Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust)

by Stephen D. Sullivan

  Lina drew her gun and leveled it at him.

  He turned, slowly, unconcerned, and gazed at her through thick, round glasses.

  The sight brought a flash of memory to Lina, the first memory she had of this world: two pairs of eyes, staring down at her. One pair belonged to Rasputin; the other hid behind just such glasses.

  “Doctor Freund, I presume,” she said.

  “Pavlina Ivanova,” he replied, his voice high and reedy, “I’ve been expecting you.”

  The notion shot a chill through her. She stared at the man, trying to read him—and that gave her a second shock.

  She got … nothing. Lina couldn’t read this man at all. Even with the most well-guarded minds, she usually got something, a surface feeling at least. Even when Yakov had shut her out, she could still sense his emotions. Even with Rasputin, she got something. But with Freund…! His presence felt flat, like a machine … or an empty voice in space.

  He glanced at her only occasionally as he moved around the lab. Couldn’t he see that she had a gun on him? Were his glasses so thick, his eyesight so terrible?

  “Doctor,” she said, “you are going to take me home.”

  “Am I indeed?”

  His finger moved toward a button on his workbench.

  Lina tried to pull the trigger, but her finger didn’t move.

  The next moment, her entire body felt as though it was on fire.

  She screamed, but no sound came out of her mouth, only swirling eddies of blackish dust. Her chest felt like it was being crushed.

  She fell to her knees, gasping for breath, the gun clattering from her hand onto the floor. The dust swirled around her head, a tiny black cloud, before dispersing into nothingness.

  Freund walked over to her and put one slender hand under her left armpit. As she tried to stand, he guided her backward, onto the top of a stainless steel table with a slightly upturned lip running around the edges.

  “That wasn’t very nice, trying to shoot me,” he said, his tones betraying a slight Prussian accent. “It’s a good thing I implanted a post-hypnotic compulsion not to harm me. Oh, I may need machines to accomplish such mesmerism—unlike Rasputin, or yourself—but I am naturally cautious by nature. You see, Colonel Ivanova, I know you are not who you seem, and the simple fact is … I don’t trust you.”

  She leaned on her elbows, trying to raise herself up, but her body felt so heavy that she only got part way.

  “H-how…?” she managed to gasp.

  He smiled, showing twin rows of perfectly formed white teeth whose bottom edges looked vaguely pointed. “I worked on you a rather long time, you see, and much of that time you were delirious. You did quite a lot of talking, Colonel. Quite a lot.”

  Through her pain-wracked mind, one word slowly sank in: Colonel. Not “Captain!” He did know who she was!

  “Did you think that bringing you back to life was a simple process?” he asked. “Did you think it happened instantly?”

  “R-Rasputin said—”

  “Oh, I’m sure he took all the credit, him and his God and his metaphysical mumbo jumbo, but the simple fact is, you were very lucky, my dear girl—lucky that I happened to be in Vilnius the night you died, performing another experiment; lucky that the night was cold, preserving your tissues until I got to you; lucky that I had the machinery necessary to nurture the tiny spark within your cells, keeping them from corruption. Because, as I am sure Rasputin told you: you were quite dead.”

  “N-not me … her.”

  “Let’s not quibble, Colonel Ivanova. Though perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that, on your own world, you may be as dead as Lina Viktorovna Ivanova is in this one. In fact, I cannot see any other reasonable explanation for why Rasputin should pluck your consciousness from the void, rather than that of his intended pawn.”

  “But … I’m alive!”

  “Your mind is alive, yes. But, on your world—wherever it may be—your body could be just as dead as poor Lina was when we found her corpse near the docks in Vilnius.”

  She forced herself to sit up, her mind swirling, her stomach threatening to heave its contents onto the table. She was weak as a kitten, and her chest felt as though someone were sitting on it. “I … don’t believe it,” she managed to say.

  “Believe what you like, but whatever you believe, I have neither the power, nor the desire, to send you home again.”

  “But … why?”

