The walls of the Carnegium were a variegated hodgepodge of metals. It had an anti-rust alloy near the base and polished brass just about everywhere else. The walls appeared to be smooth from the shore, but up close I could see they were riveted together and had a number of useful handholds.
Windows higher up on the building might have offered access, but the thought of climbing twenty or thirty feet of frost-coated metal in the teeth of a cold north wind didn’t appeal to me. Ma Cleary wasn’t paying enough for me to break my neck and drown. She was not, in fact, paying at all, which was a disheartening thought.
I continued on to the Solarium, hoping the pretty glass domes would prove to be an Achilles’ heel. They blazed orange in the murky twilight, their sheer brilliance both amazing and unnerving, since they bathed the walkway in illumination, rendering a potential trespasser naked to a sentry’s eye.
I hesitated in the shadows just outside that light, staring at these bulbous feats of engineering, these Wonders of the Modern World. I had seen them from afar many times, had even watched them grow from spindly steel skeletons to pregnant globes of glass. From the shore, they were like luminous mushroom caps that sprang straight out of the water. Up close I could see they were nestled atop ten feet or so of steel. The domes themselves were made of large hexoid panes fitted together in iron supports. The glass must not have been watertight, which was why they were kept above the waterline.
Part of me wanted to double back and re-check the other doors. The damn light made me nervous. I was all too familiar with what would happen if I were caught. The Magnocracy was a society terrified of internal enemies. It wasn’t run-of-the-mill thieves the Magnates really feared. The robber barons had a list of undesirables much worse than thieves, such as union rabble-rousers who dropped seeds of dissent like Johnny Appleseed, or anarchical saboteurs under the delusion that breaking individual cogs might somehow topple the whole great apparatus of society. And there was always espionage, both international and intercorporate, since Magnates trusted their peers about as much as they trusted their workers, which is to say not at all. When I was a Pinkerton, I had sometimes been given the unwholesome task of questioning a captured intruder. Those memories made my days in the war seem rosy by comparison.
I turned, looking back the way I came, and felt my blood run cold. A lantern came around the corner, swinging amiably with the gait of its bearer. It was hooded to illumine one’s path like a spotlight. It was quite useful, no doubt, in exposing hidden niches and lurking rogues.
If I tried to cross under the glass domes now, I’d be spotted for sure, so I turned to the wall and looked up. There was a handhold just above my head, so I leaped for it. The icy metal started to chill my fingers almost immediately, despite the gloves I was wearing.
The lantern got bigger.
I pulled myself up, stood straight and flattened my body against the opaque wall just to the side of the glass, flexing my finger joints against the ache. My pulse was louder in my ears than the wind. When the lantern hesitated, I half imagined it was because he’d heard my heartbeat. A queer sort of serenity came over me, despite the upturned face. Out of nowhere, Goethe burst into my mind. Where there is much light, there is much shadow.
I could almost feel the man’s eyes scanning the wall, but after a moment’s hesitation, he continued on. If he had thrown up a beam of his spotlight, he’d’ve seen me for sure, but he didn’t. The powerful light of the Solarium had hidden me by deepening the shadows just beside it.
“Another win for philosophy,” I breathed to myself as the guard sauntered away.
I could see from his silhouette that he was wearing a naval-style pea jacket and a fur-lined cap. His stride marked him for a former Marine, which was hardly a surprise. After the Corps had been disbanded, most of the guys with combat experience found work with the Magnates. The rest had to survive on the same worthless certificates as me.
If he’d caught me, it would have been one more ugly time where my skills would be pitted against a former comrade’s, though some of my army buddies would argue that Marines and soldiers had never been on the same side, even though we both fought rebs.
The glass was obviously an Achilles’ heel in the defenses, but how to exploit it?
There was a pair of double doors on the same level as the walkway below me. They were identical to the doors I had examined previously, which meant they were probably locked from the inside.
I crept along a lip formed where the steel met the glass until I was over them. A less subtle man would have simply cracked the glass with his truncheon and jumped in, but I had an idea.
Drawing a knife, I chose a small pane of glass near the bottom. It wasn’t a full hexoid but a partial, filling the space where two normal panes met the edge of the dome. I thrust the point into a corner and hammered the pommel with my palm, using the weapon like a chisel. Two hairline cracks appeared like magic before my eyes. The pane held though. I wasn’t surprised. Carnegie could hardly be expected to skimp on the glass.
I moved the knife to another corner of the same panel and repeated the procedure. This time, the fractures mingled with the cracks from my previous assault. A star shape formed where they met and the glass crumbled. It didn’t shatter in a loud, raise-the-alarm way, which is the beauty of star-glazing. London urchins have practiced this art for years, ever since the first London merchant started using glass to display his goods.
It was somewhat ironic that my time in law enforcement had taught me all manner of criminal behavior, such as star-glazing. I consoled myself by thinking of Bridget’s poor ma, who would want me to use any means necessary to rescue her daughter from whatever degrading role these plutocrats had forced her into.
A blast of warm air struck my benumbed face, making the skin burn. I could see lush green leaves blowing dreamlike through the hole. The sight was a little jarring. I hadn’t seen anything that green in months.
