Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One)
Page 2
The Irishman waved them forward. “All right then, up we go. Keep one hand on the cable at all times, and take it slow. If you watch each and every step you take, you'll be fine.”
With their first step out from the anchorage and onto the footbridge they were already high above the buildings below. “I'd say there's nothing to be scared of, but a bit of fear will do you good up here.”
Sarah and Nathan moved quickly forward, each of them trying to move a little faster than the other, clearly attempting to show the other how fearless and resolute they were.
Darby was more obviously hesitant. After he had walked out and up a hundred feet, a gust of winter wind whipped up around them. The old man's hands instinctively grabbed for his hat, and the walkway swayed beneath his feet as he did so. With one hand already on the wire railing, his other grabbed for it as well, and he dropped his cane. It bounced once, and then began to roll toward the edge of oblivion.
Tom moved forward suddenly and smoothly. Sliding past his creator, he scooped up the stick before it could fall over the edge. His shifting weight rocked the bridge even more.
With his fingers tightly gripping the thin wire, Darby closed his eyes, shook his head, and waited for the world to steady itself. “I've never been much of one for heights, I'm afraid,” he said to no one in particular. “It's a poor trait for a man who has engineered so many devices designed to pierce the sky.”
Tom came up behind him. “Don't worry…Sir Dennis. I have your…cane.”
“Hold onto it, Tom,” Darby said, and then took another long deep breath. He slowly released it as he counted to ten. Over the last decade he had developed an advanced breathing regimen with a specific pattern of inhalation for almost every occasion. His book based on his theories about the different ways that oxygen could be used to reinvigorate the body had sold quite well. It described a technique that he believed would allow a man to stay healthy and whole for a hundred years or more. Darby puffed out the air in his lungs with a final Breath of Courage. “Thank you, Tom. I'll be fine in a moment.”
Barry walked back to the two of them. “You and that machine doing all right? The lad and the girl are almost up to the top.”
Darby followed his gaze upward to see them, and then reeled slightly. “We'll be fine, sir, just fine. Tom is simply looking after me, and I'm afraid it's been quite a while since I've had their youthful vigor.”
Moloney flashed him another smile and then tipped his head in their direction. “You just take yer time, Sir Dennis. I wouldn't want to be the man they said was responsible for the fall of a fine genius like yerself.”
Darby took another deep breath, held it quietly for five seconds, and then followed it with a resolute step forward. “Let's go, Mr. Moloney. I'm sure I'll be much steadier once we've made it to the top.” But by the time he reached the tower Darby had gone white as a sheet. He sighed heavily as he stepped off the wooden bridge and onto the relative security of the flat stone platform.
The area at the top was wide open, and free of any obstacles except for a few tall wooden cranes. They were still used to bring materials up and down the sides of the bridge, although the main work of laying the wire over the towers had been completed over a year ago. Only the capstones had yet to be put in place, allowing the wire to settle while the road was hung.
Nathan and Sarah had reached the top well ahead of Sir Dennis, and they were already arguing as he arrived. Her voice grew from a whisper to a controlled shout. “Two years ago they voted on giving women the right to vote in the United States Congress!”
Nathan frowned and let out a harrumph. “Which it failed to pass. Which it will always fail to pass,” he continued, waving a finger at her. “And that's because once a woman is married it's the job of the husband to decide what's best for his family, the country, and his wife.”
She placed her hands on her hips. It was a provocative move in every sense of the word. “Well, I can think for myself, Nathaniel. Should a thinking woman simply exist at the whim of any man who takes a fancy to her?”
The young man pondered her question for a moment. “It clearly isn't good for anyone if pretty girls spend their days worrying about money and politics.”
“Well I can promise you, Nathaniel Winthorp, with that attitude you will never need to worry about making those decisions for me.”
He frowned, realizing that he'd gone too far. “I'm sorry, Sarah.” His tone was measured, but clearly angry.
