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

by Andrew P. Mayer

  Everywhere it touched Lord Eschaton's skin he turned from gray to pink. Tiny electrical arcs flew into the air, leaving dark welts behind. He let out a scream and fell to his knees.

  Holding the arm out in front of him, Tom continued to let the steam pour out of him until the cloud had enveloped them both.

  When the vapor slid toward the ground, Eschaton's skin was white, with a slightly golden hue. It was clear from his features that he had at least some Asian heritage. The tall man looked down at his own hands, shocked. “What have you done to me?”

  “Something you thought would take more than your lifetime.” Tom whacked him expertly, almost surgically, with his left arm. “I cured you.” He bashed Lord Eschaton repeatedly about the head and shoulders, driving him to the ground. With each blow the skin turned red, but didn't break. After a few strikes the tall man landed in the snow with a crunch. “Unfortunately it won't last long.”

  A wire extruded itself from the end of Tom's right arm. “Hopefully a few of these will hold you.” It curled into a circular shape as it came out of him.

  As Tom bent down to apply the impromptu restraint there was a nearby clank, and before he could respond a harpoon smashed into him, throwing him backward. The lance failed to penetrate the iron armor of his right shoulder, shattering as it struck. Metal shards flew in every direction.

  “You forgot about me, didn't you?” the Bomb Lance said, as he stood in front of Tom and smiled.

  Tom rose up, snow falling off of him. “I misjudged how long it would take for you to regain your…bearings and load your weapon.”

  “None of us are perfect.” As Murphy moved his left arm upward there was a quiet whistle. A four-inch metal rod was now sticking out of his shoulder, appearing out of nowhere. The Irishman turned to look at it with disbelief. “What in hell?”

  Tom was aiming his right arm directly at Murphy. “A new trick that I learned from you.”

  “Damn you!” He tried to aim and fire, but two more metal rods appeared next to the first. Murphy fired wildly, his harpoon making a ringing sound as it pierced the copper skin of the arm of Liberty.

  Tom fired two more of the tiny spears into the Irishman's legs. Murphy dropped to the ground, screaming in agony. “You're a monster! A damned monster!”

  Tom got to his feet. “I'm a…machine. Something you should be very…glad of, since I do not have an urge to take…revenge on you for killing my creator.” He fired another rod into the fallen man, pinning his shoulder to the ground. “Not…much of one, anyway.”

  Lord Eschaton's voice boomed up from behind him. “So you do have emotions—the ability to hate, perhaps?” The gray had rolled back over him, covering him completely except for two small spots in his chest where it seemed unable to retake its hold. White lines pulsed around the place where shards of iron—broken splinters of the Bomb Lance's harpoon—were still sticking out of his body. He grinned his black grin and then pulled one of the shards out of his skin. The blood on it was white.

  Tom held out his right arm again. He fired off a stream of rods, each one pinging as it bounced off of the huge man.

  Lord Eschaton smiled. “It's over now.” Moving around to the side of the Automaton, Eschaton grabbed the iron arm and twisted. “Eli made that for me. I'm going to take this back.” There was a terrible sound of wrenching metal as the iron arm tore free. A cloud of steam hissed out from Tom's shoulder. Where it touched Eschaton's skin the darkness thinned, but didn't disappear.

  “You had me, but you failed to finish me.” He raised the arm up above his head. “I'm afraid that was your only chance.” He brought the freed limb down in a vicious arc. It connected with Tom's head and spun him around.

  Without missing a beat, Eschaton reversed his motion and smashed it back up again. Stumbling backward, Tom collapsed against the arm of Liberty. The copper let out a hollow ring. “Stop.” After the next blow Tom's head lolled to one side, torn free from the mechanisms that had controlled it. Water gurgled up from the tube in his neck.

  Tom lifted up his remaining arm to defend himself. Lord Eschaton smacked it away, then pinned it against the copper arm with his foot. He raised the iron arm up like a club and rained down blow after blow. The Automaton's metal face was torn away, then the eyes, the glass orbs shattering on the ground as the wires holding them in place ripped free.