Retrieving the cable from my belt, I fabricated a crude noose and lowered it through the star-shaped hole. As I suspected, the inside of the hatch was secured with a special lever which created a seal against heavy swells. It took two attempts, but I snagged the lever and pulled.
I threw the rest of the rope down through the hole and hastened to the doors below. Once through, I shut the hatch and wound up the rope again, pausing to dust the frost from my shoulders. I was almost done when I noticed a curious sensation. I was perspiring.
Now that I was in, I breathed a little easier. My star-glazing had left only a small hole near the lip of the dome, nearly invisible from the walkway below. So I was in and nobody knew it yet.
Trees grew right up to the wall, with ferns thick by their roots. The air was hot, so I shed my overcoat and threw it over my shoulder. Examining the nearest trunk, I realized these weren’t trees at all, but pylons cunningly painted to resemble tree trunks. I was a bit confused for a moment, since the leaves I had seen overhead were real enough. With a closer look, I saw that the branches of these artificial trees were ingeniously planted with ground plants chosen to resemble the leaves of a natural tree. On close inspection, the forgery was obvious but from afar, the effect was impressive. It made sense, of course—trees didn’t grow very fast, and when they did, their roots would play merry havoc with the hull below.
I smiled at the realization that not even the Magnates could tell trees where to put their roots. Instead, they had to counterfeit them in a pretense of power. The thought was queerly delicious, as if the universe and I were sharing a joke.
Though I was technically indoors, it felt odd to take my hat off, so I left it on and proceeded through this, um, fauxrest. A few steps in, I heard a bizarre cry and looked up to find a pair of yellow eyes glaring at me.
An enormous black bird with a great colorful snout was examining me. It cried again, making my heart leap. As it stared at me, I wondered if the Magnates had trained
it to warn them like Juno’s geese. I tried to remind myself that an empty-headed bird wouldn’t be able to tell me from someone who belonged here. Even so, I put some trees between us.
The thought of training exotic animals was unsettling, to say the least. I badly wished I could un-think it. After four more steps through the ferns, I was convinced that at any moment, a troop of vicious guard-baboons would come screaming out of the canopy to perform a bare-pawed dismemberment.
A shrill laugh snapped me out of my morbid reverie. It was followed by an audible splash of water. I tiptoed forward and hesitantly pushed aside several great green leafs which may have been elephant ears, but since I had only ever seen them in pictures, I wasn’t sure.
While the rest of the city was scrounging pennies to buy gas so their kids wouldn’t freeze, the goddamn Magnates had an artificial pond floating out here. There were people frolicking around in striped bathing attire like summer at the Vineyard. The pond itself was constructed to resemble some Grecian grotto, complete with faux ruins nearby and marble footpaths running through lush vegetation. Despite the hedonistic air, propriety was still very much in force. Several changing rooms were built alongside the pool so bathers might dip their ankles directly below the surface and avoid a moment of immodesty. Nymphs could hardly be expected to follow modern scruples, though, so the changing rooms were made to look like vine-festooned caverns instead.
I couldn’t help but grunt. So this is how the other half lives…or, more properly, the other one percent.
Although I’d taken off my overcoat, I still wore a bowler, waistcoat and collar with a humble wool shirt. I’d always worn a plain suit, neither too poor nor too rich, so that I might fit in anywhere.
I sure as hell didn’t fit in here.
Those who weren’t taking the waters wore airy silks and straw hats. There wasn’t a waistcoat in sight.
I hastily retreated, conscious now of how out of place I looked. I needed to get to an area where my clothing wouldn’t make me stand out so much, an area that wasn’t the Solarium. I stopped at a meandering garden path and was vacillating whether to use it or not when I heard footsteps. Before I could melt back into the fauxrest, a thin young man in white clothes reminiscent of a naval uniform came around the corner. I saw a brass badge and knew him for security at once.
He spotted me before I could withdraw. Without hesitation, he started shouting and reached to his belt. I assumed for a weapon.
My soldier’s instincts took over and I rushed him. Rather than dropping the greatcoat, I swung it around his head. He landed two half-hearted punches to my midsection but I ignored them. We collided and I grabbed both ends of the garment, tightening it around his face to muffle him. He was still vainly trying to grab something from his belt so I maneuvered into a flank and delivered a nasty jab to his solar plexus. It wasn’t kosher fighting, but I’ve already told you what would happen if I got caught.
He doubled over and ceased his struggles. I saw with alarm that it wasn’t a weapon he’d been reaching for, but a whistle. I threw it down and stomped it on a flagstone.
“If you scream again, I’ll kill you,” I told the overcoat.
I think he nodded.
It was something of an empty threat, since I didn’t have my derringer with me. I was better off without one. If I were caught with it, they might have decided I was a socialist assassin and had me hanged. Better to be a burglar and spend a decade in prison. As angry as I’d made him, I doubted Father Dempsey would have let me starve. With luck, the parish would pay my prison fees so I had food and clothing.
Of course, my current plan was to avoid both noose and prison.
“I’m gonna tie you up,” I told him.
He did a sort of nod again.
