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

by Andrew P. Mayer

  The awareness of his state caused a shiver to spasm up and down his body, with his teeth chattering together every time it rolled past them.

  It was a wonder that he wasn't suffering from hypothermia. Or perhaps he was, and it simply felt perilously close to a disastrous hangover.

  He lay still for a few more moments, trying to wish himself out of consciousness and back into the gloriously unfeeling state of nonexistence that he had inhabited so blissfully just a minute before.

  Then a new feeling appeared—one so strong that it drowned out all the others. It was a rushing sensation that rose up from his stomach like a locomotive.

  Nathaniel's eyes popped open and he rolled over, his hands clawing desperately for the rubbish tin. It was a cloudy day, but still bright enough in the room that he could make out the form of the can in the gloom and pull it to his side an instant before the contents of his stomach ejected themselves into it.

  When the first round of sickness subsided he leaned back and moaned softly to himself. An image popped into his head, a vague memory of forcefully challenging one of his friends to a raw quail-egg eating contest at the club the night before. He couldn't remember where the small, speckled eggs had come from exactly, or even who had won the contest, but clearly he was the loser now. Nathaniel heaved again.

  Breathing heavily, he instinctually reached down to his trouser pockets for a handkerchief, but discovered that although he was still wearing his starched shirt, he definitely had no pants on.

  He shivered again, which led to another series of involuntary heaving. The wretched excess of the previous evening passed before his eyes as it headed into the tin.

  After the nausea passed away again, the front of his face felt as if it had been lit on fire from the inside, and everything was making the headache worse. “It is not,” he thought to himself, “a good day to be me.”

  “Tomba!” he cried out. The word came out horribly slurred. His sinuses were stuffed with things he didn't want to begin to imagine. “Tomba!” he said again, trying to make that one word as clear as he could. Nathaniel wanted towels and water, but he certainly did not want to move. Certainly he could yell loudly enough to make the machine aware of his suffering.

  And after the next round of sickness was done, he felt slightly better. The actual act of being sick seemed to take some of the headache with it, or perhaps he'd simply reached his maximum misery and the only possible next step was to feel better.

  He yelled out Tom's name a few more times. He unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled off his undershirt and blew his nose into it. He gasped and moaned again as things not meant to pass through his nose did.

  He waited for another minute to see if he would suffer any more illness. When it seemed clear that his stomach had ceased its rebellions, he rolled away from the tin.

  Settling back onto the bed, Nathaniel turned his head and stared at the wallpaper to his left. Between the long lines of velvet were thousands of colorful curlicues and other flourishes. They started to swim in front of him, and just as the fleur-de-lis pattern transformed into a marching army, he slammed his eyes shut before they could complete their assault on his constitution.

  With the world shut out, the forgotten events of the previous evening played out in his mind's eye. He saw flashes of the dinner party at the club in honor of his friend Alfred, who was finally taking that trip to Europe he had been going on about for so long. The memory was followed by a montage of what appeared to be a series of engravings, each one toppling over to reveal the next behind it. They all showed him with another drink in his hand, finally giving way to the quail eggs being broken over his mouth, his head tipped back to receive each one.

  After that was the barely conscious trip home in the hansom cab, the long crawl up the stairs as he tried to disrobe with a bottle of bourbon in his hand. Then yet another argument with the damnable machine, and finally, “Sarah…”

  He let out a sigh. Perhaps the words they'd exchanged last night were irrevocable, perhaps not. Maybe this would convince whatever part of him it was that made him such a fool for her that it was time to put her behind him. There were certainly eligible women who were actually interested in a wealthy young man of good breeding. “And none of you will ever be Sarah,” he said out loud. Followed by, “No! No, no, no.”

  Opening his eyes, Nathaniel pulled himself upright, then swung both feet onto the floor. After a few seconds, once he felt he had managed to gain his equilibrium, he stood up.

