Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  Wickham nodded sharply. His tone was more serious now. “I'm sorry, Nathaniel.…”

  “Paragon names only at the table,” Alexander said, cutting him off. It was time to start using the rules to his advantage.

  “Of course. I'm sorry. But Darby clearly had something greater in mind when he suggested this.”

  Grüsser let out a forced guffaw. “Zen he should have said vat it vas along vis all ze other words zat ve just sat through.”

  Wickham ignored the German and looked straight at Hughes. “There's something about the Paragons that's changing. And not, I think, for the better. Perhaps with the Automaton in charge we could—”

  Hughes cut him off. The full fury of his booming voice wiped away the Sleuth's proper English tones like a hurricane. “Could what, Peter? Send us back to the good old days? Face it, if we ever had any of those, they're long gone now.”

  Stanton nodded in agreement. “Despite England's great love of tradition and royalty, in the United States, we know that growth and change drive the engines of enterprise.”

  “So the Paragons are an enterprise now?” Wickham replied, a note of obvious sarcasm creeping into his voice. “I didn't realize that we're in the hero business. Is that what we've become since Darby died? Have we fallen so far so fast?” He grabbed his cane and pointed to the golden letters that circled the inner edge of the table. “‘To Protect Those Who Cannot Protect Themselves.’ Isn't that the real reason we're all here?”

  Grüsser clicked his tongue. “Enough vit zese emotional displays. You know vat Stant…der Industrialist meant.”

  Wickham shook his head and frowned. “Are you sure about that, Submersible? Because it sounded to me like he just compared the Paragons to a bunch of money-driven robber-barons.”

  He turned to Nathaniel. “You know Tom would never intentionally hurt anyone. You believed in Darby. Tell me that you're willing to at least discuss this. You loved the old man almost as much as I did.”

  Nathaniel didn't look up as he spoke. “He's a machine, Sleuth. And he's hurt plenty of people when Darby ordered him to—that's why Darby always kept him on a short leash. Now that his master is gone, it's time for us to lock up the dog so that the world can move on.”

  The Englishman looked around the table for a moment, but no one returned even the slightest glimmer of sympathy. “And do you want to tie him down as well, Industrialist? Lock the goose that lays the golden eggs up in its coop?”

  “Und vat does that mean?” asked Grüsser.

  Stanton had wondered when Wickham would play that particular card. There were good reasons that he and Darby had decided to keep the true source of fortified steam secret from the German and the boy. In both cases it was a matter of trust, although he was beginning to think that Nathaniel was finally mature enough to keep that secret once the current crisis was past.

  In Grüsser's case, he could never be sure where the Prussian's true loyalties lay. The man was an excellent Paragon when it came to the fight—utterly fearless in the heat of battle. And he had made a difference in the times when he needed to. But the crimes that had sent him here were almost unforgivable, and spoke to a moral failing that could never be fully erased.

  And taking the secret of fortified steam would be more than enough of a prize to get him back into the good graces of his Prussian masters, no matter what he had done. “I'm not suggesting we lock him up forever. I only want the Automaton out of the way until we can figure out who is in charge. As Nathaniel pointed out, the Automaton is a weapon, and with Darby gone someone needs to take responsibility for using him.”

  He saw Wickham's eyes still glancing from person to person looking for an ally. Or perhaps the old man was still fishing for clues to his latest mystery. Maybe both.

  Wickham cracked a smile. It was wide, but tight-lipped. “Then there's obviously nothing more important for us to do right now than choose our new leader.”

  Alexander Stanton leaned back into his chair. Had he really won this easily? “If we're done with this discussion, as acting leader I'd like to call for the official vote.” He looked straight at Wickham. “If we really are done…”

  Wickham sighed. “Yes, Industrialist. I've said my piece. Clearly your minds are all made up. But Darby saw something we didn't, and I think we'll all come to regret ignoring his advice.”

