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

by Andrew P. Mayer

  In the next instant there was a loud crack as the smoke bomb finished its arc and landed on the stones nearby. Now it was his enemies who were surrounded by a white cloud.

  The Sleuth rolled into the smoke and began to rise up. There had been a time when his acrobatics would have been smooth and graceful, but his old bones protested at being put through such punishment, and Wickham needed the cane to steady himself; he gasped as his sense of balance began to give way.

  Then his momentum overcame the instability of his roll, and he landed on his feet, although he wobbled slightly.

  Unable to see anything but white, and knowing that the thin man would already be swinging his knife in front of him, hoping for a lucky hit, Wickham did the same. He swept the chain around him in an arc, hearing the satisfying slap as metal connected with flesh.

  He gave it a downward yank and was pleased to feel that whatever appendage he had managed to wrap the chain around followed his motion. Clearly his opponent had some fighting skills, but the Sleuth had been trained in the art of using a man's skills against him.

  Still clenching the chain, he spun to the right, following behind with a sweeping blow of his cane. The hard wood caught Jack square in the face, and Wickham could feel him collapsing to the ground.

  Part of him was still shocked at how easy it all was once he was in motion. Even if the memories of those years of intense training in faraway lands had faded, the knowledge he had gained was permanently etched into his body and mind.

  Seeing Jack's form in the clearing smoke, Wickham jumped onto the man's back and raised up his cane, intending to deliver a blow to Jack's head strong enough to knock the fight out of him for a good long while. “Now let's see you dance a jig.”

  As he began to bring his arm downward, he felt five meaty fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his wrist. They plucked him into the air like a feather while a second hand grabbed his cane and ripped it out of his fingers with what felt like an unstoppable force.

  He was roughly spun around, the action causing him excruciating pain in his shoulder and neck. As he finished the rotation he found himself face-to-face with the Ruffian. “That,” Brandon Kurtz huffed from beneath his ridiculous mustache, “is enough.”

  The round man peered down at his friend on the ground. “Are you all right, Jack?”

  The thin man let out a muffled groan that sounded like it was supposed to be words, but made no actual sense.

  “It's good you left him alive. I'd be very angry if he were dead. I am a man of the Bible, Mr. Hogan.” The Ruffian let go of his hands and transferred his grip to the old man's neck. “‘And if the revenger of blood find him without the borders of the city of his refuge, and if the revenger of blood kill the slayer; he shall not be guilty of blood.’”

  Wickham felt as if his throat had been caught between iron gears. It was clear to Wickham that if he didn't escape in a matter of moments he would end up dead. “That's from Numbers,” the large man said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  The Sleuth reached up and boxed Brandon's ears, then slid his hands inside the other man's arms and pushed outward. It would have broken a normal man's grip easily. And although the tension around his throat loosened slightly, it was not significant. His vision was already starting to swim, blackness creeping in from around the edges and narrowing the world.

  Wickham's bag of tricks was empty, and he could feel what little energy he had left draining out of him. A hissing roar began to fill his ears. He knew that it must mean that his body was preparing to die.

  The thought of his own end filled him with a feeling of sadness, but something like relief welled up inside of him as well. He had spent decades fighting against death—never giving up, even when there was no hope. But perhaps now was a good time for him to go. He would see Dennis again….

  “Let him go.” The booming voice was loud enough for Wickham to hear it even through the veil of darkness that was closing around him.

  The grip relaxed. Although the unstoppable egg of a man still had his hands wrapped around the Sleuth's throat, they were loose enough that he could draw a breath, and the light of the world began to creep back into his vision.

  Brandon seemed confused. “But Jack wanted him dead!”

  “And I want you to let him go!”

  The choking hand released him suddenly and completely, as if a spring had been disengaged. Wickham landed hard on his ankles and then collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Something felt out of place inside his neck, but it wouldn't kill him.

  “Jack and the boss, they both want him dead. That's why I brought him here.”

  “No one told me that.” The voice was coming from beside him now, and the Sleuth looked up to see where it was coming from.

  What he saw made Wickham imagine that he must be hallucinating, or worse, had died without realizing it. Where a man's head would normally appear was the snarling face of a jackal. It was an image he recognized from mythology: “Anubis,” he muttered to himself.

  As his vision cleared he realized that the demonic vision was real, but shaped out of black leather. The mask was similar to the one he would be wearing if he had ventured out as the Sleuth instead of in this pathetic disguise—although in the end the padded shirt had managed to save his life. He patted his chest and found the knife still stuck into it. When he pulled it out there was a jolt of pain as the tip of the blade tore free from his flesh. The edges of the knife were barbed, and it dragged a good deal of blood-soaked padding out of his shirt as it went. He slipped the blade into his pocket.

  “Jack is in charge here, not you, dog-man,” Brandon said, sounding a bit confused.

  “And neither are you,” Anubis replied, following it up with a solid whack from the long metal rod he was holding in his hand.

