by Alan Gratz
“Hello, Archie Dent. There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see,” the woman from the copy machine said. The people behind her started saying the same thing, over and over again.
“Archie! Leave him! We have to go!” Hachi called from the window.
“No!” he said. “He’s a Septemberist!” He picked up Uncle John’s arm and pulled, but bugs already covered John’s feet and were scurrying up his legs.
“Everywhere. Everywhere!” he blubbered. “Shouldn’t be here, Archie … Too soon … Too soon!”
“Help me!” Archie cried. The bugs were already up to Uncle John’s chest.
“Mr. Rivets! Bring Archie!” Hachi called.
Archie felt Mr. Rivets’ metal hands snatch him up just before the bugs got to Uncle John’s hands. Uncle John jerked and screamed as the bugs covered him, and Archie saw one of them settle onto John’s neck and slide its long tail down into his spine. John Douglas suddenly stopped thrashing and crying. He stood and came after Archie like the rest of the smiling people.
“Hello, Archie Dent,” Uncle John said. “There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see.”
“No—no!” Archie said, squirming in Mr. Rivets’ arms. “You’re not supposed to take orders from Hachi! You’re my machine man!”
“And I should like to remain so, Master Archie,” Mr. Rivets said. “But that will require our immediate departure.”
“No! Noooo!” Archie cried, but there were so many of them. Crawling up the walls, covering the floor and ceiling.
Mr. Rivets handed him through to Hachi and Fergus, and together they hurried down to the alley below where Archie ran, slag his cowardly hide. He ran as fast and as far away as he could.
12
“We need rayguns,” Hachi said. “Big ones.”
“Aye,” said Fergus. “We’ll need coffins too, we go back down to Florida to fight that beastie. I’ve always fancied a brass one myself. With a tartan blanket inside. Maybe a clockwork tombstone too, like those ones where the planets circle around.”
“An orrery, sir,” Mr. Rivets said. “That is the device to which you refer.”
“Aye. An orrery. Lovely piece of mechanics. Bring a tear to me mum’s eye when she comes to visit me in my grave,” he said, emphasizing that last bit for Hachi. She voted for gearing up and going back to Florida, of course. Fergus voted for—well, Archie couldn’t tell what he was in favor of, besides not dying.
Archie hadn’t said a word since they’d dragged him out of the print shop office. To leave Uncle John there like that … And why did Uncle John have a scrapbook filled with pictures and graphs and notes about Archie? He flipped through the pages as they sat on a bench in Central Park, trying to figure out their next move. Every year of Archie’s life was in this book, every accomplishment, every milestone. He looked back on Uncle John’s regular visits now with new eyes. Tossing a lacrosse ball in the yard with Uncle John—that must have been a test of his coordination. Asking Archie to carry his luggage to his room—a test of his strength. The parlor games they played after dinner—a test of his intelligence? But why? Why did Uncle John care? And was it just he who cared, or was he watching Archie for the Septemberists?
Mr. Rivets knew. Mr. Rivets, who Archie thought had never kept a secret from Archie in his life, who was Archie’s tutor, his guardian, his best friend. Mr. Rivets knew why Uncle John kept a scrapbook of Archie in his desk and visited twice a year for checkups—for Archie realized now that’s what they were. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say, Master Archie.” That’s what machine men said when someone had ordered them to keep a secret. Mr. Rivets knew what the scrapbook meant, but someone had told him not to tell.
Which meant, Archie suddenly realized, that his parents knew too. They were the only ones who could give Mr. Rivets the order not to say anything.
“What do you say, Archie?” Hachi asked.
“What?”
“What do you say to going to find this other Septemberist contact Mr. Rivets knows?” Fergus said.
“Mr. Rivets says he’s got rayguns. Lots of them,” said Hachi.
Archie had missed part of the conversation. “You know another Septemberist, Mr. Rivets? Here in New Rome?” Mr. Rivets suddenly seemed to know a lot of Septemberist secrets that Archie didn’t.
“Not here, sir, no. He is ensconced in a hidden facility some miles north, as the airship flies. And if he has been … compromised the way Mr. Douglas and your parents have been, the trip may prove a waste of time.”