  “Time will tell.” It was a flip remark, but Stanton was getting tired of ominous warnings from the deceased. He picked up the wooden gavel sitting on the table in front of him. It was a mahogany sphere with detailed carvings across the entire surface, featuring an ornate letter “P” on both sides. The bottom of it was flat, with a thin sheet of worn leather tacked on with a series of brass cobbler's nails. He banged it down against the granite three times. “Then this session will officially come to order! This meeting of the Society of Paragons is on Friday the sixth of February, 1880. The Industrialist, acting chairman, presiding.”

  He placed the gavel down and called the roll. “Turbine!”

  Nathaniel stood up. “Here!”

  “The Submersible!”

  Grüsser rose and snapped to attention. “Here!”

  “The Sleuth!”

  Wickham simply nodded and tipped his hand.

  “The Iron-Clad!”

  Hughes lifted up one of his arms.

  Stanton spoke the next part from memory. “Like the great Atlas, who held the weight of the Earth on his shoulders, so too must the Paragons carry the burden of all mankind upon theirs, for the world is a dangerous place, full of evil men bent on destroying the greatness and the potential of humanity.” He had helped to write the words, after all.

  “Gentlemen,” he yelled out, “what is our purpose?”

  The voices of almost all the Paragons rose up in unison. “To protect those who cannot protect themselves!”

  Wickham said nothing.

  “You may all be seated.” Stanton finally felt himself relaxing as he sat down. After so much insanity in the month since Darby died, it seemed as if things were about to return to some sort of normalcy. There was a part of him that still wished Darby was up there, sitting in the leader's chair behind him, but he couldn't undo what had happened, and Alexander Stanton had never been a man to miss an opportunity.

  Once again he banged the gavel onto the table. “We have gathered here today because according to the laws in the constitution of the Society of Paragons, if a leader should fall, then one of the existing members must be named as the new leader as soon as it is possible. Once chosen, it becomes the duty of that man to provide vision and direction to our organization, as well as be our true strength in times of trial.”

  He looked out across the table. “We will now select that man according to the laws of the Paragons. Nominations are open.”

  The gavel banged again, and instantly Grüsser's hand shot up into the air.

  Stanton nodded. “The chair recognizes the Submersible.”

  “I nominate you, the Industrialist.”

  “The chair thanks you.” No matter what his sins, it was hard to stay angry at Grüsser for long. He was a dangerous and unpredictable madman, but the Prussian's heart was in the right place, most of the time. “Is there a second?”

  Nathaniel raised his hand.

  “The chair recognizes Turbine.”

  “I second the nomination for Alexander Stanton.”

  “Paragon names only, please.”

  “I second the nomination for the Industrialist.”

  The gavel banged again. “The chair thanks you. Any other nominations?”

  Wickham raised his hand up into the air.

  Hughes's voice boomed again. “So help me God, Sleuth. If you nominate that machine of yours I'll walk over there and smack you straight in the mouth.”

  “Zat is unnecessary, Hughes,” replied Grüsser. “If Wickham zinks zat he's going to find a second he can do vatever he likes.”

  “The chair recognizes the Sleuth.” There seemed little harm the Englishm
an could do now.

  “Point of order.” Wickham turned and looked at Hughes. “I can't help but notice that the Automaton, even though he is a member in good standing of the Paragons, is not here to vote.”

  This time it was Nathaniel who spoke. “And without Darby here to tell him when to raise his hand, what would he do, exactly?”

  Grüsser chuckled, and Stanton banged his gavel again, louder this time. “That's enough, gentlemen! Members will speak when recognized by the chair and not before!”

  This was almost over; the last thing he needed was childish gloating. “The chair concedes the Sleuth's point. If his vote is needed, then he will be consulted.”

  “Then I'll abstain my vote as well.” Wickham stood up. “I'm not in the mood today for pointless exercises with foregone conclusions.” He pushed the chair back toward the table. “And I'm sure you can handle this theatrical event without any further help from me.”