  Wickham couldn't help but be impressed by the costume, and he'd seen a few in his day. The man was dressed from head to toe in a bodysuit made from what appeared to be black kid-leather.

  Strapped across his chest was a set of armor constructed from thick bands of boiled hide and steel. Bolted to the center was a large ankh that glittered like gold. For the Sleuth, whose powers relied on subterfuge, it seemed dangerous and impractical to wear such a large chunk of precious metal on the center of your chest, even if it was his most armored feature.

  Bringing the costume together was a simple white loincloth held up with a silver belt. It was clearly more ornamental than practical, although the contrast was quite striking. The entire design brought together Egyptian and Roman elements to form something that recalled ancient times but provided practical protection as well.

  A few feet away Jack was starting to wake up. As the thin man lifted his head up from the ground there were a number of oozing cuts and red bruises across his face.

  The villain turned and looked directly at the Sleuth. His daze seemed to vanish as his gaze caught Wickham's. “I won't miss this time, old man!” His right hand slipped into his coat, and when he drew it back out again he held another one of the barbed knives from his bandolier. He flicked it straight at Wickham with a single snap of his wrist.

  Wickham could see the knife coming toward him as if time had slowed down. He knew that he needed to move out of the way, and quickly, but he was still dazed from his brush with death, and the desire to move his head and the actual ability to do it were somehow disconnected.

  Before the blade could impale him there was blur in front of his face, then a spark and a ping as the knife ricocheted off the metal rod and flew off in a new, harmless direction.

  “Damn you, Anubis!” said Jack, grimacing as he used his hands to try to wipe away some of the blood from his face.

  “I won't have the death of another Paragon on our hands. It will bring twice as much trouble down on our heads.”

  “Lord Eschaton said he was to die,” the round man interjected. “Do you want to tell him we didn't do what he asked?”

  Jack shook his head. “And what more trouble could he b
ring dead than alive? He's seen our faces; he knows where we're hiding. What's worse than bringing the rest of the Paragons down on us?”

  Wickham started to back away. If there was any chance that he was going to get out of this alive, it wouldn't come from waiting for the mercy of Jack Knife or the Ruffian. And honestly, even he found the argument in favor of his death far more compelling than the meager defense his savior in black had put up so far.

  Reaching a point where he figured he had at least a fair chance of escaping, the Sleuth leapt to his feet and bolted for the entrance to the alleyway.

  The padding of his costume chafed and scratched him as he ran, and with every step his legs demanded that he stop sprinting and act his age. He had no doubt that he could outrun the potbellied strangler, but that wasn't who he was worried about. With his life on the line he could ignore the screaming pain in his knees for a little while. He'd pay for it later—if there was a later.

  The safety of the alleyway was only a yard away when he heard one of the men shouting “Stop!” behind him. A second later a chunk of brick in the wall near his head shattered as it was struck by one of Jack Knife's blades.

  He entered the maze at a full run, knowing that his pursuers must be only a few steps behind him. The shadows felt comforting, but this was their territory, not his, and the only advantage he had was the few yards he had gained with the element of surprise. But no matter how motivated Wickham was, he was too old to escape by vigor alone—he'd need to come up with a plan.

  The sound that had caused Alexander to bolt from his chair brought all his senses to full attention. Until he felt the tingling in his nerves he hadn't realized how deeply the mystery of the stuck door had set him on edge, but now he felt a bolt of excitement tear through him, transforming Alexander Stanton into the Industrialist.

  He looked in every direction, trying to determine where the sound had come from. If there was going to be an attack, he would need to find the best possible position for his defense.

  The next sound was more of a dull thump, and this time he was positive that it came from behind him. More than that, it had come from inside the hidden closet in the wall.

  He turned to the lamp, determined to open up the panel on the wall behind him. Just as his hand reached up to activate the mechanism there were a series of quick raps on the door to his office. He spun around, his hand automatically reaching for the Industrialist's gun at his waist, but there was nothing there.

  For a moment he felt totally vulnerable—an unarmed man, facing a threat that it would take a Paragon to defeat.

  But it only took a moment more for him to realize that there was no real threat at the door.

  “Sir?”

  After three decades he had become infinitely familiar with the sound of his butler's voice. “Come in, O'Rourke!” he yelled out with irritation.

  The old butler opened the door slowly and shuffled into the room. “I see, sir, that you somehow managed to unstick your door.” Alexander had long given up trying to figure out whether the old man was mocking him, or simply had a gift for making everything he said seem sarcastic.

  “Yes, thank you, O'Rourke. That isn't my problem anymore.”

  “And what would be your problem now, sir?”

  Alexander sighed and sat back down heavily into the chair. “It's nothing,” he said testily. “I thought I heard a noise.”

  “A loud noise, sir?”

  The idea of explaining his anxieties to his butler made the whole thing seem ridiculous. “It's nothing. I was concerned that we might be being attacked.” He paused and stared into the butler's emotionless face. “Because if something or someone were about to attack me, they would have taken advantage of the opportunity while I was distracted by my bumbling butler.”