  “I am sorry about this, Tom. You were something very special.” With the next blow the head came away entirely, tumbling toward Murphy, who was still attempting to pull one of the rods out of his shoulder.

  “Stay dead, you monster,” the Irishman said as the battered brass skull rolled to a stop.

  Eschaton reached down and ripped open the front of Tom's shirt. The Automaton's legs were drumming against the arm of Liberty. A heavy grinding started to rise up from his chest. “I'm not sure if you can still hear me, Tom.” He wrapped his fingers around the brass chest plates and pulled. They came away with a series of pops, and when he threw them to the ground they landed in a patch of snow with a dull thud. “But I want you to know that you did the best you possibly could.” The cogs inside of Tom were still moving, metal rods and wires sliding around toward his shoulder, trying to form some kind of rudimentary arm. “It wasn't your fault. It was too late from the moment it began.”

  Throwing the iron limb aside, Lord Eschaton reached in and wrapped his hand around Tom's heart. “There has always been corruption in the Paragons.” The first tug pulled up the whole torso with it. “The seeds were planted when Darby founded that ridiculous organization, and it has taken root in the years that followed.” Then he let Tom slide down onto the ground. “All I did was water it a little bit.”

  Holding Tom by the cage around his heart, Eschaton smashed the Automaton against the arm. Cogs flew out in every direction. “They think they're civilized men, but just under the surface lives their vanity and anger.” After a first few blows the legs stopped moving, simply dangling in the air. “Darby's desire to see the best in humanity blinded him to it.”

  He threw Tom to the ground and stepped onto his waist. Reaching down he ripped the brass cage free from the center of Tom's chest. Cogs and springs spilled out onto the concrete.

  Removed from the body, the heart was little more than a large metal sphere held in a brass cage. Spinning rods jutted out of it at different angles, a circular cog at the end of each one. The toothed wheels spun back and forth, seeming almost desperate to find something to latch onto. A small jet of steam sprayed out from it in a regular beat.

  On the bottom of the brass sphere was a large bolt with a wing nut on top. “Can you still hear me now, Automaton? I wonder.” He began to unscrew the bolt. “Where does your body end and your thoughts begin?” There was a metallic squeal as metal threads twisted against each other. “We may never know.

  “Darby thought his Alpha Element would save the world—a source of clean, limitless energy that would power a new Utopia.” After a few more turns the bolt came free. “But it's a lie. Technology alone won't save humanity. We aren't such noble creatures.” Eschaton slipped the bolt out with his gloved hand, and the instant he did so the heart stopped.

  “Here it is.” Held in the other end of the bolt was a small, shining metal shaft. It cast a wavering, glowing light that glimmered off the copper arm standing above him. “Here is the alpha to my omega.”

  Murphy's voice rose up from nearby. “Did you find it, Lord?”

  Eschaton nodded without taking his gaze off the object. “I did.” He handed the empty heart to the other man, and the smile on Lord Eschaton's face grew wider.

  “Finally, I have everything I need.” He slipped the element into a lead case and dropped it into his pocket. “Now we can—”

  There was a sound like a thunderous belch, and Eschaton flew off the ground like a leaf on the wind. He landed five yards away, falling hard as momentum abandoned him back into the brutal hands of gravity.

  The wind struck Murphy, as well, but only indirectly. As he sli
d across the ground the heart was torn from his hands, and it landed heavily on the concrete.

  Standing next to Liberty's arm was a female figure wrapped in a man's leather coat that was clearly far too big for her. It was held in place by a thick belt strapped around her waist. A black leather mask covered her face, while the rest of her features were hidden by a curtain of leather that dropped down below her nose.

  She looked down at the Automaton's body. “You killed him,” she said in a threatening tone as she pointed the gun in her hand directly at the fallen form of Lord Eschaton. “I'll tear you apart!”

