Pax Omega

by Ewing, Al

  The only answer Westinghouse gave him was another snort and a shake of his head. A moment later, the door to the office swung open and Steele was among them. Westinghouse stood, offering his hand to the man. “Good seeing you, Jacob. I noticed you got a little exercise before our appointment.” He chuckled again.

  “If that’s exercise, George, I’m gonna get fat.” Steele turned in Reed’s direction and nodded once. Reed hesitated for a moment, then stuck out his hand. It was an opportunity to size up the man.

  Steele had a hard grip, to begin with – hard, but not crushing. Reed had, in the past, met men who’d attempted to prove themselves superior to him by attempting to break the bones of his hand, and these were usually men desirous of concealing some defect or imperfection, possibly in the genital region. Reed next looked to the eyes, and found the man’s stare as hard as his grip – not belligerent, but not willing to shrink from belligerence either. A hard man in general, then.

  Reed scanned for other salient points. Age – mid-thirties or thereabouts, perhaps a little younger. A touch over six feet in height, taller than most men, and slim, but powerfully built. A small scar over his lip on the right side, and another over his eye, the ghost of some long-ago fight where a blade had gotten a little too close to blinding him.

  And he was a negro, of course.

  Reed realised the handshake had gone on uncomfortably long, and let Steele’s hand go. “A pleasure, sir.” It was not, but to admit the intimidation he felt would only lessen him in the gaze of all those present, including himself.

  Jacob Steele had likewise used the long handshake to size up Franklin Reed III. He’d taken one good look at the eyes behind those round glasses and figured Reed for a lily-white jellyfish. He hadn’t proved himself a jackass yet, though. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

  Westinghouse leaned back in his chair. “Well now, I suppose introductions are in order. Reed, you’ve had a good look at Jacob here, and doubtless you know a little of his reputation as a bounty hunter. What you may not know is that I keep him on permanent retainer as a kind of trouble-shooter for the Westinghouse Steam and Signal Company. I won’t bore you with the specifics of the arrangement, but he’s worth every red cent I pay him and more besides. Saved my hide and my company more times than I’d care to admit.”

  He lit his cigar with practised confidence, puffed once, then used it to indicate Reed. “And Jacob, this tall drink of water is Franklin Reed III, scientific prodigy and the most able mind in my employ at twenty years of age. Started working for me when he was twelve. He’s a little lacking in horse-sense occasionally, as young men often are, but I tell you now that this young man has the capacity to change our entire world. No joke.”

  Jacob gave the young man in question a sideways look. “Huh.”

  Reed blushed, looking at his feet. “I fear Mr Westinghouse is indulging in a little hyperbole.”

  Westinghouse shook his head irritably. “I don’t believe in hyperbole, son, and neither should you. It’s your inventive genius that’s made this company what it is, these last few years, and that’s before we bring up what you have sitting in that warehouse over yonder.”

  Reed shook his head, turning to Steele apologetically. “Really, I’ve only made a few small breakthroughs in the fields of –”

  “Horseshit, son.” Westinghouse stood up, stubbing his cigar out in the ashtray. “Hell with it – let’s allow Mr. Steele here to judge what’s a small breakthrough and what’s not. Figure he should see what he’s going to be travelling with.” He grinned, looking Steele dead in the eye. “I remember when I first saw what you’re about to see, Jacob. I went in there with that sceptical look you have on your face, and I walked out a true believer in the world that’s coming.”

  His grin widened.

  “I also walked out with shit in my pants.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, in a guarded warehouse on the edge of Fort Woodson, Jacob Steele came face to face with the Locomotive Man.

  At least, he would have done, if the damned thing had had a face to begin with. Instead, its head was a dome of smooth and expressionless brass, save for a pair of lenses – delicate-looking things – that took the place of eyes. The effect was a mite unnerving, not to say otherworldly, and Steele found himself leaning back a tad. He could feel that slight twitch in the muscle of his gun arm that signified trouble brewing.

