In the quiet of the laboratory she could hear the rhythmic ticking that came from his heart, a brass sphere in the center of his chest. It was suspended inside a metal cage in the middle of his body. Gear-tipped rods sprang out from it in every direction, their teeth resting against a series of larger cogs in his chest. Those, in turn, moved the other cylinders, gears, and rods spreading out across his body.
A pipe on the right side of the heart let out an occasional hiss as a rotating gear pulled open a spring-loaded cap at its end and released a small puff of steam into the air. Underneath was a large bolt with a wing nut at the end of it.
The heart of the Automaton was the one piece of his anatomy that Professor Darby had gone to great pains to point out to Sarah when he had first invited her down into the lab. “This,” he had told her, pointing out the device, “is everything that makes the Automaton what he is. Inside of it is something that I call the ‘perfect gear.’”
“But however does it work?” she had asked him.
Darby had given her a look, one that she had never seen him make at any other time in all the years that she knew him. It was a boyish grin, and for a moment she could see him as he was when he was thirty years younger—a clever young man still facing a world full of secrets to uncover. Then he rolled his eyes. “I have some thoughts, of course, but I don't actually know.”
Resting her hand against the cage, she could feel the rhythmic pulse of the machinery as it turned inside of the Automaton. She felt the stinging squeeze of tears as the memories and emotions of the loss of Darby welled up inside of her.
“Miss…Stanton,” came the words in the Automaton's singsong tones, “is that you?”
She jumped back slightly. Somehow she had convinced herself that the machine man had been unconscious, even if he was never truly “conscious” to begin with. “Tom?” Her throat felt thick, and the words came out slightly choked. “It's Sarah!” She took a moment to swallow and try to clear her voice. “I'm here. How are you?”
“It's good to speak with you Miss…Stanton. It has been a few days since I have had a visitor.” At least someone had bothered to repair his ability to speak. She supposed that was the minimal work needed to make Tom presentable for the funeral.
She reached over and began to pull out the long pins from his shackles. “What have they done to you, Tom?”
The Automaton tried to lift himself up, but was trapped by the restraints. Sarah opened them easily, and Tom folded himself up until he was eye to eye with her. The harsh glow from one of the electric bulbs shone down directly into his chest, turning his torso into a mosaic of spinning light and shadows that somehow made his injuries look much, much worse. “They have done nothing. I was simply told to wait down here until the…Paragons decided what it is they should do with me.”
“Strapped to a table? Alone and broken in the dark? That's monstrous.” She popped open the leg restraints. “Why don't you stand up?”
Tom began to try to move his legs. From somewhere deep inside of him came an unfriendly grinding followed by a dangerous-sounding metallic ping.
Sarah put her hand on his arm and tried to help, but it felt as if she were attempting to provide aid to a boulder. “Does it hurt?”
“I do not, I think, feel pain in the same way that you do, Miss…Stanton. It is simply uncomfortable.”
She touched his chest near his shoulder where the harpoon had pierced him, and the touch dislodged a small tin box that had once held a spring. It bounced noisily across the floor. “I'm sorry, Tom! What can I do to help you?”
“No apology is necessary. I am fully capable of self-repair given the right materials.”
Sarah's eyes widened. “Did someone tell you not to fix yourself?”
“Yes. The order was given to me by your…father.”
The anger rose up inside of her, and she clenched her hand into a fist. “This is unconscionable! I demand you repair yourself immediately!”
“I will need supplies. Perhaps you can open those?” He pointed at the sliding doors of the cabinet next to the table.
Then she heard another voice. “Let's think on that for a moment, shall we?” It sent a shock through her that made her jump. “I'm not sure that going directly against your father's wishes would be the best course of action at the present time, Miss Stanton.” The voice was male, clearly older, and spoke with a commanding British accent.
Sarah spun around, then immediately took a small step back. Dressed in his full costume, and standing only a few feet away, the Sleuth was an intimidating figure. A black mask covered his face from the forehead down to the tip of his nose. The molded leather was shaped to give the appearance of a deeply furrowed brow, like a man eternally in concentration.
Hanging from the bottom of the mask was a thin curtain of black leather that obscured the rest of Wickham's face. Whatever menace that it might have projected was mitigated by the thick gray hairs that sprung out from the back of his head.
The rest of the Sleuth's outfit was striking in its quality and detail, although it took Sarah a moment to tear her gaze away from the eyeless face.
He wore a black leather greatcoat over a wool vest stitched with a pattern of magnifying glasses in silver brocade. Underneath it all was a simple charcoal-gray shirt. His pants were a pair of gray-and-black striped breeches that accentuated his long, lean legs. Pointed boots rose up to meet them.
“I'm sorry if I startled you, Miss Stanton.” He pulled the mask down and let it hang around his neck. Underneath, the face was as long and sharp as the rest of him, the skin stretched tight around the skull, steel-gray eyes looking out from deep sockets. “I certainly didn't mean to.”
“If you don't want to scare people, then why would you wear such a frightening mask?” she asked him, putting her hand to her chest. She felt the rapid beating of her heart underneath it.