  Alexander felt genuine anger rising up in him now. “Wickha—Sleuth! This is childish. You're a Paragon; it's your duty to stand with us until this meeting is concluded!”

  The Englishman had almost reached the door when he turned on his heels. “Perhaps it's my grief speaking, but at this moment it's impossible for me to look up at that empty chair and not feel as if a terrible wrong is being done in this room today. I won't sit here and be a part of it.” He stopped for a moment and then let out a heavy sigh. “I'm sure I'll come to my senses soon enough, gentlemen, but for now I must take my leave.”

  As he watched Wickham walk out of the room, Stanton swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes closed, shutting out the world for just a moment and trying to let his rage subside.

  He genuinely respected Wickham's abilities. It was impossible to see such a fearsome intellect in action and not respect the greatness behind it. But the Sleuth had been the last obstacle to his becoming the leader of the Paragons, and now he was walking out the door.

  Although there was a time when the place had actually been called something, the sign that hung above the door had been torn down years ago, leaving only two rusting chains behind. The locals referred to it simply as “the Irish,” and that was all they needed to know.

  The bar sat on a street a few blocks in from the west-side piers—far enough away that you couldn't see a glimpse of the water, but close enough that the stink of rot and sewage that collected at the docks for decades still filled the air.

  Over the course of a cold Friday morning the establishment had been bustling with thirsty men from the waterfront: rough-talking longshoremen, sad-eyed horse-cart drivers, fat and lazy merchants, and even a few brave accountants who had ventured out of the relative safety of their counting-houses to wrap ink-smeared fingers around a liquor glass, sneaking in a quick shot with the rougher elements between balancing their columns and rows.

  But as the sun lurched toward the middle of the sky, only a dozen or so customers remained: lonely souls who were either momentarily caught betwixt and between, or utterly lost and forgotten. They were broken men, whether they knew it or not, and they spent their time in the Irish staring down into their cups as if a greater truth could be hidden at the bottom of a glass beyond the simple need for another drink.

  The booths near the back were made from rough wood and lumpy plaster, and the man who occupied the one in the corner had concealed himself in the shadows, but his face was already obscured by his thick muttonchops. They were a surprisingly cheerful shade of bright red considering that his lips were so tightly pressed together and the corners of his mouth were pushed down into a permanent frown.

  In the dim light that managed to make the long journey from the grimy windows to the back corner it was almost impossible to tell if he was actually an old man, or had simply been bent into the shape of one far too early by years of backbreaking labor. His body was stout and cylindrical, with a thin neck and head sitting on the top and a pair of sticklike legs sprouting out the bottom.

  Sitting in front of him was a totally empty shot glass along with a mostly empty mug of beer. The liquid that remained was flat and still, robbed of any sparkle by the course of the hour it had spent sitting in front of him.

  The man had spent a great deal of the last half hour staring at that unfinished beer. His staring contest was only postponed every few minutes when he would look up and let his eyes dart around the room, giving everyone he could see a taste of his short, hard glare. It was as if his obvious disapproval of the sum total of his own life was something that he was willing to share with anyone who could have fallen so far as to end up in the same establishment that he had.

  Clutched in his left hand were two glass spheres. As he rotated them around each other they made a low grinding noise, with an occasional clacking sound. Their surfaces were the color of milk, clouded with scratches from where he had been rubbing them together.

  Letting out a wheezing exhale so long it almost seemed to be a sigh, he lifted the glass to his mouth and took another tiny sip. As he placed the glass back down, the remaining beer settled quietly to the bottom.

  The barmaid strolled by, waiting until she had passed him completely before coming to a stop, then turning to face him as if she had just noticed him there. The girl had a hard look about her, and although there was something in her face that could still be considered attractive, it had been mostly chipped away in a rough approximation of the same process that had left the walls covered with graffiti and gouges. She grabbed the empty shot glass, then stared at him until he looked up at her. “Are ya gonna just sit there and nurse that beer all day?” She had an Irish accent that sounded almost like a continuous growl.