  “Most likely, sir. I am hardly a strapping hero such as yourself.”

  “Your gift for understatement remains as strong as ever, O'Rourke.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said without a trace of audible irony. “It was probably simply vermin in the walls, sir.” As always, the old man's face remained utterly unreadable and totally placid.

  Alexander didn't know all the details of O'Rourke's life before he had arrived in the United States, but he had learned that his family had been utterly destroyed in some terrible misfortune: a wife and two children, O'Rourke's entire young life had all been wiped away by a catastrophe that the man had chosen never to discuss. “Would you like me to call the exterminators?”

  “No,” Alexander said, shaking his head. Try as he might to feel sympathy for the Irishman, he always found that it was quickly erased by the man's attitude, which seemed to travel back and forth from total disregard to utter condescension. “What I'd like to know is why it's taken half an hour to simply find my daughter and have her brought to me.”

  “I could go and find out, sir.”

  Stanton opened his mouth to yell at the man, and for the umpteen-thousandth time thought better of it. At first he had felt that the butler was too new to berated; then he had become too important to upset; and now he was simply too old. And for all his flaws he was an unswervingly loyal and damned efficient servant. For example, unlike the maid, O'Rourke knew better than to start a journey until he had been directed to do so.

  “Then go do that.” Stanton waved him away, picking up the remaining application from his desk and pretending to stare at it.

  As the butler turned to close the door behind himself, Alexander looked up at him. “And leave the door open, O'Rourke.”

  “Open, sir?” Once again, his face refused to match the tone of surprise.

  “Do as I say.”

  “Just as you say, sir.” The old butler wandered off down the hallway, each footstep echoing with a dull snap followed by a scraping sound as his feet dragged against the marble floor.

  Alexander pulled out the last application and tried to focus on it enough to read it, but the meaning kept sliding away. He had to admit that the fresh jolt of fear from the noise in the wall had once again set his mind wandering in search of excitement.

  His eyes wandered back to the gas lamp on the wall. He could use it to open the gateway to his other life. Then all he would need to do is put on his costume and be on his way, free of any responsibility that didn't involve adventure.

  He was also sure that the exact moment he placed the Industrialist's hat on his head would be the same one that his daughter would come skipping in through the office door.

  He actually dreaded the thought of talking with her, but it was clear that she had been greatly affected by Darby's death. For the first few weeks he had hoped that it would pass over her without the need for his intervention, like a winter cough, but things were clearly not going to be that simple.

  Sarah was, no matter how difficult it might be for the average person to see it, grieving. And he, having been so wrapped up in his plans to succeed Sir Dennis as the leader of the Paragons, hadn't even been able to see it until a few days ago.

  She was a sensitive girl, like her mother, and instead of dealing with her sorrow with weeping and lethargy, Sarah had become even more charged than usual—racing through the house, sewing a small army of misshapen dolls to “be given away to the orphans,” and disappearing into her room for hours on end.

  She had also taken to long walks in the park in her mourning clothes, necessitating that one of the house staff go along with her as a chaperone, taking them away from duties that were far more pressing.

  In the end it had been Jenny Farrows, the house maid, who had brought the issue of his daughter's suffering to Alexander's attention. She told him that if there were to be any chance for Sarah to get over it, then he would need to speak to his daughter, specifically on the subject of “the passing of her mentor.”

  He was already getting wound up simply at imagining their conversation, and she hadn't even entered the room yet. But Stanton promised himself that he would keep a cool head. What Sarah needed was guidance and wisdom, and neither of
those things was delivered effectively at a loud volume.

  Since the death of his wife, there had been many days when Alexander wished there were someone to comfort him with quiet words, but he had been alone long enough that he'd found he could replace that feeling with action.

  But the work before him meant that he was denied even the simple pleasure of putting on his costume and running through the streets of the city as the Industrialist.

  Truth be told, even before the Professor had been murdered, the number of times he could sneak out of the house in his costume with a gun strapped to his belt had been fewer and farther between with every passing year. There were dozens of reasons, all trumped by the fact that he was simply getting older. And these days he spent a good deal of the time simply wandering the streets in search of a little peace and quiet instead of hunting ruffians.

  Sometimes he would stop and chat with a concerned citizen or one of the police. Dressed up in uniforms of their own, many of them were enamored with vigilante heroes. Technically the Paragons were outlaws—illegal under the same statutes that had been used to shut down the private police forces when the municipal constabulary had first been established. But the city and its heroes had come to an understanding, and when the mechanical villains had started their reign of terror even the newspapers had agreed it was good to have Paragons protecting them.

  “The Paragons,” he said with a sigh, and glanced down at the last application. He read the man's name out loud. “King Jupiter.” It was an odd name, and like the White Knight, there wasn't much that made him stand out on paper except for the description of a few superhuman abilities that made his authenticity even more dubious. “Skin like that of a stone. Master of electricity. I am able to throw lightning bolts at will,” he said, reading off the paper.

  “Doubtful, unlikely, and poppycock,” he muttered to himself.