“Aye,” Fergus said. “And get us killed to boot. Or taken over by those little clinkers.”
“There is that concern too, sir,” Mr. Rivets said. “Instead of flying there directly, I suggest we send a dispatch by pneumatic post. If his response is anything other than a sunny salutation and an invitation to the basement, we may assume that he has not yet been placed in the thrall of the Manglespawn in the catacombs, and thus seek his help in person with all due haste.”
“And he’s the only other Septemberist contact you’ve got?” Hachi asked.
“I’m afraid so, miss,” said Mr. Rivets.
Archie knew Mr. Rivets couldn’t lie, but he still found himself doubting everything his old friend said now.
“You guys should have a member directory, with addresses and everything,” Fergus said.
“A written directory would not do well for a secret society, sir.”
“Nae, I guess not,” said Fergus.
“All right. The post office then,” said Hachi. “What’s the closest branch, Mr. Rivets?”
Mr. Rivets clicked and whirred as he accessed his New Rome and Surrounding Areas Visitors Guide card.
“The Pennsylvania Pneumatic Post Office should be the fastest way to send a message from here, miss. Operating hours are eight to five Monday through Friday, with service until noon on Saturday. Automated postage stamp sales are available in the lobby, as are private post office boxes, which can be rented for a dollar a month. The Pennsylvania Pneumatic Post Office is the busiest post office in the United Nations of America, posting hundreds of thousands of—”
“We don’t need the whole entry,” Hachi said, cutting him off. “We just need to know where it is.”
“The Pennsylvania Pneumatic Post Office is located on Eighth Avenue, across the street from—”
“Better yet,” Hachi said, “just show us.”
* * *
The Pennsylvania Pneumatic Post Office on Eighth Avenue, across the street from the Pennsylvania Railway Station, was, as Mr. Rivets had tried to say, the busiest post office in the United Nations—if not the known world. Hundreds of thousands of pneumatic tubes of all sizes came and went every day at reported speeds of up to twenty miles per hour. If you couldn’t mail it from the Penn Post Office, it couldn’t be mailed by pneumatic post. In the marble above its Corinthian columns on the front of the building was written, “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these cylinders from the swift delivery of their anointed dispatches.”
Archie, Hachi, Fergus, and Mr. Rivets climbed the marble steps of the Penn Post Office to an open, two-story lobby filled with light. The place was packed. Some people checked post office boxes, others waited at stamp machines, still more stood in line to send or receive posts. At the far end of the room was a row of teller windows, and behind them, stretching from floor to ceiling, were the brass pneumatic tubes that connected to every other p-mail station up and down the Eastern Seaboard. One or two, Archie knew, even went as far as the Republic of California and New Spain. Thoomp thoomp thoomp thoomp thoomp thoomp thoomp—the cylinders flew nonstop in and out of tubes as thin as pencils (for pneumatigrams) and as big as Mr. Rivets (for oversized parcels). They crisscrossed up and under and over each other in a maze of brass, glass, and valves. This was the Grand Central Station of pneumatic mail.
“I think I could live here,” Fergus said in awe. Archie watched as the black lines on Fergus’ skin shifted and changed, mimicking the m
aze of tubes on the far wall. Archie wondered if Fergus even knew it was happening. But Archie wasn’t the only one staring.
“Get a good look, did you?” Fergus asked a particularly gawky Seneca woman with a stroller. She squeaked and hurried away.
“I suppose I’ve become a right monster, haven’t I?” Fergus asked.
“They’re the monsters, not you,” Hachi told him. She pulled up on her scarf. “Let’s go.”
Mr. Rivets steered them toward the shortest line, but they still had a bit of a wait.
“So, these Mangleborn,” Hachi said quietly. “There’s more than one of them?”
“There’s Antaeus the Unbeatable, in Cahokia In The Clouds,” Archie said. “The Eater of Children, entombed in the Republic of Texas. Grumalch the Boar-Headed, buried somewhere near Cincinnatus. Yog-vorantha, Queen of the White Wastes, watched over by the Inuit tribes. Those are just a few my parents told me about.”
“Bet you had a really easy time getting to sleep when you were little, eh?” Fergus said.
