Reaching the edge of the smoke, he held out his left hand. Tiny arcs of white lightning struck at his glove as one of the tentacles moved closer. There was a sizzling hiss when it came into contact with the leather. Tom pulled his hand back quickly, but some of the oily gas still clung to the tip of his finger. The leather blistered and hissed as the smoke ate into it, revealing his metal hand underneath.
Tom shuffled backward before it could reach his shoes.
Eli was not so lucky. “Not like this. Not like this.” He was still tugging helplessly at the door, franticly attempting to escape, when the electric arcs jumped at him. “Not like this!” When the first black tentacle touched him he screamed and tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. His movements served only to disturb the smoke further, sending new tendrils shooting up toward his face. The shouting continued for a few seconds as he tried to beat the smoke back. White lightning danced across his skin.
After a few seconds of this his knees buckled, and he dropped into the smoke. Everything was quiet.
His back up against the wall, Tom stretched his new arm out in front of him. It responded smartly, as if it had always been a part of him, although it was ridiculously oversized for his frame and lacked a hand. The limb's weight made Tom wobble slightly as it moved.
He rammed the arm straight out and into the brick wall that stood in the back of the building. The old mortar crumbled easily, and after he had slammed the iron into it a few more times, he managed to tear open a small hole.
The smoke reached his feet and began to rise up as it ate away his shoes. Tom turned around and shoved his new arm through the hole. It took three tries before he was able to move enough of the bricks out of his way that he could pull himself through.
The neighboring space was a large factory floor with rows of mechanical looms spread out across it. Skeins of threads came down from the huge spools attached to each one.
Tom turned toward the hole, facing back into the other warehouse. The smoke had now covered the entire floor and was rising upward. A sharp sound, like cracking ice, came from the far wall as the windows shattered in their frames, the pitch holding the splintered glass in place.
The front door disintegrated under the pressure, the wood exploding from the hinges, and then all the gas lamps blew out at once.
The interior of the building creaked as the load-bearing beams were eaten away; then everything started to rumble.
Tom turned and ran as the building collapsed behind him and sent a combination of smoke, dust, and debris shooting out through the hole he had been looking through a moment before.
After a few seconds the entire warehouse collapsed in on itself, pulling down the neighboring structure as it went.
Dennis Darby's office was large and sternly appointed, with only a single lamp providing illumination on the massive oaken desk that sat near the center of the room.
Wickham sat hunched over the wood, sitting on the edge of a large leather chair, his mask hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes were red rimmed and tired. Sitting to his left was a stack of papers almost an inch tall. The envelope next to them was labeled “The Last Will and Testament of Sir Dennis Darby,” and a ribbon sat in a pile on the edge of the desk.
To Darby's credit it had taken the Sleuth the better part of an hour to find the secret cabinet where the documents had been hidden in the study wall, and half again that long to figure out how to get it to open.
To his right was a battered leather notebook, and Wickham was deftly taking notes using a self-inking pen that Darby had designed for him. The headline on the page in front of him read “Section 106.” The metal nib made quiet scratching noises as his hand traveled across the paper. “Damn you, old man,” he muttered as he wrote. “How could you have been so clever and still be so naïve? What did you think Stanton was going to do? She's his daughter, after all.”
Finishing his notes with a flourish he slammed the cover of his notebook closed and leaned back in the chair. The old hinges and springs squealed.
The last few weeks had been some of the hardest of his life. The feelings of sorrow at the death of Darby, the funeral, his disappointment at the behavior of his fellow Paragons, and the physical pain from his battle in the alleyways—they had all been traumatic events. But death, pain, and betrayal were all things that he had experienced many times in his life, and they would pass in time.
But there was a nagging feeling that had been bothering him since the confrontation with Stanton, and after Anubis had confirmed the existence of a traitor it had only continued to grow. He couldn't put a word to it at first, yet it was familiar. And this morning, just as he placed his empty teacup back on the saucer and a bolt of pain shot up his arm, the word for it hit him like a bolt of lightning; he was feeling old.
At sixty-three years of age he had long been subject to the limitations and pains that came with maturity. But frequent trips to the Orient and India during his youth to study with a variety of different martial artists had endowed him with some techniques that had managed to stave off many of the most crippling effects that he'd seen plague people of similar years. They also did quite a good job of enhancing your experience in the boudoir, if you were partial to partaking of that sort of thing, which he had been from time to time.
But the truth of it was that Darby's death had finally given him cause to relinquish his hopes. Not all hope, certainly, but the dream that he would somehow leave behind a world that was fundamentally better than the one that he had been born into. And a great sadness had struck him when it became clear that it was now far too late in life for him to do anything about it. “So much wisdom and no time left to use it,” he whispered out loud to no one. The world as it is now would be the way that it would stay for the rest of his time on the planet.
When Darby had created the Paragons they had believed they could make a difference, and perhaps they had. Or perhaps it would have all turned out the same except for some costumed fools, their steam-powered toys, and the insane villains they battled against.