  “Because, my dear, I need allies, and I think you will make a very useful one. My work here is expensive, both in terms of currency and political capital. I need more sympathetic ears in the hierarchy if I am to continue my experiments. Your counterpart might have been loyal to Rasputin and the Empress, but you… I believe I can convince you that your allegiance should be only to me.”

  Weak as she felt, anger boiled up inside Lina. She tried to spit at him, but found her mouth too dry.

  He laughed. “Would you rather die? Because that is your only alternative. Lie down and open your shirt.”

  Her hands went to her breast, clutching her blouse protectively closed.

  “So,” he said, “if that’s the way you prefer to play it….” He held up a hand-sized brass object and pressed a button on the side of it. Flashing, swirling lights filled the entire lab. She felt dizzy.

  Then his hand was on her chest, pushing her backward, forcing her to lie down on the steel slab. She tried to resist, but couldn’t, as he arranged her arms by her sides.

  A scalpel appeared in his bony left hand, and he cut open first her blouse, and then her bra. Dispassionately, he pulled the clothing aside, revealing her breast. “The device works best without clothing obstructing it,” he explained. “But first, look at your chest, Colonel.”

  Unable to stop herself, she did.

  “Tell me: Can you see the scar, my dear?”

  “B-barely.”

  “That, too, is due to post-hypnotic suggestion. I did not want you examining it too closely. I suggest now that you can see it clearly.”

  As he said it, a raised, pinkish C-shaped semi-circle appeared on her chest, extending from her sternum under her left breast. The same scar Pyotr had described with his fingers. It was an ugly one, and the fact that she hadn’t been able to see it before frightened her more than the mere fact of its existence.

  “What does the size and extent of that scar suggest to you, Colonel?”

  She swallowed, mouth still dry. “That I was shot through the heart.”

  “Exactly. Luckily, I was able to provide you with a new one.”

  Freund walked to a machine dangling from a long, crane-like arm fastened to the ceiling. Attached to the end of the arm was a broad disc, about a foot-and-a-half wide, made of black metal. He swiveled the arm over her body, and placed the disk above her breasts.

  “Look here,” he said, indicating a nearby device Lina recognized as a video display—the first one she’d seen on this world.

  As she watched, he flicked a switch, turning on the machine.

  The display lit up, showing a weird greenish picture, like a fluoroscope or x-ray.

  “Tell me what you see,” he commanded.

  She had to work hard to keep her voice from trembling. “There’s some kind of machine in my chest.”

  “That is your new heart, one of my own design.”

  She didn’t want to believe him, but she knew it was true. With growing horror, she watched the clockwork thing inside her pulse and whir. This was the awful secret hidden behind the invisible scar!

  “It is fueled by a special power source,” Freund continued, “a source that I vented from you earlier, when you were contemplating attacking me. I imagine that you’re feeling the effects at this point, as there can’t be much energy left in the device now.”

  She could feel it, like a clock winding down. Her metal heart was gradually slowing; soon it would stop.

  “No place in this world can recharge that power source,” Freund told her, gloating. “The dark energy it ne
eds can only be harvested from the World of Rust—the world where you were reborn. How does that make you feel, Colonel?”

  It made her feel desperate, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so. Instead, she asked, “What do you want from me?”

  “Two things, and I’ve told you one already. First, I want your loyalty. Is that too great a price to pay for me to, again, save your life?”

  “N-no.”

  “So, you vow to serve me, even above Rasputin and the Empress?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He lifted the machine’s sensor off her chest and returned the whole apparatus to its original position. Then he walked back to his lab table and began tinkering with his other equipment once more.

  Using nearly all her remaining strength, Lina sat up. Her head swam; her chest felt as though someone was squeezing it.

  “What more do you want?” she asked.

  He glanced back at her, over his shoulder, as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Pardon?”

  “The second thing … the other thing you want from me,” she said. “If I give it to you, will you recharge the heart?”

  “Of course. Didn’t I say so?”

  “But what is it? What do I have to do?” A million things flashed through her mind, and Lina found herself willing to do any of them—any.

  “Isn’t it obvious, my dear Colonel Ivanova? I want you to beg.”