  After the argument with her father, Sarah had spent two days mostly in her room, and mostly alone.

  For all her father's bluster, she was hardly a prisoner in the house. There had been an invitation to tea with Lady Mardens, and she had even received messages from two of her old school friends offering to come by and commiserate with her. At first she felt a little guilty for being so antisocial, especially considering that she had been completely absent from any events since the death of Darby almost two months before.

  But her face was still marked from the glass. And while she would have appreciated the company, the last thing she needed to be doing was trying to explain her cuts and bruises to women who thought that having too much salt in their fricassee was a terrible act of violence.

  At least the physical wounds she had incurred at the Darby house had begun to close up and scab over. Now it was the emotional pain that caused her the most discomfort.

  She had spent most the night after the confrontation crying. Yesterday, after managing to gain some composure, she had admitted to herself that the girl she had been only a few short years before was dead and gone. Then Sarah had cried all the more when she realized how utterly maudlin and self-absorbed she was being, considering the real loss that had been going on around her. Later that day she decided that it had really been more about Sir Dennis than it had been about herself.

  But Sarah had found herself unable to genuinely weep for Darby's death. The feelings of rage and frustration could open up the taps, but the tears wouldn't flow when she thought of the old man himself. She wondered what was wrong with her, that she could be so unfeeling. But perhaps she just wasn't ready to truly grieve for him yet.

  Sarah peered out of her frosted window, staring down the street at the flickering gas lamps. Things were happening out there right now—millions of people living their lives, in a million different ways. But, she wondered to herself, how many of them carried the Paragon's greatest secret around their necks?

  Somewhere down the hall a door was violently flung open, sending out a booming sound that rattled the walls of her room. It was followed by a flurry of footsteps—her father's stocking feet pounding the floor as he ran.

  Sarah jumped up and pressed her ear to the door. Her father was calling for the footman, demanding that someone flag down a carriage, the horses having already been put to bed for the evening.

  She cracked the door open to better be able to hear what it was that was going on.

  “When did you get this? Why wasn't I told?” Her father's voice was loud and agitated. “Get on the telegraph and let the others know! If this is true…Damn that metal man!”

  Sarah leaned back and gasped. “Tom!”

  She opened the door wider this time. Her father was screaming out requests followed by mumbled, inaudible replies. “Where the hell are my boots! I'll need to go by the Hall first, and there's no damn time! Who's on duty now?”

  It wasn't the first time such an emergency had swept over the Stanton household. Nor was it even the tenth. But it was one of the first times she could remember since her mother died that she had not been a part of the commotion. Her father would charge out of his office, screaming that there was an emergency at the Hall, and the staff would call the continued screaming. Up until now she had always been a part of preparing him to “head out into the action” as he liked to put it.

  She closed the door and leaned back against it. Sarah hadn't just spent the last few days crying. She had been considering plans of her own. What she would do if the Automaton needed her…Her eyes glanced over to the bed.

  But what if it wasn't really Tom? Perhaps it was just Nathaniel, or any one of the others, caught up in another nonsensical battle, fighting some trumped-up gang leader and an army of dandies…

  “What other mechanical man could he have been talking about?” And if it was Tom, and if he needed her help, she had promised to come help him. But her previous attempt to protect the Automaton had resulted in her nearly losing one of her feet to frostbite. People who stood in the way of the Paragons got hurt in the most surprising ways.

  And even if she could escape, there was no way that she could figure out where Tom was…Sneaking into the Hall of Paragons on a Saturday morning was one thing, but in an emergency it would be buzzing with preparations for battle, with both heroes and servants preparing.

  Perhaps she could hide out nearby, and follow them when they headed out….

  She shook her head and spoke sternly to herself. “You're being ridiculous, Sarah. You're just a girl—not an adventurer.” She was standing on thin ice as it was. If her father discovered her chasing the Paragons, there was no telling how much trouble she would be in.