Darby clucked his tongue loudly, grabbing their attention. “That's quite enough from both of you. I won't have this morning ruined by two bickering children.” He rested his hand on Tom's shoulder. “We've been given an opportunity to see the world from an incredible vantage point that few people will ever experience, and I fully expect us all to appreciate it.” Scolding them had already put some color back into his cheeks.
Sarah walked over to him. “I'm sorry, Professor. Of course you're correct.” She took a look around her, and her eyes widened as she turned her head. They were high above New York, with a clear view of the city for miles around. Just across the river, the shore of Manhattan was encrusted with docks stuffed to bursting with ships of different shapes and sizes.
Beyond them the city of New York was laid out in a well-ordered maze of streets. In contrast the buildings that defined them were completely random: a jumble of wooden and brick structures of different heights and sizes. The steam and smoke poured into the air from thousands of chimneys—proof that this city no longer slept, and barely even rested on a Sunday. Only the steeple of the Trinity Church on the lower part of the island managed to clearly rise above the riot of human industry, and now they were looking down on it.
Directly below them the East River was crowded with boat traffic. Most of the ships were still the tall-sailed schooners that had transported men and goods from one end of the planet to the other for the past two centuries. But gliding in between them were modern paddleboats and steamers that seemed well on their way to utterly replacing the age of sail with one of steam, with the billowing gray clouds of vapor rising up from their stacks mirroring the city itself.
Sarah grabbed the Professor's arm. “It's truly marvelous, Sir Dennis. It's hard not to feel a bit godlike standing above the world like this.”
“Seeing this humbles me,” Darby countered. “It makes me realize just how many men there are in the world, and what they have managed to create.” He walked over to his metal creation and removed his top hat. “Deploy the camera if you would, Tom.”
Tom walked up to the edge of the tower and then eased his right leg backward. The knee bent at an unnatural angle until it was fully reversed. As he leaned down, his arms extended out on brass rods, reaching down until his hands were flat on the ground.
With his body firmly planted, his porcelain face mask pulled free of the rest of his metal skull and slid downward, revealing the interior of his head to be three brass ovals held apart by metal shafts springing up from his neck. The series of pipe whistles that he used to speak were visible now, along with a camera lens that sat in the center of his forehead.
“That's a wee bit disturbing,” said Mr. Moloney. “How does he see with his face off like that?”
“Tom has a variety of cartridges that I can place into his head. Each one changes how he interacts and samples the environment around him.” Darby's tone had slipped naturally into a teacher's cadence—firm and slightly superior. “So, while he has many ways of understanding the world, ‘seeing’ isn't actually one of them.”
“What's that mean?” asked Barry.
Nathaniel chimed in. “It means that the only reason he has a face is so there's something to talk to. But he doesn't actually have any genuine human features. No eyes, nose, mouth…or soul.”
“But,” Darby said loudly, cutting the young man off, “his sense of hearing is something quite extraordinary. It allows him to perceive things around him in ways we do not.”
The Irishman peered a little closer. “Li
ke a bat then…”
“Something like that,” Darby replied, “except he can hear with his entire body, and not just his head.” The inventor turned back to his creation. “I'd like a complete set of photographs, if you would, Tom. And then collect the air samples that we discussed previously.”
“Of course…Sir Dennis.”
“And we're going to be up here for a little bit, so I don't want any more arguing.” He turned to the Irishman. He had slipped off his rucksack and was squatting over it, fiddling with something inside. “Perhaps, if Mr. Moloney here would be so kind, he could tell us about some of his experiences in the construction of this marvel.”
Looking back over his shoulder, Moloney nodded. “If you can give me just a few moments, Sir Dennis, I'm sure I'll be able to tell all of you a few things that you might find quite surprising.”
Nathaniel moved closer to the Professor and tapped his shoulder. “If you have a moment, Sir Dennis—I wanted to ask you about the matter of the improvements to my flying harness.”
