“It wasn't until I had the Omega Element back in my grasp that I was able to complete my evolution and become the man you see in front of you.”
Nathaniel nodded with comprehension. “So that key you stole was…”
“The Omega Element, yes.” He stood up and leaned down to open a gate at the bottom of the cell door. “But even with it, I have reached the end of my transformation. I was birthed by an accident, and that has limited my possibilities. But I am sure that with the proper application of scientific rigor, even greater discoveries are possible.”
When he stood up, there was a dangerous grin on the gray man's face. “And that next step, Nathaniel, is one that you and I are going to take together.” He slid the tray through the iron bars, then slammed the gate shut.
Nathaniel dragged himself up off the bench. The alcohol was beginning to do its work, and he was feeling incredibly tired. “I'm not sure what you think I can do for you. I won't assist a homicidal madman.”
“I think that you'll find that genocidal is the correct word.”
Nathaniel reached down and took the water first. “Fine—whatever you want. I'm your prisoner now.”
“I never expected you to assist me willingly. But now that I have all the pieces that I need to resume my experiments, the next step is finding a suitable test subject, willing or otherwise.”
Nathaniel stood, his eyes widening as the weight of the words sank in. “No…”
“No? No?” Eschaton said mockingly. “And why not? You're young and strong—and since the irony of using Alexander Stanton or his lovely daughter is denied to me, I'm afraid that you're absolutely the next best thing.”
Cold terror struck Nathaniel, not just from the realization of his fate, but from the knowledge that there was no one left to save him. “You can't do this to me, Eschaton!” And yet, even with the waves of shock, he kept feeling weaker and weaker. What was wrong with him?
“Can't? Stupid boy, I must. This has been my plan all along. If I'm going to end the world and save humanity, I'll need to fill the new world with better beings. And while my own transformation has been spectacularly successful, it was also an accident—one that, I have discovered, is not easy to repeat.”
Eschaton's voice rose in volume until it was just below a shout. “I am just a crude version of what could truly be humanity's next great state of being. And although not everyone will survive what is to come, the small portion that does will be part of a better world. It will be a place where humanity will become stronger, more powerful, and be freed from the petty concerns of human frailty. And if you survive, Nathaniel, you will be the first true child of Eschaton.”
Nathaniel wanted to tell the villain that he'd rather die, but instead he found himself sliding down the wall. It seemed that despite his anger, the weight of his injuries was too great. Perhaps he would die after all. Maybe that would be a blessing…
It was only as he slumped over onto the bench and fell back toward unconsciousness that it dawned on Nathaniel that the whisky had been drugged.
Emilio had been raised in the circus, and while most children would imagine that growing up in a carnival would be a dream come true, the truth was quite different. He had hated that life for as long as he could remember.
The circus was the only life he had ever known, and what thrilled the audience only bored him.
Every morning was a disappointment as the daylight washed away the illusions and revealed the tawdry truths that lay underneath the glamour: clowns were simply broken men with greasepaint on their faces, ferocious beasts were nothing more than sad, depressed animals trapped in cages, and the bombastic ringmaster was the ruler of a homeless tribe of exhibitionists and freaks.
Worst of all was his father. During the nighttime, the man was a hero— The Great Armando—an acrobat flying effortlessly through the air. But when the sun rose, he was simply an aging man praying that his son would take on his legacy before he made the final mistake that would leave him shattered and dead on the ground. Emilio wanted nothing to do with it.
It was staring up at the gaudily painted marquee of the Theatre Mechanique in the light of day that had brought the memories back, and he blinked them away, returning himself to the present moment.
The sign was even more ridiculous than the last time Emilio had seen it. The letters that described the show were painted in red and gold, “The Theater Mechanique Presents: My Adventures in the Clockwork World—A Circus of Steam and Fire, Presented by Vincent Smith.”
Behind the lettering was a garish (and wildly inaccurate) rendering of the show's star attraction, the Pneumatic Colossus, along with an improbably kind drawing of Mr. Smith himself.
The mechanical man was depicted as a towering figure one hundred feet high. It belched smoke from the hat on its head and shot flames from the mouth and eyes while Vincent Smith stood below it, righteous and stalwart underneath the onslaught.
Sarah stared up at the sign and shook her head. “My father has a smoking hat…”
Emilio nodded. “But this is bigger,” he replied, almost matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sarah asked for the hundredth time. “Can we trust him?”
“Sure enough.” Emilio had found the last few days with Sarah incredibly frustrating. Normally, finding the ability to concentrate on work was easy for him, and once he sank into the proper trance, the hours would roll by until Viola came to remind him that it was time for dinner.
But unlike his sister, who always seemed to have something better to do, Sarah hung around him constantly as he worked. At first she had helped a bit, but after a while her endless questions had only managed to slow things down. If Dennis Darby truly had managed to work while she was around, he had no idea how…
On the other hand, it wasn't entirely her fault. Even without Sarah's interference, he would have managed to make only so much progress. Once he translated Darby's notes, the ideas had made sense, and he could figure out the processes of the heart's function. But what the mysterious key could do that would bring a mechanical man to life was still a mystery.