  And she didn't want things to get any worse. She had already decided that she wouldn't let her father force her into some loveless society marriage. But waging that war would have to be done with guile and patience. If she tried something now he'd have her wed in a month, just to get her out of his hair.

  She closed her eyes and tried to order her thoughts. The anxiety inside of her only seemed to grow.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she fell to the floor and pulled the box out from underneath the bed. She lifted it up and tumbled the contents out onto the mattress.

  Sarah reached down and picked up the pneumatic gun. It had taken some work to keep the weapon a secret from Jennifer and her father when she had gotten back to Stanton House, but she had managed to use the commotion to sneak it up into her bedroom. And after she had been stripped of her mud-covered petticoats it had only taken a moment's distraction to kick it under the vanity.

  The pistol felt heavy and cold in her hand, leaching away the warmth from her skin. It was, she thought to herself, in every way the opposite of Tom—a machine without grace, thought, or mercy. “But you're mine,” she said to herself, “and you'll do just what I tell you to.”

  She placed the gun back on the bed, stripped off her clothes, and picked up the thick riding breeches and black boots she had selected. They were the only actual pants that she owned, and for what she had in mind layers of petticoats would be absolutely the wrong thing to wear.

  She had also stolen one of her father's white dress shirts. It was much too large for her, and she needed a pair of garters to hold up the sleeves.

  Once it was somewhat fitted she pulled one of her black winter corsets over the top of it. She laced it up as best as she could without the help of any of her servants. It might not look right, but at least she was able to breathe.

  There was a reverberating slam from downstairs that signaled her father's departure. The commotion in the house died down instantly. She ran to the door, hoping to lean her ear up against it and find out just how much time she had.

  “Miss Stanton?” She gasped with surprise and stepped back as it swung open. Jennifer Farrows's voice rang out. “Your father told me to…What is going on in here?”

  Sarah lost her balance and fell to the floor, her bottom landing with a solid thump on the carpet.

  “I was trying to hear something.” She looked up at the maid with a ridiculous grin on her face.

  Mrs. Farrows looked around the room, giving herself a moment to grasp what was going on. “What are you wearing?” The look of surprise on her face melted into one of outright horror. “This! This is…”

  Before things went too far Sarah jumped to her feet, swept around the
flustered maid, and shut the door behind her. “I need your help.”

  “My h-help…? What you need is a good spanking from someone with a firm hand!”

  “I'm not a child anymore, Jennifer.” Sarah turned around and presented the strings of the corset. “But if you do still have a firm hand, then I could use your help in cinching this up properly.”

  The older woman's trained fingers reached out and grabbed the strings automatically, tugged them tight, and then dropped them. “Sarah, you're wearing your corset on the outside of your father's shirt.”

  The maid looked over her shoulder and saw the rest of the objects spread out on the bed. “No, I won't help you with this. I know I'm just the maid, but I'd like to think that I'm also your friend.”

  Sarah turned around. “It must seem like madness. It seems that way to me as well.” She took the other woman's hands into hers. “But let's be honest with each other. Can you truly imagine me sitting up here, rotting away until the summertime comes so I can be married to some rich idiot who'll stuff me into some other mansion? I'd go mad in a week.” She clutched her hands to her chest, taking Mrs. Farrows's with them.

  Neither one spoke for seconds as they looked at each other. Then a tear fell out of Mrs. Farrows's eye, and Sarah sniffled, breaking the silence.

  Jennifer took back her hands. “Turn around.” Sarah tried to reply, but her words caught in her chest. “Turn around,” Mrs. Farrows repeated.

  Sarah did as she was told to, and the older woman grabbed the corset strings and pulled them tight. “You'll never be able to manage this ridiculous costume on your own.”

  “It's the best I could come up with, given the circumstances.”

  The older woman took a second look at the jumble of items still lying on the bed. “Look at that mess.” She frowned. “You're definitely your father's daughter, there's no doubt about that.”

  “I only wish that he could see that.”

  “You're both too stubborn for each other's good.” She spun Sarah around. “And you both dress like French perverts.”