A sharp click pierced the air.
“No, sir!” said Tom. He threw himself out of the way, diving to the left, looking for cover behind a freestanding bookshelf. The first bullets were still ripping through the air when the gas ignited.
Flame filled the room instantly, loose paper bursting into fire in bright yellow flashes. The flame gathered together in a fireball and rose up toward the ceiling, flowing out across the frescos painted on it. The scene of dancing satyrs, nymphs, and other fantastic creatures had been commissioned by Christopher Darby, based on the beloved fairy stories that had been read to him as a child. The cheerful celebration of fantasy turned black and burned away in an instant.
An amplified scream came from inside the Iron-Clad as the fire washed back over the armor. The Gatling guns continued to churn blindly, pumping out bullets that ripped huge holes into the walls.
As the initial conflagration burned away, what remained of the room was smothered in smoke and flame. Yellow fire billowed from the ends of the broken gas mains, with a jet of flame blowing directly onto the left shoulder of the Iron-Clad's armor.
It only took a moment before the magazine inside cooked off, vaporizing the shoulder as it exploded. The scream that Hughes made this time had a tone of genuine suffering that the previous one had lacked.
Looking to escape from the fire that was broiling him alive, the Iron-Clad jerked forward, finally pulling himself free of the wall and moving out into the room. Air rushed in through the hole he had created, the flames burning brighter as they fed on the fresh oxygen.
The suit only managed to move a few feet forward before the floor began to disintegrate under the weight of the metal. Bullets were still firing from the remaining gun, splintering the floor as the suit topped toward the ground. The amplification system was also still in working order, and every word Hughes spoke inside as he toppled over boomed through the room. “No! Damn it, no!”
There was a second loud crash as flaming bookcases tumbled over, and Tom managed to keep out of their way. So far he had managed to remain relatively unscathed by the Armageddon that had engulfed the rest of the room. “Please…Mr. Hughes, stop firing!”
But it was only when the Iron-Clad had completely fallen over and the front of the Gatling gun was jammed into the floor that it ceased to shoot. Another scream rose up from inside the armor, both weaker and more desperate than before.
The ceiling was fully ablaze now, and the books all around them were igniting as well. Steam rose up from the floor as the moisture in the cork was boiled away by the heat.
Then the floor of the library gave way entirely, sending up a swirl of smoke and glowing embers as the burning timbers collapsed.
It was impossible to tell if the lack of any noise coming from inside the Iron-Clad as it crashed through into the basement below was due to shock, surprise, injury, or simply the amplification system finally giving up.
Tom tried to move toward the Iron-Clad, but there was no way to reach the suit that wasn't blocked by flame. He began to slowly squat downward, ratcheting up tension in his legs. He let go in a burst, flinging himself into the air, letting his momentum thrust him toward the hole like a demented mechanical frog.
The Iron-Clad armor had toppled over during the fall, and Tom landed sprawling on the front of the suit's metal chest.
The massive chandelier broke free from the ceiling above them and began its descent, heading straight down toward the hole and the Automaton. As it fell it tore out the gas piping from the ceiling behind it and traveled along a graceful arc that took it a few feet to the left of the hole. It impacted with the floor and exploded into a rain of hot glass beads and metal rods that clattered as they struck the metal bodies of the Iron-Clad and the Automaton.
When the crystal shower subsided, Tom rapped his hand hard against the Iron-Clad. “Mr. Hughes?” There was no answer from inside.
Bracing his feet on either side, Tom slipped the fingers of his left hand underneath the edge of the metal face of Ares and began to tug with all his strength. At first nothing moved. The only visible clue to his exertion was the steam rising up from his wrist. It was a small wisp at first, barely noticeable in the smoke and heat, but after a few moments it was a continuous stream jetting out of him.
His right foot slipped out from underneath him, and he crashed chest-to-chest with the soot-covered suit. Taking a moment to find firmer footing, he started again.
If there had been anyone able to hear the sound of Tom's heart above the roar of the fire they would have noticed that it was beating faster and faster every second.
There wasn't a single grunt or moan from the Automaton as he bore down, putting more and more energy into the effort to pry off the Iron-Clad's face. Then the metal face began to shriek as Tom's strength overwhelmed it. Rivets popped, one after another, and the entire disk came free, flipping over and away from him, taking the ring finger of his left hand along with it.
Underneath was a four-inch-wide hole in the metal. “At least that part of your armor's…design remains unchanged,” said Tom, reaching his hand into it and finding a handle a few inches down. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn't budge, the heat having wedged it into place. The seond time he applied more force, and this time the sound of suffering metal came from inside of him.
Pulling out his left hand he shoved the end of the pneumatic gun on his right arm straight into the hole, rotating the barrel with his other hand. There were four sharp snaps one after another as he fired, and when Tom reached back into the hole the dial turned easily.
The Automaton took a few steps back as the lip of a triangular plate in the front of the suit popped open. He levered it forward, and as it opened William Hughes rose out of the armor, lifted up on a mechanical arm.