Hachi frowned at the news that there were more of these things, buried all over the United Nations—all over the world—but they were up to the counter before she could say anything more. Mr. Rivets dictated a brief message, which the clerk punched in on a steam-powered keyboard. He tore the paper out and rolled it into a slender pneumatigram tube.
“That’ll be ten cents,” he said.
“Oh, um—” Archie said, realizing he had no money.
“Not to worry, sir,” Mr. Rivets said. He withdrew a dime from a pocket-drawer on his fake brass vest. Archie fumbled it, clumsy and useless as always, and bent down to get it.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Three metal stars with blades for points buried themselves in the wooden counter right where Archie had been standing. He came back up with the dime and stared at them.
“What the—?” he began.
“Get down!” Hachi cried. Mr. Shinobi, Edison’s meka-ninja, was running straight toward them from the lobby with a long sword in its hands.
“Circus, showtime!” Hachi said. Her four remaining animals burst out from her bandolier and hovered in front of her. “Interference!” she told them, and they hummed off to harry the Tik Tok again. “You two! Behind the counter! Go!” she told Archie and Fergus.
Hachi leaped toward the black machine man. It swung its sword—whhht!—but Hachi was already ducking it. She slid between the meka-ninja’s legs and popped up behind it, dagger raised.
“Whoa,” said Fergus.
“Yeah,” said Archie.
Clink! A smaller sword popped out of Mr. Shinobi’s back and deflected her blow. A third arm! The Tik Tok’s head spun, and Archie saw another pair of glowing red eyes open on the back of its head. It held off Hachi while it advanced on Archie and Fergus.
“MisterRivetsMisterRivetsMisterRivets!” Archie cried, backing into the post office counter. Clerks and customers ran screaming.
Mr. Shinobi raised its sword. Archie and Fergus cowered.
Clang!
The meka-ninja’s long, curved sword rang out on Mr. Rivets’ back as he bent over to cover Archie and Fergus.
“Mr. Rivets! Fight! Help Hachi!” Archie said.
“Alas, sir, my Protector card is back on the Hesperus. If you will recall, I have in my New Rome and Surrounding Areas Visitors Guide.”
“Then tell it how to get to the Union Grounds lacrosse field!”
“Ah, yes, sir.” Mr. Rivets stood and turned toward the meka-ninja. “A trip to see the New Rome Knickerbockers can be one of the most pleasurable pursuits for any visitor, especially those traveling with young children. The field is serviced by pneumatic subway, elevated train, or by street car. To arrive by subway—”
“Behind the counter. Let’s go!” Archie told Fergus. They scrambled behind the wooden desk and hid while Hachi attacked the meka-ninja from the back and Mr. Rivets bored it with entries from the New Rome and Surrounding Areas Visitors Guide from the front.
“I’m starting to think we ought to just leave his Protector card in,” Fergus said.
Crunch. The desk behind them snapped in half. Archie looked up to see Mr. Shinobi yanking his long sword out of the wood.
“Run!” cried Archie. He pulled Fergus to his feet. There had to be a place to hide among the forest of brass pipes that hummed at the back of the room, still active but abandoned by fleeing postal workers.
Fergus limped along behind him, falling off the pace. “I can’t run!” he called.
The meka-ninja leaped over the counter, landing silently on padded feet. Its head swiveled to focus on Archie and Fergus.
“I’ll distract it!” Archie yelled. He veered off toward a pile of incoming packages. “Hey! Hey meka-ninja! Over here!”
Only after he said it did Archie realize what a flange he was. What was he supposed to do when the meka-ninja did come after him?
But it didn’t. It ignored him and kept running for Fergus.
“Steambrain!” Archie said, cursing himself. “Fergus is the one Edison wants!”
Fwip-fwip-fwip. Three tiny darts shot from the meka-ninja’s arm and hit Fergus square in the back. Fergus spun and fell into one of the big pneumatic tubes. He grabbed the “Send” plunger as he fell, and gaped in surprise as the cylinder slid closed around him.
There was a pneumatic whoosh of air and—thoomp—Fergus was gone.
Archie stared at the empty space where Fergus had been as Hachi and Mr. Rivets ran up to him. Hachi had a long, bleeding gash down one arm.