“Well, it is good to startle your enemies, my dear.” Wickham smiled. “Striking terror into their hearts and all that.”
Tom managed to rise up a little farther and spoke. “It is good to hear your voice Master…Wickham.”
A sudden realization struck Sarah. “How did you know I was here?”
He let out a soft chuckle. There were rumors that the Sleuth had been quite the charmer when he was a younger man, and even though it was clear those days were long behind him, she could see the rakish youngster peeking out through the practiced veneer of the calm, collected elder. “It wasn't much of a mystery for me to notice a young lady sliding her bustle down a hallway, even if she was doing her level best to do it quietly.”
Sarah felt a stab of panic rise up through her. “The others?”
He shook his head. “No worries, Miss Stanton. I am the only one who knows of your current adventures in the Hall of Paragons. Uncovering things that are trying to stay hidden is my specialty, after all.” He took a look down at the Automaton, peering into his body where the light shone through. “The other Paragons express their considerable power using far more…direct means.” He slipped a magnifying glass from a hidden pocket inside his coat and focused it over Tom's shoulder, where the tin box had been before Sarah dislodged it. “I excused myself and left them to listen to the final words of our fallen leader. I'm sure they'll find them most upsetting.”
Sarah closed her eyes. “Thank you for not saying anything.”
He reached a hand down into Tom's torso. “Don't give me your gratitude yet, Miss Stanton.”
Sarah felt a second tingle of fear run through her. “You wouldn't tell….I mean, there's no reason to…”
He carefully and slowly pulled out his hand. A small cog, badly scored and bent, was trapped between his middle and index fingers. “There are some questions that need to be answered before I can safely say I'm willing to keep your secrets.” He pointed across the room toward the doors. “Follow me, both of you.”
The grinding started up again as Tom rose, but this time he was able to move off the table. He took a tentative step for
ward, swaying dangerously before planting his next foot on the ground.
The Sleuth nodded approvingly. “Simply creating a machine capable of mimicking human locomotion is an astounding feat, and yet Sir Dennis managed to build one that could mimic the mind of a man as well.”
With each step Tom took, he seemed to teeter on the edge of disaster, but he managed to place the alternate foot down without falling. Sarah held out her arm. “Thank you, Miss…Stanton, but you cannot carry my weight, and I am afraid you will unbalance me if you try.”
She let go of Tom, but stayed by his side as she spoke to Wickham. “Is it possible to simply ‘mimic’ thought?” she asked him. “Can something pretend to think and not be thinking?”
He pondered it for a moment, and then smiled. “I'm afraid that uncovering the answers to those kinds of esoteric philosophical questions is quite outside the realms of my expertise.”
The Sleuth strode toward the dark end of the chamber, his long legs giving him a gait that neither Sarah nor the broken Automaton could match. “My world is built from facts and the deductions I can make from them.” He turned his head and spoke loudly over his shoulder to them as he walked. “And currently it is one that is almost overwhelmed by a number of mysteries that have been much on my mind since the tragedy at the bridge.”
“Could you slow down, please?” Sarah asked him.
“Of course.” But his actual gait seemed to remain the same.
“Tom,” the Sleuth said. “First question: who was responsible for the death of Dennis Darby?”
Tom's voice rang out. “The…Bomb Lance.”
“For his physical murder, yes. No question there.” The Sleuth stopped at the massive gate and waited for the others to catch up. “But that's not the same as having a genuine reason to kill a man.”
Sarah tottered on her heels as she came to a stop. “He wanted the key.”
“Clearly that. And, unfortunately for all of us, he got it.”
“But why was it so important?” Sarah asked him. “What does it unlock?”
“Dennis had a penchant for complicated metaphors. Men, machines…” He tapped his hand against the clasp holding the sliding doors together. “Keys, locks…” The Sleuth let his words trail off and regarded Sarah silently, wrapping his long fingers around his chin.
She looked straight up at him. “You said you had some questions for me.”
“You understand, Sarah, that if I were to tell the others that you were down here it would never be for reasons of malice.”
Sarah felt a familiar queasiness rising up from her stomach. “I suppose it would be for my own good.…”
“Yes,” he replied. “That would be the reason.”
“If you were a young woman in this world, Mr. Wickham,” Sarah said with a slight sharpness in her voice, “I'm afraid that you'd end up hearing that phrase all too often. At some point I began to realize my ‘own good’ is an easy excuse that people use when they're telling you what to do.”
“I understand. If it makes you feel any better, it's something they say to young men as well, especially when you're the type who dresses up in costumes and gallivants across the city during the night.”
“I can see how that might frighten the horses,” Sarah replied.
He tapped a finger against his cheek and grinned. “Sometimes you truly are your father's daughter.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
The Sleuth pointed at the gate. “If, Miss Stanton, I open this door and show you what lies beyond it, you will become involved—irrevocably and absolutely. I will try to protect you from harm, but since I'm not sure exactly what is going on here, I can't promise you that you won't be entering a world of danger beyond my ability to keep you safe.”
Her mind flashed back to the brass reliefs on the front door: poor Prometheus tied to his rock as the gods went about the business of war. “The world of the Paragons…” she said slowly to herself. “But I'm the daughter of the Industrialist.”