His body had been strapped to a thick pole covered in shaped padding and leather. It was a new version of the saddle that Darby had designed to keep him in place if the machine was upended, and it had worked as designed. Hughes dangled in the air, unconscious and upside down, his thick red and white mane tied tightly back and away from his face.
This new version of the machine had been designed with Hughes's infirmities in mind. His legs, once an integral part of the machine's control functions, were bound into a tube of thick white canvas that braced them to the pole while keeping them tucked in and out of the way. There were bloodstains on it now, although Tom couldn't immediately make out just how much damage the man's body had taken.
The flames above them were raging higher, getting closer and hotter with each passing second. As they licked over the edges of the hole stray wisps of Hughes's hair began to curl and burn from the heat. Tom reached his arms around the pole beneath the saddle and yanked. From somewhere deep inside the armor there was a protest as a mechanism shattered, and then the entire seat tore free from the machine.
Cradling the entire harness in his arms, Tom slid down the Iron-Clad's torso.
It was much cooler down near the foundations, although the flames were on the march now, burning through the ballroom floor, flickering across the basement ceiling as they ignited the wood.
Tom turned to face the broken wicker chair where he had placed Nathaniel, but it was empty now.
Tom braced the saddle across his shoulders, steadying it with his left hand, and started toward the stairs. In order to keep his movements steady with the weight of a man hanging off the back of his shoulders he needed to lean forward at an almost comically steep angle, as if he were walking into a stiff wind. He lifted his right arm and used the pneumatic gun to blow open the basement door.
When he reached the main hallway smoke was everywhere, although the main part of the mansion had only begun to be engulfed by the fire.
Tom used the blunt surface of his right forearm to smash open the doors to the parlor. Wickham's body still lay there, unmoved from where it had been when he first discovered it.
He propped the pole carrying Hughes up against the wall and with his hand free, Tom reache
d down into Wickham's coat.
After rummaging around for a moment, he pulled out a battered leather notebook with a black leather cover embossed with the image of a magnifying glass.
Tom began to rise, then stopped. Reaching down again he pulled Wickham's mask up and over the dead man's head. Underneath it the man's eyes were still open, his lips pulled back as if he were about to deliver one of his stern admonitions.
Tom lifted up his right chest plate slightly, shoving the book underneath it, and then snapped the bronze slab back into place. He picked up the leather mask and tied it around his neck.
The flames had traveled quickly up the hallway, and the fire was licking up against the glass doors of the parlor. Tom grabbed one of the velvet-covered seats and spun in a complete circle, then let it go in a graceful arc.
The bay window at the far end of the room had been a gorgeous piece of work, with multicolored diamond-shaped panes and an intricate stained-glass pattern along the top that had spelled out the phrase “Insight is the truth behind knowledge” in Latin. The chair smashed it all into nonsense, turning the glass into a shower of fireworks that scattered across the snow.
Tom grabbed a blanket from the back of the divan and used it to swaddle Hughes's unconscious body. Heaving the pole back over his shoulder, he jumped through the shattered window and stepped out into the yard.
Nathaniel, dressed as Turbine, was waiting there to meet him.
Since finding herself trapped by her clothing in her father's closet, Sarah found that she had lost what little interest she had for the sumptuous materials and finely tailored jackets and skirts that fascinated her friends. She resented the clothing she was forced to bind herself in every time she stepped out of the house, and the tight skirts and corsets left her feeling as vulnerable as a child.
But as an eligible lady of society, it was expected that she be a model of feminine couture. Being fashionable meant not only wearing the latest and best but also being well versed in the hows, whys, and wherefores of the way that two sets of clothing that appeared almost identical at first glance could actually sit at opposite ends of the fashion universe, with one being the height of envy and the other little more than a hopeless rag, all due to the placement of a few ribbons.
Knowing the difference required a tremendous amount of time and thought, including the need to fill your head with volumes of trivial information gleaned from the pages of Harper's Bazar.
Meanwhile, she was also supposed to be aware of all the latest gossip about who had said what to whom, what kisses had been stolen in the corridor, and who was in or out, with a fine coating of scandal on top. At least having a widower father who wore a leather costume with a smokestack hat and carried a steam-powered pistol made you immune to some of the day-to-day fripperies.
Even so, it was all considered so desperately important, right up until the moment you needed to forget it all in order to start on the next round of ephemera and idle chatter.
Sarah found it exhausting at the best of times. But since the incident on the bridge she had become more and more aware of how sad and fragile the world she lived in truly was—at any moment it could all come crashing down in a heap of death, violence, and secrets.
And now she had been tainted by the conspiracy. She had secrets that could cost men their lives. Since she had put the burning weight of Wickham's key around her neck, it had become impossible for her to focus on any of the hundreds of unwritten rules and rituals that were the foundation of New York society.
But needs must, and spring would soon be upon them. So this Saturday Sarah had headed out with a few friends to visit a new downtown hat store that “everyone was raving about,” and possibly pick up some colorful frocks to wear when the winter finally broke and her period of mourning had come to an end.
And for the first few hours she had enjoyed spending time with Sally Norbitt and Penny Seals. It reminded her of simpler days, although she was painfully aware how few women her age still remained unmarried. And it was clear from the way she spoke that even homely Penny would soon be engaged to the dashing Hamilton Brooks.