“He—Fergus—he—” Archie started to say. Ding! Another capsule slid down to replace the one Fergus had left in, and the meka-ninja hopped inside. It pushed the “Send” plunger, and—thoomp—it was gone.
“It just—they both—” Archie started again.
Ding! Another capsule slid down into place. Hachi grabbed Archie, pulled him into the capsule with her, and slapped the “Send” plunger.
“I’ll just wait here for the return post, shall I?” Mr. Rivets asked.
The capsule closed, and the world dropped away beneath Archie and Hachi’s feet.
13
Archie and Hachi hit the ceiling of the capsule, then tumbled when it turned horizontal. The capsule twisted and turned in its tube, shaking them up like dice in a cup. The capsules were made for packages, not people. Archie suddenly understood why every parcel they’d ever gotten by pneumatic post was creased and dented. He had just gotten up on his elbows when the capsule spun again and he landed flat on his face. It dipped again and he hit the roof. It leveled out again, and he fell onto Hachi.
“Slag it—oof—this is—ow—”
Archie and Hachi were a tangle of arms and legs. He tried to brace himself for the next turn, but it was useless. There was nothing to hold onto inside the smooth round capsule, and he had no idea where it was going next anyway.
The capsule thumped to a stop and opened, and Archie and Hachi rolled out into a pile of crates. This is what clothes must feel like in a washing machine, Archie thought as he untangled himself. A woman screamed, and Archie saw Fergus in the far corner, fending off the meka-ninja with a wooden mannequin.
“Where are we?”
“Macy’s Department Store. Package Delivery,” said Hachi.
“How do you know that?”
Hachi pointed to a sign on the wall. It said MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE. PACKAGE DELIVERY.
“Oh.”
Customers and clerks lined the walls, trying to get as far away from the killer machine man as possible. Fergus jabbed at Mr. Shinobi with the wooden mannequin, keeping the Tik Tok at bay, while Hachi’s Tik Tok animals tugged on the meka-ninja’s sword arm. Mr. Shinobi used its free hand to pull a new weapon from a slot on its leg. It was two wooden sticks connected by a short length of chain. Its hand began to twirl, and the weapon whirred like a propeller blade. Whack-whack-whack-whack! The meka-ninja chopped the wooden mannequin to pieces.
“Crivens!” Fergus cried. The meka-ninja backed him into a co
rner, and Fergus threw what was left of the mannequin into the whirling weapon. “Help!”
Hachi went after the machine man, her dagger drawn, but Archie had a better idea. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the wrapping counter, tied them to a roll of twine, and tossed them into Mr. Shinobi’s spinning weapon. Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip! The twirling propellers sucked up the twine like a fishing rod reeling in a catch. Within seconds the meka-ninja’s hand was wrapped in a big useless ball of string and the weapon hung limp.
“Brass!” said Fergus.
Mr. Shinobi stared at the mess of twine on its hand, then started to hack away at it with its sword.
“Slag! Slag! Slag!” said Fergus.
Hachi grabbed Fergus and dragged him toward the pneumatic tubes.
“Oh no,” Archie said. “I’m not getting back in there. No way. Two people is bad enough. There’s not room for three.”
The meka-ninja cut through the last of the twine and turned on them, its red eyes glowing.
“Scootch in! Scootch in!” Archie cried, pushing his way into the capsule.
Hachi whistled her flying circus back and smacked the plunger. Archie only saw three of her four toys make it back, but he didn’t have time to say anything before the door slid closed and—thoomp—they were gone. There was less room to be tossed around this time, but that didn’t make it any less painful. Archie took an elbow to the gut, a fist to the head, and accidentally kneed Fergus in the kilt. They flew up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right.
“Ba!” Archie cried. They thumped to another stop and tumbled out onto a rooftop loading dock. An enormous skyliner airship floated above them, its long cigar-shaped gasbag painted orange and red, the colors of Apache Air. A young Yankee woman wearing a blue-and-white sailor dress was loading crates into its hold with a steam winch. When she spotted the three of them, she climbed down out of the loading crane and pushed her Apache Air sailor hat aside to scratch her head.
“You’re not Mrs. Nittawosew’s new mink coat,” she said.