  “Please, Dr. Freund—” she began.

  “You know, even though that’s my name, over recent years, I find that I like another one better—the one that people whisper behind my back: Dr. Fiend. I think it suits my temperament, don’t you?”

  She did.

  “Please, Dr. Fiend, take me to the land of Rust. Recharge my heart—”

  “The heart I so generously gave you.”

  “—The heart you so generously gave me. Please!”

  “Please, what?”

  “Please, Dr. Fiend, save my life … again.”

  For a long moment, only the thrum of the engines and the rhythmic beat of the tracks filled the silence of the lab.

  Anger and despair warred for supremacy within Lina. She could feel the machine running down inside her, feel her energy waning, her very life seeping away. She lurched to her feet and staggered toward her oppressor.

  “So will you do it? Will you take me to Rust and recharge this damnable heart?”

  He said nothing.

  She took one step forward and then fell to her knees, nearly spent. She spread her arms wide in supplication.

  “Please, Dr. Fiend, I’m begging you: Save my life!”

  Exhausted, she sank to the floor.

  Only then did he turn, fully facing her at last. He smiled, showing row upon row of sharp white teeth.

  “No need to worry, my dear,” he said. “We’re already well on our way. We’ll reach our destination in time, I assure you.” He turned back to his machines once more. “And Colonel … It’s good to have you with us. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the ride.”

  The train containing Dr. Fiend and Pavlina Ivanova sped into the tunnel to Rust and quickly disappeared into the darkness.

  COMING SOON:

  A Fiendish Pact

  *

  *

  AFTERWORDS

  SAMPLES OF OTHER STORIES

  Here are some samples of other stories by me that you may enjoy.

  Don’t forget to read the “About the Story” and “About the Author” sections that follow the samples!

  *

  KIT CHAPMAN-CHALLENGER &

  THE LAST RANODON

  (formerly “Of a Feather”)

  A Steam Nations Story

  Stephen D Sullivan

  O’Brien grabs his Remington from the map table and swings it toward the incoming ranodon. “Miss Kit! Miss Tesla! Duck!” he hollers. The prehistoric beast—jaws open, talons extended—dives directly toward me and Zoe as we stand together, amidships.

  “No!” I shout. “No guns! Use the cannon!” While I admire O’Brien’s devotion to keeping us safe, I’m not about to lose months of careful scientific work because of his superstitious nature.

  But the captain of the Louisa isn’t listening. He draws a bead on the center of the ranodon’s forehead. Fortunately, Armstrong grabs O’Brien’s arm, spoiling the captain’s aim. The shot goes wide, merely clipping a hairy feather from the trailing edge of the pterosaur’s left wingtip.

  The ranodon’s eyes blaze with reptilian hate as it swoops in. At the last instant, I throw my arms around Zoe, carrying us both to the deck. The beast’s talons flash harmlessly over our exposed backs.

  The creature wheels for another pass, but as it does, I spring to my feet and run for the cannon mounted in the bow of our shallow-draft steamer. Armstrong continues wrestling with O’Brien, struggling to keep the captain from shooting our prize before I can carry out my plan. Zoe—often the wisest among us—lies flat on the bottom of the boat. Miz Tesla isn’t on this trip because of her bravery; she’s here because there isn’t a piece of equipment in the world that she can’t fix.

  I swing the cannon around as the ranodon comes for me, murder in its yellow eyes. I tick off the range in my head, waiting for the optimal distance. Thirty meters. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten…

  I pull the trigger, and the specially manufactured shell bursts from the end of the big gun. A weighted net billows out, surrounding the reptilian monster. The ranodon squawks, entangled, and crashes into the side of the boat before plunging into the murky Greenwater.

  “Quick!” I call. “Help me pull her out before she drowns!”

  Immediately, Armstrong appears at my side with a pair of boat hooks. My cousin has his faults, but superstitious fear of monsters is not among them. Together, we quickly snag the net and pull the raging, sopping-wet beast aboard the steamer. The ranodon snaps ineffectually at us as we pin the netting to the deck. O’Brien inches forward, his gun leveled; Zoe follows a few steps behind, her eyes wide with wonder—and more than a little fear.