Darby frowned. “This is hardly the appropriate time or place to bring that up, Nathaniel. I'm still working on perfecting some of those ideas that we've discussed.” He rubbed his gloved hands together against the cold. “Certainly it would make sense if a way could be found to make the Turbine suit both lighter and stronger. In fact, I've already made a prototype that replaces the main engine, and updates some of the previously stiff elements using some of the same principles of tension and suspension being used on this bridge. It needs testing, but…”
Sarah's voice cut through his speech. “Professor, look….Is that a balloon on the horizon?”
Darby peered up and looked out across the skyline where she was pointing. “I believe you're right, my dear.” A small black circle floated high above the river.
“It must be a hardy soul who would brave the skies in a wicker basket on a cold winter morning like this.” Darby tucked his cane under his arm and reached into the pocket of his coat to pull out a small, leather-bound box. As he opened the lid, a pair of lenses slid up along thin metal rails and locked into place with a satisfying snap. With a quick flick of his wrist the eyepieces extended out into two telescopes. He put the back of the box up to his eyes. “Most peculiar….It's larger than it first appears. The gondola is almost like a boat….It also seems to have a propeller attached….But what powers it? And who designed it?”
Nathaniel tapped his shoulder. “Sir Dennis? If we might, I'd like to continue our conversation.”
“What?” The Professor lowered the device and shook his head slightly before gazing back. “Not now, Nathaniel! You're standing at the top of the world—enjoy it!” He compacted the lenses by pressing them back into their case. “Come by the Aereodrome when we're back at the mansion and I'll show you what I've put together.” He slid the box back into his pocket.
Sarah's voice rang out urgently. “Professor—”
Nathaniel cut her off with an impatient growl. “Not now, Sarah. Can't you see we're talking about something important?”
“Oh, she knows it, lad,” Barry said. “But I think she's referring to me, and I'd like yer attention as well.”
The two men turned to look at the Irishman. A metal frame was lashed around his upper body. It was a complicated affair made of brass pipes, springs, and gears, all held together by a leather harness and straps pulled tight enough to dig into the cloth of his coat. But the most noticeable items were the two steel cages around his arms; each one holding in place a short harpoon tipped with a shining barb that sprouted out a foot from the end of it.
The Professor's voice was calm and even as he gave the command: “Tom, fire the emergency rocket.”
A brass hatch in the Automaton's shoulder popped open, ripping through the fabric of his jacket. A cloud of white smoke sprayed up from the hole, followed by a small rocket flying up and out of him. In an instant it rose a hundred feet into the air above them and then exploded with a green phosphorous glow that burned like a tiny second sun in the New York City sky.
“Neat trick, metal man,” Moloney exclaimed as he leaned back. Two long rods were attached to the back of the harness. When they touched the ground he braced himself against them. “But it won't save you.” He put his right leg up against the Automaton and gave him a solid shove. One of Tom's gloved hands scrabbled against the stone as he tumbled, but with his legs bent backward he couldn't find any purchase against the granite. The mechanical man teetered on the edge for a moment; then his momentum carried him over and he disappeared from sight.
Darby bolted to where the Automaton had disappeared. “No!” He turned back to look at the Irishman. “What have you done?” Nathaniel knelt next to the Professor and held him back from the precipice.
Moloney nodded. “Removed a threat, Sir Dennis….But that's not my main job here today.”
Nathaniel jerked forward threateningly. “Who are you, really?”
“Easy now.” The Irishman smiled broadly through his red whiskers. “You've probably figured out that I'm not Moloney the foreman. But you can call me the Bomb Lance.”
T he shock on Sir Dennis's face transformed into anger. “Whatever it is you want, sir, you won't get it from me.”
Sarah had quietly edged up behind the Irishman. Keeping his eyes, and weapons, locked on the two men in front of him, he only moved his head slightly to the left to acknowledge her. Get with the others, lass, before you force me to do something unpleasant to yer friends.” He prodded her slightly as she walked around him toward Nathaniel. “I would have guessed that the Industrialist's daughter had a bit of her father's courage, but being a fool will only get someone hurt.”