  For the Locomotive Man’s part, it just sat there on a wooden block with its arms at its sides, like nothing so much as a crude statue fashioned from old train parts and iron boilers. It was slumped back a little, like a big, ugly puppet with no strings – a ten-foot-tall puppet at that. Steele couldn’t help but wonder what kind of child might play with a toy like that, and the thought didn’t exactly endear him to Franklin Reed much.

  Reed smiled, opening the iron furnace-door in the thing’s belly and feeding it a shovelful of coal. He yelled out above the clatter: “Just a prototype, you understand! I’m working on a system of microhydraulics that should allow me to reduce his dimensions a little. Of course, the firebox would also have to be reduced, which would mean shorter running-time unless we can dramatically increase fuel efficiency, but that’s a puzzle I’m sure I can find a solution to...” He ran his mouth on in that vein while he added kindling and newspaper. The fella seemed more in his element now, tossing around a passel of forty-dollar words Steele didn’t much feel like puzzling out. He couldn’t help but feel a touch otherworldly himself – like he was watching some kinda ritual, some magic he didn’t quite understand.

  Pretty soon the flames in that firebox were roaring bright, and to Steele’s eye it looked like a glimpse straight into the fires of Hell. He shot Westinghouse a look, speaking almost under his breath. “I’ll say this plain, George. I don’t much like where this is headed.”

  Westinghouse just smiled, a little superior smile Steele didn’t exactly appreciate. Kind of a jackass smile.

  Reed slammed the furnace-door shut with a heavy clang, then walked around to the back of the thing. Around back of the Locomotive Man there were a whole mess of dials, switches and levers – a bank of them jutting from shoulder to shoulder. Reed ran his eyes over those, reading them and making what adjustments he found necessary. The chimney rising from the metal man’s left shoulder was already belching out a thick black plume of smoke, which drifted up to a vent made for it in the ceiling, and presently the whistle built into its right shoulder gave out a shrill scream, like a train.

  All aboard, Steele thought. He still felt like he was dreaming.

  “All in working order!” Reed murmured, wiping a little of the soot from his hands onto an old rag. “A minute or two more, just to allow the furnace to reach the correct temperature for full operation, and then...” He smiled, in a proud and genial manner far removed from his earlier stiffness. It almost seemed to Steele as if only here, among the metal and brass and copper and rods and gears of his huge puppet, was he fully himself at last, comfortable in his own skin.

  “Do you know,” he continued, “I originally considered building the chimney in as a top hat. Can you imagine how that would have looked? But, of course, I had to leave room for the workings of the analytical engine.”

  Steele pricked his ears up at that. “The what now?”

  “Analytical engine! A sort of thinking-machine, based a little on the work of one Mister Charles Babbage – have you heard of him? Dead nearly ten years now, God rest his soul, but he may yet be remembered as the father of the age... ah! There we have it!” He laughed like a boy, noticing some dial had finally crept up into the required temperature, and then yanked down the largest lever on the Locomotive Man’s back.

  The whistle sounded once again, and then the whole contraption shook and juddered for a second. From inside the brass dome there came an odd chattering sound. Jacob Steele remembered when he’d come across a deputy using one of Mr. Sholes’ fancy new type-writers, and this sounded like nothing so much as a roomful of the damned things, all clattering a
nd snapping away at once. The sound carried on for a couple of seconds more, long enough for Steele to convince himself that he’d guessed wrong. There was no way in creation this blamed contraption was going to move of its own accord.

  And then – very slowly, as if only just working out how – it did just that.

  The Locomotive Man stood up.

  “By God!” Steele yelled, taking a step backwards, and the cold breath of fear ran through him. All of a sudden his knees seemed made of water, like they couldn’t bear his weight. I am dreaming, he thought. I am dreaming or going mad, having visions of some other place. Because that is not something that should be in this world.

  It was George Westinghouse’s turn to smile now. “By God indeed. I had much the same reaction myself. Mister Reed, if you will please have your friend introduce himself to Jacob? I have a hunch they’ll be getting along famously once he gets over the shock.”