“I’d rather not hurt you. I’m just here to save my sister.” I hoped that the lie would make me look both noble and dangerous—Seamus was a frank reminder how violent men were when their sisters are involved. As an only child, I could only imagine what it must have felt like.
I sat him against a tree and unwound my coat from his skull. As soon as his jaw was free, I put a hand over his mouth.
His eyes were wide as saucers as they looked into mine. This boy had never seen any action before. It was obvious from his sluggish response to my attack and his stark terror. If this had been the Marine outside, the situation might very well have been reversed.
I drew Bridget’s picture from my pocket.
“You seen her around?” I asked. “Maybe in the brothel?”
He looked at the portrait and shook his head. “Brothel…?”
He was clearly confused, but I wasn’t surprised. If the Carnegium had a bawdy-house, it was probably a well-kept secret, even from the employees. The Magnates couldn’t risk their wives or children finding out, after all.
I gagged him and pushed him behind a tree. “Someone will find you soon.” My hope was that he wouldn’t be found until morning, when the gardeners started their shifts.
But then I remembered who ran the Carnegium.
Magnates believed in the Efficiency Principle above all else. Of course they would make their gardeners work at a night. This was the city that never slept. It was as though a bearded millionaire bestrode the Upper Bay like the Colossus of Rhodes, one hand gripping a lash and the other a tasteful pocket watch.
The thought quickened my pace. I made for the edge of the Solarium and went through the first door I found, exiting that potted paradise with relief.
The rest of the Carnegium was far less daunting. The common areas were like great indoor boulevards, in a way more impressive than the Solarium. Despite how goddamn unfair things were, despite the heartbreak the Magnates caused, I felt a surge of pride for my homeland. I could suddenly imagine whole cities encased under giant canopies, shaded in the summer and shielded from wind come February.
This pride melted pretty quickly as I examined the faces here. Exhaustion was a familiar mask. There were more bags under their eyes than at a train depot. Like all parts of the Magnocracy—all parts worth visiting anyway—this was a hive of activity despite the late hour.
My middle-class weeds didn’t stand out at all—far from it. There was a veritable army of the sturdy middle class—clerks, valets, shopkeepers and household servants—in the employ of a dozen or so different companies. I fit in perfectly with this crowd. All I had to do was act tired, which was second nature for me anyway.
There were also all manner of nannies and tutors. This was, after all, where many of the plutocrats hid their precious offspring. Given her previous mathematical employment with Carelli, it occurred to me that Bridget might have been hired as a governess. The robber barons were mad for numbers. They knew math was the language of power, so their children would have to learn it if they were going to rule one day. A governess able to teach even basic algebra would have been highly valued. It would have been a nice change of pace to find a pretty girl being exploited for her mind. Perhaps Bridget didn’t need rescuing at all—perhaps she was earning a clean salary.
I had come this far, though, so I wasn’t turning back. Not until I had something for Ma Cleary. Maybe if I saw where the girl worked, I could describe it to the old Irishwoman. That might comfort her a bit. That comfort might even earn a few greenbacks.
I slipped into the first establishment with an open door and discovered it was a teak-paneled bar. A young gentleman with a magnificent mustache stood at the bar with a highball glass. His suit jacket was tailored sharp and his watch fob was gold. I had no doubt what his heritage was.
Stepping up to the bar, I smiled at the bartender and glanced sideways at the gentleman. “Salutations.” I didn’t wait for a response. Wearing my most obsequious smile, I barged into a conversation. “You look like you know all the ladies, friend. Do you know a Bridget Cleary?”
My flattery was ignored. “S
ounds like a mick’s name. Do they even let Teagues in here?” He glanced at the bartender.
The bartender offered him a polite shrug of his shoulders.
“Perhaps a picture will help.”
He examined the portrait for a moment. “She’s pretty…for a mick.”
I showed it to the bartender. He offered another noncommittal shrug. I remembered then that servants of the rich aren’t paid to have a personality. If anything, they’re paid to be bland, like a custard without vanilla or sugar. The bartender was just another tasteless bowl of eggs and milk.
The young man put down his highball and glowered at me. “Why are you bothering me with this?”
“Writing a little background narrative,” I lied. It was a common job for private security—make sure an employee was who she said she was.
“Why bother me with this? Do I look like a supervisor to you?”
“No, you don’t.” I gave him another brainless smile. You look like a trust-fund brat. “Sorry to bother you.”
He turned back to the bar as if I’d already left.
The next time, I picked the establishment more carefully. Two floors up, at the end of an alley, I found a tavern for working folks. It was clean and well lit, though considerably more humble than the stores on the main boulevard. The place was full of well-groomed men in pin-striped shirts. Almost all of them had garters on their upper arms and a clip for their tie so it wouldn’t foul their Babbages.
Here my questions didn’t elicit much incredulity, probably because these poor bastards were used to investigators. They were too afraid for their jobs to be cagey, but they were clearly worried I might be sinking some girl’s career. As I produced her portrait, I assured them that this was a routine affair. Nobody’s job was on the line. This assurance seemed to grease the wheels even better than a bribe, for which I was grateful.
Cruel Numbers Page 8