Darby raised his cane and shook it. “Don't threaten her, villain! The Paragons will put a stop to you!”
“Oh, I'm counting on it.” He took a step back. “I'm not alone, Sir Dennis, just the first.” He thrust out his lance toward the old man. “Now let's have that key from around yer neck.”
“How…?” There was an obvious tone of shock and surprise in the Professor's voice that he tried to hide in his next word. “Key?”
“No need to pretend.” The Bomb Lance waved Darby forward with his right harpoon. When he was close enough, the Irishman hooked the front of the Professor's starched white shirt on one of his barbs and ripped it open. He nudged the ascot aside, revealing a dull, gray metal key hanging around the Professor's neck. “Take it off and hand it to me.”
“It's nothing you'd want—a keepsake,” the Professor protested. He picked it up and showed it to him. “It's lead, not even brass. It couldn't possibly have any value to you.”
“I'm not the one who wants it. I'm just the man getting it for him.” The Bomb Lance pressed the barbed end of his harpoon into the Professor's chest with just enough force to break the skin. “Now hand it over.”
Darby unbuttoned his overcoat, then reached his hands around behind his neck and undid the clasp that held the key in place. He dropped it into the open palm just underneath the harpoon pressing into his flesh. “You have no idea what that is, do you?”
“Don't know, and don't care.” The Bomb Lance held it up for a moment. “But I'll agree it doesn't look like much.” He took three steps back. “Just so you can rest easy, I'll tell you that I'm going to let the girl live. She gets to tell her father and the rest of the Paragons that the Children of Eschaton are coming, and there's not a damn thing they can do to stop us.”
There was an audible “clack” as the metal rods locked into place behind him. Black smoke coughed out from behind his right elbow as the harpoon fired. The bolt plunged through the side of Sir Dennis's chest, the momentum spinning him around and throwing him backward at the same time. As he began to fall, the energy from the attack carried him over the edge of the tower, and he vanished. “No!” Nathaniel shouted as he leapt toward the Professor, but there was no hope of rescuing him.
The Irishman let out a rasping laugh. “And that's what a Bomb Lance can do to a man.”
“Now now, don't judge the whole country by me,” the Bomb Lance said. “It was good Irishmen what built the tower yer standing on!”
Sarah's voice was soft, measured, and almost without emotion. “But you're not a good man, are you?”
The Bomb Lance looked over at her and sighed. “Not anymore, lassie, no. I haven't been good for quite a long time.” Keeping the left harpoon pointed at Nathaniel, he lifted his right arm straight up over his head. The wheels and wires attached to the frame slid around as he did so, pulling up one of the small harpoons resting in a bandolier on his back into the frame on his upper arm. “I was never good enough for the people in yer world anyway.”
He lowered the arm straight down from the shoulder with a single sharp movement, and a fresh harpoon slid down and snapped into place. Once again he had two of the barbed spikes facing them. His face softened for a moment, as if he was having a pleasant memory. “But the Children of Eschaton aim to change all that: who's up, who's down…” The edges of his lips curled up in a dark grin. “And once that's done, we'll see about what it really means to be good or bad.”
Nathaniel took a defiant step forward. “You've just murdered in cold blood one of the greatest minds the world has ever known!” Then he took another step, bringing the two men within a few feet of each other. “Why?”
The Irishman clenched his jaw, bristling at the question, and then brought the harpoon up to bear on Nathan's head. “I don't need any more reason to kill a man than that he's in my way.” He swung his left arm like a club, slamming it into Nathaniel's head. “But I have a better one for you.” He hit Nathan again as he reeled from the first blow. The boy dropped to the ground, the wind catching his hat as it came off his head. It rose up in the air for a moment before tumbling into the river below. The Irishman looked down at Nathaniel with contempt. “You're a rich, pompous prick.” He aimed his left harpoon down at Nathaniel and fired. The barb shot straight through Nathan's thigh, making a deep ping as it sank into the granite below. The young man screamed. Blood began to pool beneath the trapped leg, steaming in the cold winter air.