“Still,” he said with a laugh, “it's been a jolly good run.”
He slid the papers back into the envelope and walked them over to the cabinet in the wall. So far no one else had thought to search for any notes hidden outside of the laboratory besides Wickham, and the pages would certainly remain secret and safe in the office for one more night.
Tomorrow he would show them to Stanton, and things would change again. And Alexander would begin to understand that Darby wasn't quite the madman that he had appeared to be in the will.
But once he knew the truth behind Darby's last wishes, it would only make the chance of him ever seating the Automaton as their leader even less likely than it was before. And things would be different, but not better.
Stanton had always been a clever man, with a quick, insightful mind and a passion for justice. But he wasn't without his flaws, the most glaring of which was his habit of using every bit of information he received as a tool to manipulate people into reaching the conclusion that would benefit him the most. As a younger man the Industrialist had been careful to make sure that the results had a positive benefit for everyone. But the death of his wife had changed him, and Wickham wasn't sure that Alexander cared much about anyone but himself anymore, with the single exception of Sarah.
He pulled open the cabinet door and looked into the rows of pigeonholes and the envelopes they contained. He wondered what other secrets were hidden in here. For the next few hours, until Tom returned from his mission, he'd have nothing better to do than to find out.
Wickham's planning was interrupted by a loud banging at the front door.
Shoving the doors closed, he held them in place until a mechanical mechanism inside snapped shut. A second later a panel slid across the wall, covering the doors and rendering the cabinet behind it invisible.
He picked up the chimney lamp from the desk and walked out into the main foyer. Whoever it was clearly had a key to the gates, or had so
mehow managed to avoid them entirely.
The banging came again, louder this time. “All right, all right,” he said loudly, hoping that he could avoid waking the boy, no matter who it turned out to be. Nathaniel had been less than helpful over the last few days, and the last thing the Sleuth needed now was more of the young man's “youthful bravado” interfering with his investigations. So far Nathaniel had been too righteous to be dangerous, but it was obvious the boy would go running to Stanton the moment he discovered anything he thought could garner him favor.
Wickham peered out the window and was surprised to see a face peering up at him from chest height. “Bill,” he said as he opened the door. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”
The large man pushed forward on his control. The chair bounced as it rolled across the lintel. “Peter. I'm glad you're still here. We need to talk.”
“Still here? How did you know I was here in the first place?”
“Sarah stopped by the Hall to tell her father to come home, and she told us what had happened with Nathaniel.” His eyes scanned the room. “Is the machine around?”
“I've sent him on an errand.”
“He's allowed out?”
He had to be more careful. He was already tired, and the last thing he needed was to get caught in a sloppy mistake. “I sent him out.”
“Of course.” Hughes nodded. “That's good. This is partially about Tom.”
Wickham realized the opportunity for further investigation of Sir Dennis's files was draining away. But the idea that there was a sudden need for him and the Iron-Clad to have a conversation was enticing enough to diminish his regret. “Why don't we go to the parlor?” he said, pointing the way.
“Good idea,” Hughes replied. “And Nathaniel is still passed out upstairs, I assume.”
“I believe so. You can check on him first if you'd like”
“I won't bother,” he replied, missing Wickham's sarcasm as usual. “He drinks too much—especially for someone his age. Nothing good is going to come of it.”
“I suppose not. But sometimes a man can discover temperance as he matures.”
“Not the rich ones,” Hughes said, followed by a guttural harrumph. “They just get better at covering it up.”
“Here we go,” said Wickham. He opened the parlor door for Hughes and waited for him to roll through.
“Thanks, Peter, but you don't have to baby me. I can still get around when I have to.” The chair wheeled him into the room.
“I can see that,” Wickham said as he grabbed the handles and pulled the doors firmly closed behind him. “Now how can I help you?”
Hughes spun the chair around to face the old man. “I'm worried.”
“Understandable, as there seems to be a great deal to be worried about these days. But what fear in particular is it that has you coming here to visit me?”
“I believe that one of the Paragons is a traitor.”
Wickham did his best not to let his surprise show on his face. “Really, Bill…Well, that is something to be worried about….” He had no way of knowing how good a job he'd done.
“Darby wasn't impaled by accident. Someone knew about the secret of fortified steam.”
“Obviously, since they stole the Alpha Element from around his neck before they killed him.”
“A secret that even most of the Paragons are unaware of. Or at least we assumed they were unaware of.…”
“What are you suggesting?” Wickham lowered himself onto the couch and crossed his legs “That Nathaniel is…?”
“Possibly. Although I think that Grüsser is a far more likely candidate—especially given his past.”
“And you seem completely convinced of my innocence.”
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “No, Peter, not entirely, but there's no one else I can turn to right now who wouldn't try to solve the problem using his fists first, instead of his brain.”
“Well thank—”
“And besides, you and the Professor were…close. I figure you had nothing to gain by selling the old man out.”
Wickham was already getting his fill of Hughes's gruff manner. Still, if the man was innocent he could be useful as an ally. “I appreciate that. Especially coming from someone who threatened to smack me in the mouth a few days ago.”