Beyond that, the heart had been badly damaged. Even if he understood it perfectly, it would still need repairs and new parts. And every piece had been created with precision that was far beyond the ability of anything he could use or build in his junkyard workshop. There were, in fact, only a handful of people within all of New York who might have the machinery needed to fix or replace the parts with anything approaching the finely tuned craftsmanship of the originals.
And once he had realized that, Emilio's solution was simple: turn to someone who did have what they needed, and hope he might provide some insight as well.
Sarah had been both disappointed and horrified by the idea of asking for help. She had expected great things from Emilio, and his inability to instantly repair and revive Dennis Darby's greatest masterpiece seemed to have not only disappointed her, but had also put a stop to any further movement toward romance after their vermut-fueled kiss on the couch.
Not that Emilio was sure he much felt like it, either. There had been some moments over the last few days where things seemed to be veering toward another encounter, but either one or the other of them would quickly steer things in another direction.
And they both had good reasons for maintaining their distance. For his part, Emilio had begun to worry that if they did consummate their feelings, it would only lead to misery for a girl like Sarah.
Compared to Italy, America was, he believed, completely obsessed with sex. The problem was that the expression of it in the New World seemed to be far more about avoidance than discovery, which managed to make romance a dangerous and depressing enterprise for everyone involved, most especially the woman. If nothing else, seduction was supposed be fun while you were doing it.
Still, like it or not, this was his home now, and he wouldn't be responsible for Sarah's fall from grace—despite the fact that she was currently clutching his arm with her own, p
art of an act of deception that they had cemented with a gold engagement ring. Viola had produced it after he suggested that Sarah accompany him on his visit to the theater, disguised as his fiancée.
Even with the disguise, Emilio hadn't been sure that bringing Sarah along with him would be a good idea. Vincent could be temperamental and odd at the best of times. But she had been adamant that anywhere the heart was going, she would have to follow. Having her pretend to be his fiancée would make things easier for everyone.
Sarah had dressed for the day in her best clothes, demanding help from Viola to do up her corsets. Emilio had, once again, been banished from the bedroom, and he could only stand outside as both women tried to outdo each other with the bitterness of their complaints about the clothing: Viola shouting about how much work it was to get it onto the rich girl, and Sarah responding loudly about how painful and constricting it all was to wear properly. He was sure that on some level they had both enjoyed it a great deal.
For his part, Emilio wore a simple but well-tailored suit and a bowler hat. In his left hand he carried a lacquered wooden case by a strong leather handle. There were large brass latches along the top and sides, and hinges on the bottom.
Sarah let go of his arm to try the door. It rattled in the frame, but refused to open. “Should we knock?”
“I have a key,” Emilio said, producing it from his pocket. He slipped it into the lock and turned it. “It still works!” he added with a note of surprise.
The door slid back with a rumble, and Emilio shoved it closed behind them.
With the door shut, the only light in the room was what came through from a row of small windows near the ceiling. Beneath them the walls of the room were dressed almost entirely in curtains of dark velvet, lending the entrance a cavelike atmosphere. The floor was a mosaic of small tiles, laid out in concentric circles of white and black. “This way,” Emilio said, taking Sarah's hand, and guiding her into a larger room.
Sarah put her hand to her lips when she saw the menagerie of mechanical creatures and flowers that stood on pedestals all over the room.
Each stand contained a small brass plaque inscribed with the name of the specimen, its Latin name, and the fictional country it had been taken from.
Emilio was curious to see what the room must look like when it was open to the public—fully lit, with every one of the devices moving, rotating, spinning, dancing, or jumping. Many of them would also be spitting fire and steam. They were fantastic machines in their own right, but, only a prelude to the incredible devices that would appear on the main stage during the show.
Emilio had found the whole thing a bit ridiculous, but having grown up in the circus, he understood how a good story could excite the audience. “Is not real,” he said to her.
“I know,” Sarah replied, and gave him the first genuine smile he had seen in days.
Clearly people were not immune to the creatures' charms, even when they were immobile. “Anura coganus,” she read. She stared at the contraption for a moment, and then clapped her hands together. “It's a frog!”
“Si.” He pointed to a metal fly hanging down on a post only a foot from the ceiling. “It eats that.”
“Eats it?”
“Si.” He whistled and pointed as he mimed the frog jumping through the air and grabbing the fly. “Then there,” he said waving at the empty pedestal on the far wall.
“Amazing!” Sarah said.
“Fantastico!” He raised up his hands in a gesture that was slightly more sarcastic than he had originally intended. After all, if he had worked with Vincent to create entertainment, why should it be a bad thing if people were actually entertained by it?
As they walked, Sarah's eyes caught the statue of the Colossus that stood in the center of the room. It was a scale model, maybe two feet tall, but unlike the ridiculous image that was on the marquee, it was also a fairly accurate rendition. “What's that?” she asked him.
“The Colossus. Is like your Tom, yes?”
“It's smaller.”
Emilio laughed. “Is not the real thing.”