  As he rose from the bed it dawned on him that one foot was still covered by a boot while the other was not. The traitorous footwear threw him off balance, and he tumbled forward to his hands and knees, landing perilously close to the unspeakable steaming bin nearby.

  Kneeling there like a dog, various aches and pains dancing through his body, an image rose up in his head of a packet of headache powder. He could see it lying there, his salvation waiting for him in the bathroom closet.

  This was a very motivating vision, even more so as he had managed to do something painful to the palm of his right hand when he fell that the medicine might also help with. He rolled over, came up to a sitting position, and grabbed his booted foot.

  The boot was attempting to resist his desire to get it off of him, and when it finally did come free, it did so all at once. Nathaniel rolled backward, and there was a “thunk” as the dreaded tin tipped over, leaking its horribleness out onto the floor.

  He moved faster than he would have thought possible only a few seconds before, successfully managing to rise up and head away from the oozing mess. He grabbed the blanket, stripping it off the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders as he stepped out into the hallway.

  He cried out for Tom a few more times as he wandered down the upstairs hall toward the water closet, but if the machine was in the house then it either couldn't hear him or it was simply being obstinate about doing what it was supposed to, like a stuck lever on an old boiler.

  Reaching the bathroom, he stepped onto the tile floor. His already-frozen feet complained to him even more bitterly as he padded across the cold white ceramic to the medicine cabinet. By the time he reached it and pulled it open he was no longer sure if he could feel his toes. He dug through the shelves, shoving aside various tonics, tinctures, and grooming products until he pulled out a packet of Dr. Hansen's headache powder and a clean glass.

  He traveled back to the sink and filled his cup. Opening the paper parcel he poured in the contents and stirred it for a moment with his finger to encourage its dissolving before knocking it all back into his throat in a single shot, leaving a white trail of undissolved medicine inside the glass.

  As he bent down to fill the cup for a second drink he caught his reflection in the mirror in front of him. “Good Lord, Nathaniel, you look like hell,” he said to himself, and smiled.

  His eyes were red rimmed and puffy, and the deep red of the blanket thrown around his shoulders only managed to heighten how pasty and white his skin appeared to be. His dark brown hair, usually well coiffed, was sticking out at all angles.

  He grabbed a brush and ran it through the tangled bush a few times, but his hair seemed to be actively resisting any attempts to get it under control.

  Unscrewing the taps again he splashed ice-cold water on his face. It stung, but at least it managed to bring some color into his cheeks.

  As he scraped his teeth clean with a rag Nathaniel tried to decide what he would do next. “A bath, definitely a bath,” he said to his reflection.

  With Tom missing and none of the regular house staff due to be in until later in the day, Nathaniel would need to go downstairs and light the water heater himself if he fancied actual hot water to bathe in.

  He didn't relish the idea of journeying all the way down to the kitchen on a cold morning, but if he could actually survive down there he might well do with something to eat. “Something simple,” he said to his stomach's rumbling reproach. “And a drink,” he mumbled to himself. “A hair of the dog t
o get me back on my feet.”

  Taking a deep breath to fortify himself for the journey ahead, he plodded into the hallway and navigated the main staircase in a series of slow, woozy steps.

  Taking a moment to steady himself at the bottom, he took a left turn across the marble floor of the entryway into the main hallway, gaining momentum as he went.

  It was still mostly dark down on the main floor. The only daylight in the hallway was what came through the glass of the French parlor doors. When he reached them he glanced over to his right, took a look into the room, and stopped.

  It was Tom. He was bent over above…something.

  He narrowed his eyes. He knew what it was, but couldn't quite be sure….Then it suddenly came into shocking focus—a body, prone on the floor. And the Automaton's hands were searching through the unconscious (dead?) man's coat.

  What remained of Tom's clothes were completely ripped and burned. His pants were shredded, and his jacket hung on him in tatters. Almost all the exposed metal on his body was blackened and scorched.