“Yes, you are. The fact that you came this far on your own makes it obvious that your father has already allowed you to become involved to a greater degree than he should have. But there is still a great deal you don't know, and that ignorance may give you a modicum of safety. And if not safety, then at least some comfort.” His face was very stern, his forehead now furrowed into ridges very similar to those on his mask. “So I have two questions for you.”
Sarah nodded.
“Firstly, are you sure this is what you really want? I'm well acquainted with the satisfaction that comes from discovery. But I want you to understand that there are often unintended consequences and responsibilities that also come with knowledge.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. “This won't be a game any longer, so I want you to be sure.”
Sarah pondered for a moment. Even growing up as a child of privilege in New York City, it was impossible to be ignorant of the fact that most people in the world lived much sadder and more desperate lives than she had ever known. And while some might claim that it was destiny that put you into your circumstances, Sarah had always believed that it was mostly luck that had given her the life she'd lived. And yet she had always been determined to not let that hold her back.
She heard herself saying the words before she had even decided she believed them. “I…I am, Mr. Wickham.”
He nodded solemnly and then continued. “Secondly, showing you what is behind this door means that I am about to break a number of sacred oaths. So, even as I am keeping your secrets I will now be asking you to keep mine. Can I trust you, Sarah Stanton? Are you someone of honor, integrity, truth, and righteousness?”
As she heard him speaking the words a jolt of recognition struck her. They were part of the oath that every Paragon took when they became a member. “I swear to fight for honor, integrity, truth, and righteousness,” She had heard her father say them many times over the years as he had inducted new members into the Society.
“…and that you will use the secrets and powers of the Paragons to protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Wickham continued, completing the oath.
“I…I will!” she stammered back.
He took her hands in his. They were surprisingly smooth and cool. “I can't make you a Paragon, Sarah. But I can ask you to live up to Sir Dennis's ideals. In the end I think that may be worth a great deal more.”
“I'll do my best, for you…and for Sir Dennis!”
“That's my girl.” He held onto her hand for another moment, his eyes locked onto hers. Sarah felt mesmerized. “If things should go bad, remember that an oath isn't just something you say—it's a promise you make to yourself so that you'll have something to rely on in those dark moments when you think you have nothing at all.”
“I understand.”
“I truly pray that you never have to.”
Wickham kneeled down for a second, fumbling at something around his neck. When he placed it into the keyhole there were a series of rhythmic snapping sounds as the vertical brass rods that barred the door rose rapidly up into the ceiling, one after another.
“You may want to keep out of the way.” The old man put his hand on her shoulder and had her take a few steps back. After the last of the rods had disappeared, the door lurched forward as if it had been shoved by the hand of a giant.
Poised over the slot in the ground, the gate began to sink down into the floor. Sarah looked over the top of it as it descended and peered into darkness beyond, but only a few feet from where they stood the gloom gave way to total blackness.
It took almost a minute for the gate to disappear entirely. Only after the top of it was completely even with the floor did Wickham step through. He took a few steps, then reached out to the wall and dialed a switch. Along the ceiling in front of them two gas lamps clicked, then flared to life, followed by dozens more, one after another, the brightness moving out into the room ahead of them until a huge metal chandelier on the ceiling flared to life, the polished reflecto
r behind it sending light down into the room.
As her eyes adjusted Sarah realized that they were standing behind a metal railing. The roof of the room continued out at the same level from where they were standing, but the floor was forty feet below.
She looked down and saw that just beyond it a cavern stretched out in front of them with machines the size of locomotives and larger spread out across it like the discarded toys of a giant child.
The Sleuth started walking down a cement stairwell that had been built along the sheer wall. “Darby was no threat to anyone, physically speaking. Anything he had could simply be taken from him. Question: why murder him?”
Sarah tried to ponder Wickham's query as she followed him down. But as she did so the images of Darby's death confronted her again in her mind's eye. “It's not…” She remembered the sound of the harpoon, the horrible wound, the blood, and the look of anguish on the Professor's face as he tried to calmly face his own death. “Maybe he just…”
“The Bomb Lance told you that he would let you live in order to send us his message, which, conversely, also means that he must have come there with the intent to kill everyone else. If we can figure the reason for the slaughter, it should—logically—lead us to who wanted him dead.”
Sarah was unhappy with the coldness of the Sleuth's tone. He was reducing the lives of men down to cold hard facts, but she let it pass without comment. She had never been the kind of woman to back down to a man simply because he was showing passion or anger. She wasn't going to let a lack of emotion scare her, either. “I've been thinking about that myself, and I have a theory.”
He stopped and turned his head around to face her. “Do you, my dear?” he said, cocking up his left eyebrow at her. “What is it?”
“That whatever it was they stole from him, they wanted to make sure that he could never make another one. No new body for Tom, no more flying suits for Nathaniel, or machines for any of the other Paragons.”
A screeching noise rose up from behind them, metal against metal. Sarah turned to look and saw Tom's hands grinding down against the railing as he used it for support. The descent was clearly difficult for his broken body.
Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One) Page 6