“No, it isn't.” Sarah said as she examined it more closely. “Tom doesn't look like he was made from barrels and pipes.” She reached out and touched it. “Does it move?” she asked.
“No. The real one, it moves very well.” He lifted his hands up and down as if they were on a string. “Like a toy.”
“I'm surprised that Darby never mentioned this show. It seemed like it would be just the kind of thing he would have enjoyed.”
“Is open only a short time.”
“I see.” She squinted at the statue. “I'd love to see what the real thing looks like.”
“I show you,” he said, and grabbed her arm.
When they reached the wall, Emilio pulled back the curtain to reveal a door hidden behind it. After checking the knob to make sure that it was locked, he rapped his hand hard against the wood. “Vincent!” he yelled out. Waiting only a moment, he knocked again, and called out louder through the darkness, “You there, Vincent?”
They waited for a few seconds in silence before Sarah said, “Maybe he's out?”
“He's an old man.” Emilio pointed at his ear. “No hear.” Making a fist, he pounded on the door with enough force to make it rattle in its frame. “Viiiiiin-cent!” he shouted.
Taking a step back, Sarah looked down. “If he's there, I'm sure he's heard you that time.” Her shoulders shook a few times, and Emilio wondered what might be wrong with her.
Realizing that he must have scared her, he put his hand back down to his side and slowly unclenched his fist before putting it on her shoulder. “Are you all right, Sarah?”
She looked up at him and pointed at her mouth. “Viiiin-cent!” she said, in a mock shout, pretending to bang on the door, “Viiiiiiiin-cent!” She followed it with a cackling laugh he had never heard before.
After a moment of shock, Emilio laughed along with her. What was it about this girl? She could be so serious and proper, and then…
His sister might think she was just another rich girl, but he had seen her fearlessly attack a man more than twice her size. If the society ladies of New York were all like this, then it was something they were hiding from the newspapers.
He stared into her eyes until the laughing subsided, letting himself enjoy the warmth of the sudden return of his feelings for her.
In response, she tilted her head to the side, and her smile became curious and warm. “What is it, Emilio? Are you all right?” But there was something in the way that she smiled at him that told him she already knew the answer.
Standing there, Emilio realized that he was feeling more than just infatuation. It was something that he hadn't felt in a very long time, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. “Sarah, I…” He tried to find the English, but there didn't seem to be any way to express it. Was there only one way to say love in English? Was it something he wanted to say?
The moment was broken by a muffled shout of “Damnation!” as the lock in the door in front of them rumbled and clanked. A few seconds later, the door flew open, revealing Vincent Smith standing in the doorway.
The showman looked, as Emilio had expected, like a man who had just woken up from a night of debauchery and drink. It was, in Emilio's experience, how the man always appeared, unless he was on stage.
He was older, right around fifty, with a curly, well-waxed mustache, topped by a pair of piercing blue eyes. His clothes were just a step above what might be worn by someone living out on the street, consisting of a baggy pair of paint-splattered canvas trousers held up with suspenders over a tattered and equally paint-covered union suit that had once been white but wasn't anymore.
All his hair stuck straight out of his head like stiff, white wool, with the exception of his beard and whiskers, which were unkempt, but appeared to be well-manicured.
Emilio had considered warning Sarah about Vincent's eccentricities, but the showman wasn't dangerous, and Emilio's English wasn't near
ly good enough to explain how strange he was. He was also worried that it would just give Sarah another reason not to trust the man.
“Zounds! What is this all about?” He looked down at Sarah. “And who are you? The doors don't open until seven o'clock!”
Emilio waved at the wild man. “It's me, Vincent!”
“Emilio!” he shouted as he stepped through the door. He embraced the Italian in a bear hug, lifting him up off the ground. “How are you, my boy? And why haven't you ever come back to see me?”
“I finished work.”
“That doesn't mean there wasn't any more. I'm always glad to see you.” Vincent's tone was so rich and practiced that it sounded almost unreal. But if the man had ever had another “natural” manner of speech, it had long ago been wiped away by his affectations.
“You told me to leave.”
“Did I?” he said with a look of genuine shock on his face. “And why would I say something like that?”
“I make you pay me.”
“Well…” said Vincent slowly as he twirled his finger in the air, and then followed it with his entire body. “I could see how I might have considered that a problem before I actually opened the show.” He finished his twirl with a flourish, and then stamped his feet down. “But look at it now!” he said, throwing up his arms theatrically. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, men and machines, I welcome you to not only the greatest wonder of the modern age, but what is also the singularly most successful exhibition of mechanical marvels in the entire city of New York—if not the world!”
“Eh-hum,” Sarah said, over-enunciating the words in a way that made it clear that the interruption was meant to be intentional.
Emilio turned to face her. He was quickly learning that when there was a woman of society around, even one as open-minded as Sarah, there were also a long list of rules that everyone else seemed to be constantly breaking. “I'm sorry. Sorry!” He grabbed her hand and brought her forward. “Vincent Smith, this is…”
Hearts of Smoke and Steam (The Society of Steam, Book Two) Page 24