  “If you insist, sir,” Reed smirked, and he pulled and flicked the levers and switches, one after another. “I will add Mister Steele to the internal record...”

  The thing took a lumbering step forward, heavy enough to make the floor shake underneath it. Then it slumped slightly, the lenses of its eyes gazing upon Steele’s face, and just for a second the bounty hunter thought it might just reach out with its hands – them blunt mechanical claws it had – and grab a hold of him. And then? Why, he could see it bundling him into the firebox to burn alive like so much kindling while these two white men smiled their big happy smiles.

  And then the damned thing reached out a claw out for him, and Steele very nearly shot it in the face.

  It was only a split-second of fright, but he was halfway to his iron by the time he saw what it was really doing. Then he understood the gesture and forced himself to relax. “God damn it, George. Are you serious?”

  Westinghouse just couldn’t seem to get that grin off his face. He looked like a proud papa whose youngest boy had only just learned to walk. “Shake hands, Mister Steele.”

  “The hell with you, George. I ain’t shaking hands with that.” Steele found himself surprised at the venom in his voice. Why not, damn it? No need to make trouble over it, these folks are proud of their toy, so why not play along? Was it ’cause they’d laughed? That was part of it, sure, maybe a big part, but he was enough of a man to take that for what it was.

  No, it was something else. The whole idea of the Locomotive Man just rubbed him wrong, somehow.

  Westinghouse swapped his smile for a pained look, like he’d only just realised all the guests at the hoedown weren’t quite getting along. As for Reed, the boy had a face on him like a kicked puppy. “It would be a lot better if you did, Mister Steele –”

  “That a threat?”

  “No!” Reed paled. “God, no! But it just... well, it helps it identify you as a friend... oh, hell.” He bit his lip, looking miserable, then stepped forward and started flicking more of the switches on the thing’s back. The metal man stared at Steele, almost accusing, while the cogs in its mechanical brain whirred and ground. “There,” Reed said at last, “you’re added to the record. No handshake required.”

  Westinghouse shook his head sadly, looking disappointed. “It’s not something to be afraid of, Jacob. It’s the future.”

  Steele turned away angrily. He was angry with Westinghouse and his damned disappointed look, like he was some schoolteacher talking to a child who’d got the answer wrong, and he was angry with Reed and his kicked-dog face and most of all he was angry with that cursed heap of junk that was still standing there like it was a man.

  And he was mad at himself too, a little, for not playing nice with these overgrown kids and their overgrown toy – except he’d never gone against his gut yet, and in his gut he knew the Locomotive Man was bad news. Hell, it might just be the death of him.

  He sighed, and pushed the feeling down. It was always good to listen to your gut, but you had to feed it occasionally too. And that meant money, which right now he didn’t have a whole lot of.

  “We can talk about that later, George. Right now, I imagine you called me in for more than showing off toys.”

  Westinghouse shrugged, and nodded. “I did indeed, Jacob. I have a job for you. Easy work, you’ll find – you are to be an escort, if you’re willing. A bodyguard. For Mister Reed here, as a matter of fact.” He paused for a moment, looking away and scratching the back of his neck, as if he was working out how to broach some troublesome news. “And, um... also, for... that is to say, you’ll be accompanied by...”

  The Locomotive Man let out another shrill scream, and George had the decency to look embarrassed at that.

  “God damn it.” Steele said, and lit another cigar.

  “THERE.”

  Steele watched irritably as Reed shovelled another heap of coal into the firebox. They’d made a stop at the side of the trail, so that Reed could feed his creation more of the coal and water it needed.

  He had a plentiful store of both with him, in a great metal-and-canvas wagon that the Locomotive Man pulled along behind him. It was a hell of a thing in itself, with compartments for all the necessities, including food and water for the flesh-and-blood men on the expedition as well as for Jonah, and built-in bedding so a man might sleep in it at night, with the Locomotive Man standing guard – assuming any man could sleep through the night with the damned thing’s whistle screaming out whenever it had a mind. Reed had gone so far as to paint his wagon with the legend ‘FRANKLIN B. REED III, OWNER AND INVENTOR OF THE ASTOUNDING & ASTONISHING LOCOMOTIVE MAN,’ just as if he was a quack selling snake-oil or a blamed travelling circus.