  There was the remnants of a leather glove over his left hand, but the right limb had been replaced entirely with some sort of misshapen, metal bludgeon.

  Whether it was the powder finally starting to work, or the terror of seeing the metal man in this bestial state, the pain in his head seemed to vanish completely.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, even more details began to emerge. Blood was pooled underneath the figure on floor, and the dead man had a mask dangling around his neck and a long leather jacket. It was Wickham. “The Sleuth,” Nathaniel gasped. The man was clearly dead.

  The Automaton's head swiveled up to face Nathaniel. His face was mostly gone, and whatever had burned the rest of him had also done its work on the porcelain, leaving none of its features visible except for a single, badly scorched eye.

  Nathaniel jumped back. “No!” he yelled without thinking. Clearly having heard him, the Automaton rose up smoothly and turned toward him. Despite what appeared to be grave damage, any traces of the limp that he had had over the last few weeks were completely gone, and he took a long step toward the doors. Tom was trying to say something to him, but it was muffled by the glass and the pounding roar that had filled Nathaniel's ears.

  Looking to slow down the Automaton, he grabbed the tall bookcase standing next to the parlor doors. It wobbled as if it was ready to come toppling over, as so many of the shelves in the mansion seemed to be constantly threatening to do, but actually getting it to fall was taking more effort than he had imagined it would.

  He clearly heard Tom call out his name. Realizing that the machine would be on him in an instant filled Nathaniel with a surge of energy, and the shelf went over, spilling Sir Dennis's precious books down onto the floor in a satisfying cascade.

  He just hoped it would at least slow down the mechanical monster long enough to give him a chance to reach the study.

  Nathaniel was sprinting now. When he reached the end of the hallway he turned right and ran into the rear study. It was a small writing room, no more than twelve feet in either direction, with a massive desk up against the window and built-in shelves on the other three walls. They were filled with the knickknacks and curios that Sir Dennis had gathered together from his adventures around the world, including a number of weapons taken from villains that the Paragons had defeated. None of them, unfortunately, were still in working order. Darby had always taken great pleasure, as he had described it, in “taking the tools of villainy and stripping them of their power.”

  “Always too damn clever,” Nathaniel muttered to himself as he slid his index finger under the second shelf from the top. He drew it across the wood until he felt the familiar bump of the hidden switch. When he pressed it, a section of the shelving swung open in response, revealing a secret passage.

  Nathaniel pulled the wall shut behind him, throwing a bolt into place on the inside. It might give him a moment's respite, but the Automaton knew where the entrance was, and was certainly strong enough to force it open. There wasn't a place in the entire Darby mansion that the damn machine couldn't reach.

  As he entered the workshop at the end of the short corridor, the gas lamps ignited and brightened automatically, responding to the pressure plate hidden in the floor. The room was a pleasant little brick chamber thirty feet square, stuffed with workbenches and machinery.

  The room was built underneath a false chimney, and Nathaniel could see the shafts of morning light coming down through it.

  He pulled a large metal switch on the wall. There was a hiss and a thunk, followed by a hum, as hidden machinery activated beneath his feet and two metal plates on the floor began to swing apart, revealing a hole underneath them.

  This room had been built by Sir Dennis to be the secret lair of the Turbine. “Your personal Aereodrome,” was how Darby had described it when he first showed it to him. But Nathaniel hadn't been inside it for more than six months, having moved into the Hall of Paragons the same day that he had become a member.

  When the plates were perfectly vertical the humming stopped for a moment, then began again as they sank straight down into the ground. When the frame began to rise up from the storage silo, Nathaniel fully expected to see the original Turbine suit resting on it—the one that Darby had given to him when he was sixteen years old.

  Although it seemed crude compared to what he wore now, the first Turbine costume had still been an amazing piece of technology. With it a man could leap over incredible distances, taking off like a rocket and then floating safely back to earth like a feather.

  It wasn't truly flying, but with it he had learned to take to the air, and he had surprised his fair share of villains.

