I can tutor you if you like. Arthur taught me a bit before the end. What's more, some level of familiarity with your new home would not go amiss.”

  “Wait, new home?” I asked. “No. Hold on. I don’t plan on staying.”
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br />   “Oh, my dear boy, have you not yet realized?” I stared blankly back at him. He lowered his gaze. “There is no going back. The pathways to this world open and close without warning or design, and each new door could lead to a thousand other worlds. What are the odds you’ll be in the right place at the right time to travel back to your specific version of Earth?”

  My mind reeled, and my body told me puking would be a reasonable response. Was I really on a different planet? Or in a parallel universe? I let it sink in for a moment, then asked the question I’d been wanting to ask since meeting this strange, mechanical man.

  “Is that what happened to you and Arthur?” I asked.

  “What happened to us is not a question for polite conversation,” Coppersworth said. “Let us be off.”

  “Some other time, then, when I’m feeling less polite. So where are we off to, exactly?”

  “The city, Astoria, as you suggested. But we must stay on our guard, as it quite lives up to the name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is derived from the surname Astor.”

  “And?”

  Coppersworth turned and stared at me. The emotional range of his metal face still freaked me out, but I was fairly certain this one was “incredulity.”

  “I certainly hope you paid closer attention to your alchemy lessons than you did your etymology.”

  “My etiwhatogee?”

  “The Astors were a prominent family of 19th century industrialists. They were also some of the most powerful alchemists the world has ever known.”

  “So what?”

  “Their name comes from the old Norse, and it brims with old power. I hear tell at the Royal Academy they earned a nickname stolen from the root of that word.”

  I glared at him, refusing to ask again.

  “It means hawk, my friend,” he said. “They were known as the Birds of Prey.”

  Chapter 9

  “This appears to be the clearing,” Coppersworth said, holding the huge map aloft. “But where’s the bloody brook?”

  We’d been walking for hours, and the forest still looked largely the same.