  He’d invited Steele to sit with him on the front seat of the thing, but Steele had flatly refused. Now, as he watched Reed load the firebox from the vantage point of Jonah’s saddle, he couldn’t help but figure the astounding and astonishing Locomotive Man was a mite more trouble than it was worth.

  “About how long do you reckon this’ll take, Mister Reed?”

  Reed sighed. “Not much longer, I promise. Unfortunately the current design means that, unlike in the case of the common locomotive, we cannot load the firebox while the Locomotive Man is in motion.”

  “Not unless we want to get ourselves stepped on.”

  “Yes. Quite.”

  Steele reached into his black duster coat and fished out another of his cigars. “You considered putting the door in its back?”

  Reed sighed as he hefted another shovelful of coal. “Unfortunately, that would mean the control mechanisms would have to go on the front, which again brings up the problem of, ah...”

  “Getting stepped on.” Steele lit his cigar and took a few quick puffs.

  “Quite.” Reed scowled, then slammed the furnace-door and hung the dirty shovel on a hook jutting from the wagon’s side, where he could pick it up easy next time. Then he clambered back up into his seat and started the Locomotive Man up – the metal man gave out another shrill scream from his whistle, and Jonah reared and bucked a little at that, and then the thing juddered forward into a steady walking-pace, pulling the wagon after it. Once Jonah had gotten over his fright, he trotted gently alongside.

  Steele listened to the Locomotive Man’s slow, rumbling clank, watching the landscape drift by slowly. “Can’t help but figure we’d make better time on horseback, Mister Reed.”

  Reed shook his head. “Ah, but then we would be without the Locomotive Man!”

  “Don’t sound like such a disadvantage to me.”

  “And what if we run into trouble on our journey, Mister Steele?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Reed folded his arms, looking smug. “And if it’s more than you can handle?”

  Steele almost laughed. “No such animal, Mister Reed. No such animal.” He took another puff on his cigar, then blew out a thick ring of smoke. “And I’ll bet you a dollar to a dime it won’t be the journey that gives us trouble. It’ll be this Edison feller sittin’ at the end of it.”

  According to
what George Westinghouse had come out with back in Fort Woodson, after they’d finally gotten done looking at Franklin Reed’s wonder, this Edison had been laughed out of most scientific circles, on account of his lack of education and some crackpot ideas about harnessing lightning for telegraph systems or lights or some such nonsense. After years of ridicule, he’d approached Westinghouse with his notions, although why the hell he thought that kind of crazy talk had a place in the Steam and Signal Company, George didn’t know and Jacob couldn’t tell him. George had treated the man as kindly as he could, but he’d shown him the door all the same, and maybe it was that small kindness that broke Edison at last. After that, he spent more than a year sending threatening letters, telegrams, smoke signals if he could – all promising war, a war George Westinghouse was just too sane to understand the meaning of.

  George had refused to respond to the letters, or the impassioned rants on soapboxes in the middle of New York streets, or the full-page adverts taken out in newspapers with money Edison surely couldn’t spare. Eventually Edison’s propaganda war had tailed off, and Westinghouse forgot him, for he was a man used to dealing with colourful characters.

  And then the telegram had arrived.

  Steele dug into the pocket of his coat and retrieved it. He squinted at the words for a moment, then leant over in his saddle to hand it to Reed. “Here. Read it out. I want to hear it out loud.”

  Reed frowned, taking the piece of paper. “Why can’t you read it?”

  Steele shrugged. “I guess I could if you want, but it’d be a slow business. I didn’t learn to read or write ’til I was fourteen, and even then I had to teach myself. Still ain’t the best at it.”

  Reed blinked, and Steele could see the puzzlement on his face. Then he began to read in his soft, almost trembling voice: