by Alan Gratz
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Archie cried, backing up.
The steam man skidded to a halt a few feet in front of them and tooted its whistle happily.
“So … do we call him Colossus, or Buster?” Archie asked.
The steam man leaned in toward Clyde and ran his lower jaw up Clyde’s chest over and over again. “I think … I think he’s licking me!” Clyde said, laughing, even when one of the nudges knocked him on his butt.
“He’s definitely Buster,” Archie said.
Buster the giant steam … dog … whistled happily at them, then ran to the edge of the canyon, where he lifted a leg and emptied water like he was peeing.
“Hey! Hey, stop that!” Clyde said, running after him. “That’s water you need for your boiler!”
Archie looked around the empty canyon, lit only by the red light of the moon. “What do we do now, Mr. Rivets? The fox girl’s run off, all the soldiers are dead, and Colossus is a giant dog.”
“Under the circumstances, I fear we must abandon our pursuit,” the Tik Tok said.
“What, you’re going to give up? Just like that?” Clyde said. “Mrs. DeMarcus always said that winners never quit, and quitters never win.”
“But how are we supposed to chase her now?” Archie said. “I mean, just look at our ride!”
Buster was at that moment digging a giant hole where the skull had blown up, the steam pipe on his bottom wagging like a tail.
“Maybe he’ll come when we call him,” Clyde said.
Archie doubted very seriously a ten-foot-tall steam dog would do anything it didn’t want to do, but he tried it anyway. “Here, Buster! Here boy! Come!” Archie called.
Buster whistled happily and kept digging his hole.
“See? It doesn’t work,” Archie said.
“Buster, you come here right this second,” Clyde hollered. “Buster, come!”
The giant steam man stopped digging, looked up, and immediately came bounding back over to Clyde. He sat down on his brass bottom with his knees in the air and his hands flat on the ground, tailpipe wagging, waiting for Clyde to tell him what to do.
Clyde and Archie shared an amazed look.
“Buster, lay down. Buster, down,” Clyde said.
The steam man lowered himself flat on the ground, head up and still watching Clyde.
“Good dog!” Clyde said, and Buster’s tail wagged.
Archie picked up a boulder that was taller than he was and tossed it farther into the canyon. “Buster, fetch!” Archie yelled. Buster perked up and watched the boulder bounce and tumble away, but didn’t move. Instead he looked back at Clyde with his mouth hanging open.
“Buster, fetch!” Clyde told him. Buster leaped to his feet and bounded after the boulder, the canyon shaking and echoing with his footsteps.
“He’ll listen to you, but not to me,” Archie said.
“Master Clyde seems to have formed a special bond with the animal,” Mr. Rivets said. “One which appears to be mutually exclusive.”
“He means—”
Clyde cut him off. “I know what he’s saying this time. He’s saying me and Buster are best friends.”
Buster ran back to them with the boulder in his mouth and dropped it at Clyde’s feet. Clyde had to jump out of the way not to get crushed.
“Good dog. Good fetch,” Clyde said. “Just going to have to get used to your new size, is all.” He patted Buster’s foot, and the steam man rolled over on his side so Clyde could rub his belly.
“You think you can drive him?” Archie asked.
Clyde looked thoughtful. “I sat up there behind Dull Knife day after day, watching him operate Colossus. I know how to do it. Whether I can or not—and whether Buster’ll let me—that’s a whole ’nother question.”
Clyde told Buster to sit and stay, and he and Archie and Mr. Rivets climbed inside very cautiously, aware that if Buster went bounding off, they would be tossed around like rocks in a tumbler.
In engineering, they found all the machinery operating itself, as though ghost mechanics worked the controls.
“Like the inner workings of any living being,” Mr. Rivets said. “Bodily functions operate involuntarily. In short, Buster thinks, therefore he is.”
Buster stayed like he was told until they got to the bridge.
“Good boy!” Clyde told him. “Good dog!”
Buster whistled happily, and the cockpit swung with his head.
“Whoa,” Archie said, going tumbling. “We’re going to have to add more safety belts up here. And things to grab on to.”
Clyde took Dull Knife’s place in the driver’s seat. His legs and arms weren’t long enough to reach the pedals and levers, so they found blocks of wood to put on the bottoms of his shoes and a stack of pillows for him to sit on.
“All right. You ready for this?” Clyde said. “Buster, heel!”
Clyde leaned back in his seat, and Colossus—Buster—stood!
“Good boy!” Clyde said. “Heel, Buster, heel.…”
Clyde took a step forward, and Buster moved with him. He lifted a lever for one of the arms, and the arm moved with him.
“I think it’s going to work,” Clyde said. He tried taking a few more steps and was able to maneuver them out of the canyon. “I think as long as we let him run around every now and then, get his wiggles out, he should do just fine.”
“Most Canis lupus familiaris find a particular pleasure in understanding and carrying out the wishes of their masters,” Mr. Rivets said.
Buster whistled as if in agreement.
“So, we gonna do this? Go after this girl?” Clyde said. “She that important?”
“Not her, but what she’s carrying,” Archie said. “It’s an ancient relic, older than Rome, and it’s very powerful. And it has something to do with how I … became whatever it is I am.”
Clyde nodded thoughtfully. “All right, then. Clyde and Buster are in. But how are we gonna see through that girl’s tricks when Mr. R here is blind?”
“We have to get him fixed somewhere,” Archie said. He sighed. If Fergus had been here, it would already be done.
“Get into those maps, then,” Clyde told him. “You’re my new navigator. Find us the nearest town with a machine shop, and we’ll get both our machine men fixed up.”
14
Buster accidentally stepped on a NO DOGS ALLOWED sign in the park as Clyde steered him off the street and into the green grass. A mob of chattering children, curious adults, and barking dogs trailed behind them, swarming Clyde, Archie, and Mr. Rivets as they climbed out of the steam man.
“Hey there!” Clyde called out to the crowd. “Can somebody tell us if there’s an Emartha Machine Man shop in town?”
While Archie got three sets of different directions to the same place all at once from a handful of Omaha, Clyde introduced the rest of them to Buster.
“He likes beef jerky, chasing steam cars, and having his belly rubbed,” Clyde told the crowd. “He’s a good boy, but he’s kinda big, so you gotta be careful around him, and that’s a fact.”
Buster sat back and scratched where his ear would have been with one of his big brass feet—clang-clang-clang-clang!—delighting his audience. Then he stood and started to pace around in a tight circle.
“What’s he doing?” Archie asked.
“I don’t know,” Clyde said. “I hope he’s not looking to pee again, or lots of people are gonna get wet.”
The crowd of Omaha backed up, giving Buster space. After a few turns, he plopped down on the ground with a thud and curled up into a building-sized ball.
“I guess it’s nap time,” Clyde said.
It had been two days since the canyon, and though they had stopped each night and camped, Buster curling around them by the fire, they had pushed him hard to get here in such a short time. The big guy deserved a rest. Metal blast plates meant to shield the bridge from raycannons slid down over Buster’s eyes, and the smoke from his tailpipe tapered off from black to thin white. Bus
ter was as close to asleep as a giant steam man could get.
Some of the Omaha children started climbing on top of him, which didn’t seem to bother Buster in the least. “Just don’t go inside him,” Clyde told a group of the younger boys, knowing they would tell the others. “And come and get me if he wakes up. We’ll be at the Emartha Machine Man shop.”
Not that anybody would have had any trouble finding them in town anywhere they went. Clyde was the only Afrikan in town, best they could tell, and Archie one of the few Yankees. Between Buster’s noisy, obvious arrival, Clyde’s dark skin, and Archie’s snow-white hair, they stood out like a buffalo on a New Rome street.
The Omaha city of Ton won tonga, “The Big Village” in the Sioux language, was a long way from the size of New Rome, but still big. Smoke rose from two- and three-story buildings, and streetcars rattled by on the busy streets, tracing circular routes around the city center. Like all Omaha cities, Ton won tonga was laid out in a giant circle, with this one bisected by the Missouri River.
Archie, Clyde, and Mr. Rivets crossed a steel girder bridge over the broad Missouri from the Sky District into the Earth District, where most of the city’s business was located. None of the three sets of directions Archie got was correct, but an Omaha police officer with a colorful beaded sash and an eagle feather in his hair pointed the shop out to them.
Ton won tonga’s Emartha Machine Man outpost was a small, first-floor affair. A sign in the window said SEE THE NEW STEAM-DRIVEN MARK IV, NOW IN STOCK! and for once Archie was glad Mr. Rivets was blind. Mr. Rivets was a clockwork Mark II Machine Man and had been known to be a little resentful of the Mark IVs’ new abilities and smug attitudes.
“Good morning, sirs!” said a shiny titanium Mark IV as they stepped inside. The plate on his chest said his name was Mr. Cylinder. “Have you come to trade in your old Mark II for a newer model?”
Archie saw Mr. Rivets straighten, but he cut him off before the Tik Tok could respond. “No, thank you. We’re very happy with our Mark II. He’s just seen a bit of damage, and we’d like to get him repaired.”
“We are currently offering attractive trade-in deals on all obsolete Emartha Machine Men,” Mr. Cylinder said.
“Obsolete?” Mr. Rivets said. “I’ll have you know—”
“Just repairs, thanks,” Archie said. “Is there a manager we could speak with?”
“Of course, sir. Right away,” Mr. Cylinder said.
A smiling Omaha man with large, round glasses met them at the counter. “Welcome! Welcome,” he said. “My name is Urika. I see your machine man has … been in an accident?” He peered at Mr. Rivets, trying to understand how a machine man’s eyes could be put out without having another scratch on him.
“Yes, he … ran into a pitchfork,” Archie said. He shrugged at Clyde. It seemed an easier explanation than what had really happened.
“Well! You’re in luck,” Urika told them. “We’ve just had a brand-new shipment of parts from our distributor. Although we do have some rather good trade-in deals right now—”
“Really, just the repairs, thanks,” Archie said.
Urika nodded and winked. “Loyalty works both ways, doesn’t it, sir? Now, does your family have an account with us?”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“We should be on file, sir,” Mr. Rivets said. “The family’s name is Dent. Mine is Mr. Rivets. Serial number P-02961.”
“Oh, a rather early model then,” Urika said. He went to a large wooden filing cabinet at the back of the shop, pulled out a drawer, and set it on the counter. It was full of rectangular paper punch cards, which he walked through with his fingers.
“Here we are! Yes,” Urika said. He took a card from the drawer and slid it into a machine. The clockwork processing unit clicked and whirred, and spinning tile letters began to spell out information on the display above a keyboard. “Ah yes. A very early model. 1772! Just after the Darkness fell. And I see the Dent family were not your original owners.”
“What?” Archie said. That was news to him!
“Repair and upgrade records … regular maintenance schedule…,” Urika went on, “and here’s a special note at the end.” Urika’s eyes went wide behind his glasses, and he pushed them higher on his nose. “By Umohoti!”
“What? What is it?” Archie asked.
“Mr. Dent! You should have said that you were a Panther-level member when you came in!” Urika hurried around the counter to shake Archie’s hand. “We’ll see to your machine man’s repairs at once. At once! Mr. Cylinder, please escort Mr. Rivets to the repair shop, and tell Mr. Mimiteh to clear all other jobs until this machine man is in perfect working order.”
“Th-thanks,” Archie said, not sure why he and Mr. Rivets were suddenly receiving so much attention.
“I believe there must be some mistake,” Mr. Rivets said. To Archie, he said, “Emartha Machine Man customers are divided into ranked categories, depending on what level of service contract they choose. The categories are named, as I understand it, for the eight traditional clans of the Seminole Nation, the tribe of the Maker. Our previous service contract was merely Otter level. How the Dents can now afford the most elite level I don’t understand.…”
But Archie did. Hachi. She was now the head of the Emartha Machine Man Company, whether she wanted to be or not. She must have told someone to make the Dents and Mr. Rivets Panther-level customers for life.
“No, no,” Urika said. “No mistake at all. Mr. Cylinder?”
Mr. Cylinder took Mr. Rivets by the hand to lead him into the back.
“You’re going to be all right, Mr. Rivets,” Archie said, suddenly nervous for him.
“Of course I am,” Mr. Rivets said. “The Emartha Machine Man Company is notorious for the high quality of its service and repair.”
“Right. Just … I’ll see you soon,” Archie said. There almost wasn’t a time in his life when Mr. Rivets hadn’t been at Archie’s side, or at least very nearby waiting for him to return. The thought of him going away, even for a short time, made Archie feel hollow inside.
“We will have him back to you in no time, and in tip-top condition,” Urika assured Archie. “In the meantime, let me get you a loaner machine man—”
“No!” Archie said. He’d said it more forcefully than he meant to, so much that it startled Mr. Urika. “I mean, no thanks,” Archie said. “I’ll just wait for Mr. Rivets.”
Urika assured them Mr. Rivets would be all fixed up by the next morning, and Archie and Clyde went back out into the street.
“Man, that guy was tripping over himself to help you,” Clyde said. “You and your family must be pretty important folks, and that’s a fact.”
“We’re not really,” Archie told him. “I just know the owner really well.”
“So now what?” Clyde asked.
“This was the closest town. Unless the fox girl had a lot of supplies with her, she’d have to stop here,” Archie said.
“Unless this is her stop,” Clyde said.
“Maybe. But I feel like it’s not. Like, she’s headed somewhere else.”
“She’s Asian. Maybe she’s headed for the West Coast. Isn’t there a Japanese colony up there?”
Archie nodded. “If this isn’t where she was headed, she’ll be looking for transportation out of town. She can’t cross the continent on a steam mule. It’d take too long.”
“So let’s check the stations,” Clyde said. “We got the time.”
The train station was a bust. None of the station agents had seen a girl dressed up as a fox, of course, and they had seen nothing else amiss. Morning trains to Kansa City, Shikaakwa, and Cahokia on the Plains had already left, and the next train to the Moving City of Cheyenne didn’t leave until that evening.
“If she’s headed into Sioux territory, we’re in trouble,” Clyde said. “We take Buster in there, and we really will have motherwheels after us.”
“So will she,” Archie said. “No. I think she’s headed farther west, like yo
u said. Come on. Let’s check the airfields.”
It was practically suicide to travel the plains by balloon in tornado season. It had always been bad on the plains in the summer, but it got worse when the Darkness fell. Cyclones wandered the Great Plains like living things, eating up houses and trees and buffalo. And airships. But just because it was dangerous didn’t mean people didn’t try. Like the blue-and-gray dirigible they saw being loaded for a flight to the Moving City of Cheyenne at Blackbird Air Park. Its name was Bear on the Wind. It looked like an old Apache Air DC-3, retrofitted with later-model Tecumseh aeroprops and weighted down for extra control in choppy weather. It was bigger than Archie’s family airship, the Hesperus, but smaller than the massive Apache Air Liners that had replaced it. Between crew and passengers, it could probably carry no more than twenty people comfortably.
“Is that airship really going to try to make it to Cheyenne?” Clyde asked the gate agent.
The old Omaha nodded. “Always some crazy pilot fool enough to try it, and some crazy fool passengers desperate enough to take him up on it.”
Archie watched the passengers boarding. They were all First Nations, most of them Omaha. A young woman in a brown coat and brown hat, a middle-aged man in a black suit and tie, a fat man wearing a white shirt, black vest, and a colorful square-patterned blanket for a skirt.…
The fat man. There was something not right about him. Archie could feel it. But what was it? His eyes raked the man from top to bottom, bottom to top. What was he seeing that he wasn’t seeing?
Archie grabbed Clyde. “His shadow! Look at that man’s shadow!”
The fat man had the shadow of a small girl with pointed ears and the tail of a fox.
The fat man saw Archie pointing, looked at his shadow, and it suddenly changed to match him. It was the fox girl! Archie had seen her shadow! Archie tried to push through the gate to get to her, but the gate agent stopped him.
“That man—the Omaha with the blanket for a skirt,” Archie cried. “He’s not a man! He’s a girl! I mean, she’s a girl, and she’s a thief!”
“You’re as crazy as the rest of ’em,” the gate agent said. “That man there’s a respectable businessman. Paid me cash for his ticket.”