  Although it would have seemed impossible, the man's scowl deepened a little bit, and he responded with a Celtic drawl that seemed a bit closer to the old country than hers. “I'm drinkin’ and I'm payin', aren't I?”

  “Slowly,” she said with emphasis. “The lunch crowd'll be showin’ up soon, so if ye plan ta be stayin' the barman asked me ta make sure you'll be makin’ it worth our while.”

  He lifted up his glass to his lips and drank the remaining beer in a series of small gulps. When he placed the glass back onto the table, it wobbled slightly against the edge of a swear word that had been so deeply carved into the wood that it seemed to be on the verge of going all the way through. “Then I'll have another.”

  “Well, it's good ta know yer good for something.”

  The man in red whiskers responded with a sound that landed somewhere between a cough and a growl. “You're a cheeky bitch, ain't ye?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don't know whether you think yer flirtin’ with me or puttin’ me in my place, but I don't care. Either way, if you don't watch yer manners, I'll have my boy put yer arse out on the street, and then ya can find the rest of yerself another place ta go and not drink some beer.”

  She stuck her free hand on her hip, waiting to see whether he'd take her up on her offer, but his only response was a curt nod, which seemed to be what she had been waiting for. She grabbed his glass and sauntered back to the bar, giving him a full view of the unladylike swaying motion of her backside, a show that had been the singular most popular attraction for the visitors of the Irish over the course of the morning.

  As she walked away, the man relaxed slightly, his eyes once again challenging the other patrons, melting away the few pairs of curious looks that had lingered after the scene that had just occurred.

  He sat quietly for a minute and then jumped to attention as the front door cracked open, letting in a stinking gust of the crisp winter air. A large man in a tweed coat followed swiftly behind it. His upper lip held a large, heavily waxed mustache. It had been weighted down by ice and frost until it was no longer able to support its own weight and drooped down on either side of his mouth, giving him a pair of walrus tusks.

  Still wrapped in a cloud of the outside air, the man huffed out a stream of frosty breath. “Damn cold out there!” he said loudly, announcing his presence to everyone in the bar.
He followed his exclamation with a series of quick slaps to his arms and a few solid stamps of his feet.

  Finishing his commotion, he unhooked the buttons of his coat one by one, peeling back his cloth jacket to reveal a frame so egg-shaped that it seemed like it would be more at home as an illustration in a children's book than something that might be inhabited by an actual person. The misshapen and slightly stained bowler cap pulled down to his bright red ears only managed to magnify his cartoonish appearance.

  The scowling man looked up from his corner, along with everyone else in the bar. He raised an eyebrow in recognition, and thinking that he had caught the eye of the new arrival, lifted up his hand in a curt gesture, motioning him to come over to his table.

  “Is anyone here named Tim?” the round man said with a shout.

  Once again the man with red whiskers tried to get his attention, this time with an actual wave.

  “Tim? I'm looking for a fellow named Tim.” He craned his neck back and forth but seemed oblivious to the obvious gesture.

  “Over here, ya idiot,” the man in the muttonchops replied, with obvious exasperation in his voice.

  The egg-shaped man looked at him with a grin so wide it seemed as if he might have found his long-lost brother. Then he lifted up a handful of pudgy fingers to give him a wave. “Guten Tag!”

  Tim settled back into his chair, clearly attempting to conceal himself in the shadows, but it was useless. Every eye in the bar was now staring hard as the fat man waddled over to him.

  “You are Tim, then?” His German accent was still strong, and he pronounced his words clearly enough under the guttural vowels and thick mustache, although his voice was surprisingly reedy and girlish. “My name is Brandon. Brandon Kurtz.” From his demeanor he was a man of the working classes, and had obviously been through some rough times. His skin was pale and flushed, setting off a bulbous nose colored like a winter tomato, and yet he still managed to maintain at least a tiny hint of youth.