“Yeah, well, I'm sorry about that.”
The Sleuth watched as the large man's right hand played a nervous game with the chair's control knob, twisting it around just enough to avoid activating the seat's mechanisms.
“Things have been difficult for me lately,” Bill continued. “I'm having a hard time controlling my temper.”
“Not the best character trait for a man who wears a two-ton suit with cannons attached.”
Hughes's hand jerked into a fist and then relaxed. “I get your point.”
Wickham stood up, figuring that he might as well use his height to his advantage. “No, sir, I rather think you don't.” He walked around the chair as he spoke. “Even if I believed that one of the Paragons was a traitor, I'd need to know that I could trust you before I was willing to join you on your crusade.”
Hughes looked hurt. “Trust me? I'm one of the damn founding members, not some foreign freak who joined up once the going got good.”
The Sleuth stopped behind him, forcing the other man to crane his neck around to see him. “Are you referring to me or Grüsser?”
He snorted out a laugh. “Take your pick.”
“And yet you came to me with your secrets.”
Bill spun the chair to face the Sleuth. “I guess everyone makes mistakes.”
“Do they?” Wickham stopped and stared into the large man's face. There was a fire smoldering behind Bill Hughes's gray eyes that never seemed to completely go out, and it was burning very brightly at the moment. “And if I were to decide that we should work together on this, would you answer one question for me?”
“What's that?”
“I want to know the exact moment you decided to betray the Paragons.”
“Don't be an idiot Wickham. I'm not—”
“When you've been uncovering mysteries as long as I have you'll discover that motive is the most important of clues.” He needed to be careful. Hughes was an invalid, but hardly incapacitated—at least not yet. “The traitor had to be either you or Grüsser. But the Prussian wouldn't, I think, be so comfortable with murdering Darby to reach his ends.”
“You've gone soft in the head.”
“Given the state of the rest of me, perhaps that was only a matter of time. But I'm sound of mind enough to know for a fact that you asked Darby to make you a new suit of armor—one that would allow you to continue to fight, even in your diminished state.” He dropped his tone down and spoke in a loud whisper, “And Sir Dennis refused.”
“Darby said that my condition made any kind of new armor unsafe.” He could see Hughes's anger starting to ignite. “He said that I no longer had the skills that it would take to control something so powerful safely.”
The Sleuth was playing with fire now, and he'd need to be careful.
“So he built me this goddamned chair!” Bill flicked the control knob forward, thrusting the seat toward Wickham.
Smoothly stepping out of the way, the Sleuth continued. “And you went and found someone else. Someone who would give you what you wanted.”
“Shut up, Wickham. You don't know what you're talking about!” The chair spun to the left. Hughes's face was a mask of anger surrounded by a mane of red and white hair.
“Don't I? I'm sure whoever it was, they promised you a great deal of power in return for giving them the Automaton's new body. And of course, the information needed to kill Darby.”
“Stop talking before you make me do something that we're both not gonna like.”
Wickham shifted his tone. “It wasn't your fault, Bill. I know you didn't want him to die.” Hughes was trembling. There were tears in his eyes.
Without warning he exploded
out of the chair, closing the distance between them before Wickham could react. There was something in Hughes's hand, and he held it out in front of him as he grabbed the old man.
Wickham felt as if he'd been punched, but it was worse than that.
“You're wrong about that, Peter. I wanted Darby dead. If Lord Eschaton hadn't sent the Bomb Lance to do it, it would have been me.”
Wickham's vision was swimming, and when Hughes let go of him, he realized that he had no strength left. He tumbled to the ground, unable to feel his legs.
Hughes was still talking, tears rolling down his cheeks as he admitted to terrible things, but Peter Wickham could no longer make out the words.
The world was vanishing into a blast of pure white light. A figure emerged from the brightness, and he expected it would be Darby. Instead it was Tom who appeared before him, surrounded by a halo, his hand outstretched to lead him to the other side.
“Ironic,” he said to the figure. “It's all up to you now, you know.”
Tom said nothing, his face as impassive and immobile as always. Peter let out a little chuckle as he took his metal hand and rose up into the sky.
Whether Nathaniel liked it or not—and the way things seemed to be headed, he most assuredly didn't—he was starting to wake up. And as he drifted toward wakefulness there were new and unpleasant sensations, each one of them overwhelming the one that came before.
First was a rhythmic throbbing pain in his head, as if someone were squeezing it from the inside.
Then came a raging thirst. It was a feeling so strong it was like the opposite of drowning, a desperate need for water made even more palpable by the actual, physical dryness of his throat and tongue. He tried to swallow, but couldn't.
Next was the chill. He had slept the entire night above the blankets in his bed, while the house had cooled down considerably. Not below freezing, but cold enough that his exposed skin was prickling and complaining, with a most noticeable ache rising up from his feet. And his left foot, he could now tell, was still most decidedly damp, making it uncomfortable in two unique ways.
Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One) Page 20