But as the other two girls had nattered on about who would (and wouldn't) be coming to the wedding, Sarah's mood had grown progressively darker. She had realized that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to escape the vortex of her life, the destiny of Sarah Stanton would always be to become just like them.
The breaking point had come when Sally asked her what she thought of a hat festooned with tiny ribbons. Seeing the ridiculous chapeau strapped to the side of her friend's head made her lose her ability to hold back her frustration. “It's utterly pointless and stupid!” she had snapped, and stormed out of the store.
Sarah had traveled half a block before she realized that the chaperones were nowhere to be seen. She slipped into the crowd and started walking north. There would, of course, be hell to pay. There always was when she broke the rules.
Disappointing her father was never fun, but if she returned home before her carriage did then no one could accuse her of deliberately causing anyone emotional distress. Except, perhaps, for Sally and Penny, and at that moment she didn't much care about their feelings.
Sarah couldn't remember the last time, if ever, she had strolled through the streets of New York all by herself, but at the moment she enjoyed it immensely, even if she was receiving occasional hard stares from the passersby. It was a cold February day, but the sun had started to come out, and she hugged the daylight on the west side of Fifth Avenue.
After twenty blocks her feet started to hurt. Her leather boots, although well made, were hardly designed for hiking, and Sarah was sure that her feet would end up covered in blisters. The rest of her outfit was similarly ill suited for the trek. Under her skirts things were shifting and binding in ways that would demand some clearly unladylike behavior to fix.
She decided that her best refuge for some badly needed sartorial repairs would be found at the Darby mansion. And while she didn't relish seeing Nathaniel, especially after his boorish behavior the night before, she could at least count on Tom to allow her to rest peacefully until a cab could be called to see her safely home.
When she was within five blocks of the mansion Sarah saw a large cloud of black smoke rising into the sky, as if someone were burning a large bonfire somewhere in the vicinity. And as she walked closer the acrid scent that reached her nose clearly spoke of something beyond just burning wood or leaves.
By the time she reached the entrance to Darby Park, it was clear that fire was coming from the mansion, and something was very, very wrong. She listened for the ringing of the fireboxes, hoping that someone had already reported the emergency, but she heard nothing.
Looking around the street she saw a tall man in a bowler hat and a black greatcoat taking long strides across the snow-covered sidewalk, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, as if there couldn't possibly be a huge fire burning only a few hundred feet away.
She ran toward him as fast as she could in her ladylike skirts and boots. “Sir! Sir!” At first it seemed as if the man might simply ignore her, so she tried again. “Excuse me, sir!”
When the man finally stopped and looked up at her, he seemed very upset at having his stride interrupted. She almost found herself smiling in spite of the emergency. New Yorkers never change, do they? she thought to herself.
“Madam,” he replied in a clipped tone from underneath his bushy black mustache.
The sound of urgency in Sarah's voice surprised her. “I need to report a fire!” She pointed to the sky.
His gaze followed her hand up and over to the column of smoke. His eyes widened slightly. “My God,” he muttered. “But I'm sure that someone has reported that by now.”
She pointed at the metal firebox standing on a pole nearby. “Wouldn't the alarm be ringing if they had?”
It was clear from the grimace on his face that he was most unhappy about having his day interrupted in order to play the Good Samaritan. “You're
probably right.”
“My friends live in there, sir! There's no ‘probably’ about it.”
When he saw the look of anger on her face something in his demeanor changed instantly. “Of course, you're right! A most dreadful event! I'm sorry, madam,” he said with a tone of contrition and a hint of a French accent. “I'll get help. You just wait here.”
The man begun to run, and Sarah waved after him. “Thank you, sir! Thank you so much.”
She had no intention of waiting, of course. Men seemed to believe that it was the natural order of things that once a male was in motion the nearby women must remain at rest, rooted to the ground until a figure of masculine authority could evaluate the situation and start barking orders.
Sarah had no patience for such nonsense. While she might not be as strong as most men, there were precious few emergencies where another set of hands couldn't be put to better use than simply fluttering around in the air, no matter what their sex.
Using a copy of the key that Darby had given to her, Sarah unlocked the gate. It was a simple padlock, and as she spun the key in the lock a bank of ominous clouds rolled over the sun, turning the burnt orange sky to a dull metal gray. She pushed the gate open just far enough to slip inside, then left it unlocked behind her. It would be necessary for the fire engines to be able to get inside when they arrived.
As she walked down the driveway she felt a pang of guilt for having left Nathaniel. She had no wish to see him hurt.
But he wasn't alone—Mr. Wickham and Tom were there with him. They'd make sure that he wouldn't sleep through a conflagration, no matter how much he'd had to drink.
When she got close enough to actually see the mansion she realized that she had underestimated the size of the disaster. Flames were shooting twenty feet into the air above the roof of the main hall, and it was clear that they were spreading quickly. The entire northern end of the house had collapsed, and smoke was pouring out from it in a thick column, barreling up toward the sky. It was almost ridiculous to think that there was enough fuel in the house to support so much flame.
Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One) Page 23