  The ranodon is all flailing wings, snapping teeth, and sharp talons. Even its brilliant plumage doesn’t make it appear any less threatening. I can hardly blame Zoe and O’Brien for being frightened of it. If I hadn’t devoted so much time to studying this creature and its ilk, I might be afraid myself. As it is, all I can see is the monster’s immense archeobiological value: the last known ranodon, east of the Antes! Most scientists in my field would give their lives to see something like this—and more than a few have.

  “Take it easy, big guy,” Armstrong says, pushing the barrel of O’Brien’s Remington toward the deck. “No sense shooting it now. Kitty and I have everything under control—and, besides, you wouldn’t want to hit one of us by mistake.” Reluctantly, O’Brien lowers the gun.

  Armstrong smiles at me, and, for a moment, I see what every other woman in the world sees in Ray Armstrong; my cousin is one handsome piece of work. Fortunately, being a blood relative, I am immune to his legendary charms. “Nice shot, Kitty,” he says, beaming. “Everything went just like clockwork.”

  I smile back, ignoring his use of a nickname I abandoned as a child; being family does have its privileges, after all, and Ray is the only kin I have left. I shrug. “Months of planning… a dash of research… and enough money to choke an anaconda… Anyone could have done it.”

  “Anyone with the last name of Chapman-Challenger,” Armstrong says, apparently trying to give me a swelled head.

  “Or Armstrong,” Zoe adds. Armstrong blows her a kiss, and my mechanic blushes.

  I take a deep breath, more relieved at the capture than I had first realized. I needed a big score on this expedition—we all did.

  “Fetch the Rolleiflex, will you?” I tell Armstrong. “We’re not getting paid for shots of the landscape, and my trust fund is looking awfully skinny lately.”

  “At least you still have a trust fund,” Armstrong replies, eyes twinkling.

  “Lucky for you that I do,” I shoot bac
k good naturedly. Money runs through my cousin’s hands like water. “Otherwise, who would hire an old sot like you?”

  Armstrong gazes up, thoughtfully. “Some rich widow, I’m sure. You know, come to think of it, that might be a good career move for me… .”

  I laugh. “Zoe, bring me some of that bait, will you?”

  Zoe’s bespectacled eyes, both wary and fascinated, remain fixed on the prehistoric creature thrashing in our net. If the ranodon were free, it could easily carry her ninety-pound frame into the wild blue yonder. “Do you want the f-fish or the meat?” Zoe asks.

  “Antean ranodons are flesh eaters,” I say, “so we’ll try the meat first.” Zoe nods and goes to get the bait from the steamer’s storage locker.

  “This beauty’s a long ways from the Antean Mountains,” Armstrong observes as he comes back with the camera.

  “Not as the ranodon flies,” I note. My cousin focuses and takes pictures as I examine the hissing, snapping beast.

  “A female, just as I expected,” I say, pleased.

  “Do you really think there’s a nest nearby?” Zoe asks. Gingerly, she hands me a strip of meat. I flip it to the ranodon, careful not to lose my fingers to the pterosaur’s sharp teeth.

  “She’s mating age,” I reply. “And it’s the right season, and the locals did bring down that male six weeks back.”

  “So the time is about right for hatchlings,” Armstrong agrees.

  “Just what we need,” O’Brien grumbles, “more of these blasted gooney birds! I give you three-to-one that they get one of us—or all of us—killed before this is over.”

  “If they get all of us killed, how are you going to collect?” Armstrong asks.

  “Well, we could turn back,” the captain suggests.

  “When we’ve already got a mother ranodon in our nets?” I ask. “When we’re so close to a nest I can almost touch it? Not on your life.”

  As one, all of us turn and gaze at the tepui rising from the Amazonian jungle a short distance upriver. The plateau rises precipitously from the river’s edge. Its sides are sheer rock, wrapped with tenacious, clinging greenery. Bushy thickets cover the top of the escarpment.