  But what was hanging on the frame wasn't his original prototype at all. It was something entirely new—the new Turbine outfit that Darby had been promising for so long. Despite his fear, and the hangover, a smile lit up his face. “Darby, you old bastard, you finished it. You actually finished it!”

  Up until now the main flying engine had been a bulky box with the apparatus encased inside of it. That had been replaced by four small engines, each attached directly to a large wedge-shaped wing. Metal tubes coming out of the top of each engine joined together and plugged into the center of the wing. Curved steel pods covered in ornate etchings of birds in flight were attached to the thighs. Clearly they were the main source of the fortified steam used by the thrusters.

  The harness was made of silk rope, webbing, and wire, with control stirrups at each extremity. A series of switches and dials sat on a belt around the waist.

  Nathaniel's wonder at seeing his new costume was shattered by a heavy pounding from the hallway behind him. “Master…Winthorp, I know you're in there.”

  Nathaniel searched around desperately. “Tom, I need you to leave me alone right now.” He had come here with the intention of finding his old suit and using it to escape through the skylight hatch. But as beautiful as this new outfit was, without Darby here to explain how it actually worked, Nathaniel was trapped.

  Tom's singsong tones were closer now. “I can't do that until we've had a chance to talk. I think you've misunderstood the situation.”

  Nathaniel balled his hands into fists and pounded them softly against his still-aching head. He needed a plan. “I'm happy to talk with you later, Tom, but for right now I'd feel safer if you stayed on the other side of that door.”

  “I didn't kill…Mr. Wickham…Nathaniel.”

  “Of course you didn't, Tom.” As he circled the suit he saw that there was a holster on the right side of the harness at around chest height, with what appeared to be a gun sitting inside of it. It was designed to be drawn with the left hand.

  Nathaniel pulled it out and took a closer look. A thick rubber tube came out of the side of it and plugged directly into one of the fortified steam containers. It looked like a standard Colt six-shooter, but the firing cylinder had been replaced with a large bronze dial. He pushed against it with his thumb and it clicked
as it rotated, clearly defining different levels of…something. Considering Darby's personality, the low level was probably used for heating tea while the next one would be useful if you were looking to demolish a mountaintop—and there were six levels on the dial

  He stuck the weapon back into its holster.

  Tom's voice rang out again. “Sir, the…Paragons are in great danger. I believe that one of them is a traitor, and that he was responsible for the murder of…the Sleuth.”

  “That's important information, Tom.” His words sounded patronizing as he spoke them, but his stepfather had cautioned him that lies always sounded more obvious to the liar. “And we must tell them as soon as possible.”

  Nathaniel needed to call for help, and he needed to do it quickly. Pressing a button above the switch that controlled the frame elevator caused a long metal rod to drop out from a slot in the brick wall of the chimney. When it was fully extended it snapped into place at the back of the frame, and the skylight at the top of the chimney popped open.

  Icy snowflakes glinted in the morning sunlight as the wind blew them down from the roof. A groggy thought in the back of Nathaniel's head pointed out to him that at some point in the last few minutes the morning clouds had cleared completely, revealing a sunny blue sky.

  “I'm going to come in now, sir,” Tom said, followed by a crash of splintering wood.

  Finding a familiar-looking button on the belt, Nathaniel pressed it. A hatch popped open on the top of the wing, followed by a hiss as the propellant ignited, and a flare shot straight up into the air, missing the lip of the skylight by less than an inch.

  When he brought his arms down he saw Tom standing in front of him. “Please, sir. I need to talk with you, alone.”

  The Automaton's burnt and broken appearance was even more horrific in the daylight. Something had melted in whatever conflagration it was that had consumed his clothes. The colored material had burned as it dripped down over his metal parts, and it looked almost like charred meat on his metal bones. Nathaniel could see the cracked lens of Tom's camera peeking from behind the broken mask of Tom's face.