Hearts of Smoke and Steam

by Andrew P. Mayer

  “She's right here.” It was a woman's voice, and it came from behind them. Emilio looked up, expecting to see the blonde girl from earlier. What he saw instead was a vague female form swaddled in layers of leather and cloth, a black mask over her face.

  The Irishman breathed out what sounded like a sigh of relief, and a smile spread across his face. “Ah. There you are, Miss Stanton,” he said as he swung the harpoon up to face her. “We've been lookin' all over for ya.”

  Alexander stared at the White Knight in disbelief. “Couldn't find another way, sir, or simply wouldn't?” Was it going to be the job of every candidate they saw to challenge his authority?

  He had to admit that despite the happy outcome, the confrontation with King Jupiter had left the Industrialist with his feathers ruffled.

  The nature of their engagement had left him with little choice but to accept the man, even though he knew that bringing someone with so many mysteries into the Society was bound to end badly. But King Jupiter had, at least, shown genuinely incredible abilities—powers that none of them had ever seen before. As much as Alexander might be uncomfortable with him, it also made sense to keep a man like that where he could keep an eye on him.

  Today was becoming, he thought to himself, a slightly off-kilter version of The Three Little Pigs. They had met a man of wood, and then a man of brick. And now the White Knight was turning out to be the man of straw.

  “Either way, it was what needed to be done,” Clements replied.

  It was clear to Alexander from the moment the third candidate had stepped into the courtyard that inviting him had been a mistake.

  Clements was the kind of man who believed that the best way to fortify his courage for a confrontation was to douse his fears in liquor.

  To his credit, the man had only staggered once as he walked out in front of them, but being able to hold your drink was a prerequisite to joining a gentlemen's club, not the Society of Paragons.

  And after only a few minutes, it was obvious that Jordan Clements was claiming to have superhuman powers he clearly didn't possess, and had been reciting a history that was, on reflection, equally as suspect as his claims of exceptional strength and reflexes.

  But despite his subterfuge, Clements seemed to be of the opinion that the simple fact that he was standing in front of them entitled him to their time and attention.

  Alexander didn't know what made him angrier: the man's attitude, or the fact that he actually thought he'd be able to get away with it.

  In person, the White Knight's costume was more ludicrous than terrifying, although it was clearly offensive to anyone who remembered the bad days that had followed directly after the end of the Civil War. The whole thing was baggy and poorly fitted, and managed to showcase a protruding belly that clearly spoke to a life of indulgence and poor self-discipline.

  Currently the man was subjecting them to a drawn-out tale of some nonsensical adventure where he had single-handedly managed to chase away a gang of “marauding negroes” who were terrorizing the city. Not only did Alexander doubt that there was much truth to his story, but Clements told it while wearing such a self-satisfied sneer on his face that Stanton was practically aching to wipe it off of him with a fist.

  As the White Knight pulled the noose off from around his neck and held it up to explain how he had used it to “subdue” one of the “subhuman trespassers,” the whole scene took on an unreal quality. Was this what the Paragons had been reduced to?

  Stanton wasn't sure about his own stance on the negroes, but this was clearly over the line. Besides that, there was only so much nonsense that a man could take.

  He looked around at the other members of the Society to see if their reactions were in any way similar to his. Grüsser seemed bored, as if he had already made up his mind that this man was not Paragon material, and was simply waiting for the moment when they could tell him to be on his way.

  Hughes was shaking his head, as if he'd expected something more from the man and was sorely disappointed by what he saw in front of him.

  Lastly was Nathaniel. He almost chuckled when he saw the young man sitting there with his mouth open, his eyes wide with what must have been disbelief. It was as if the boy could hardly imagine that a man such as the one who stood in front of them now was even possible, let alone actually real.

  Stanton swallowed and took a deep breath. His admittedly small reservoir of patience had been utterly drained, and it was time to take action.

  But what should he do? He had already had a confrontation with one of the candidates today, and while it had ultimately resulted in a new Paragon, he felt no satisfaction from it.

  The Industrialist couldn't confront every man who attempted to join them, but each word that came out of Clements's mouth only served to make him angrier. The White Knight's blow by blow description of an attack against unarmed men seemed intended to make a direct mockery of everything that the Paragons stood for—it undermined their most fundamental ideals.

  Alexander Stanton was well aware that his temper was considered to be legendary, even though it was something he worked very hard to control. But in moments like this, his anger was like a caged beast inside of him—something that must be set free on occasion or the greatest victim of its fury would be himself.

  And maybe, like King Jupiter, Clements would turn out to be a better man than he first appeared—someone who, when confronted, would give them a genuine display of both humility and power.

  The Industrialist began to roll his knuckles back and forth against the granite table, the exposed metal tips in his gloves letting out a set of rhythmic tapping sounds. It must have been annoying, but it didn't seem to be loud enough to interrupt the White Knight's enthusiastic storytelling. “And that's when one of them pulled out a machete!”

  “What's a machete?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Well, son, it's a kind of jungle knife that savages use to cut off the heads of strong white men.” The White Knight said it so matter-of-factly that his ridiculous definition sounded like something he'd read in an encyclopedia.

  “What it is,” Stanton mumbled, “is enough.”

  When the White Knight turned to look at him, the cloth mask slipped over his eyes, and he had to readjust it to look through the holes. “What did you say, sir?”

  Alexander raised his voice. “I said that we are done here.” He slowly placed both hands down on the table. “You can leave.”

  The other man visibly stiffened, standing quietly for a moment. “That's not right! I'm not finished! I haven't even shown you my steel lasso!”

  Stanton refused to make eye contact, instead concentrating intently on the table in front of him. “I've seen all I need to see. Thank you, sir, we're done. We'll let you know.”

  Hughes's machine took a single clanking step, turning to face in Stanton's direction. “Alex…Industrialist, don't you think we should at least give this man a chance to prove himself?”

  “I think,” he said, and then paused to take a breath. Perhaps he'd waited too long. His temper seemed poised to boil over, and every time he opened his mouth the anger inside of him seemed as if it were about to gush out. He needed to get it under control. “I think that this man is a hateful blowhard, a drunken buffoon, and an affront to everything that the Paragons represent.” Still, sometimes it felt good to let go.

  Hughes knitted his brows together. “Well, you're not the only one making the damn decision here, Stanton!” It was good to hear some of the old fire back in Hughes's voice, but it wouldn't be enough to make a difference: the dam had burst.

  “That's right. I'm not. But last time I checked, we needed to make a unanimous decision in order to induct a new member, and I wouldn't give this man a yay if he were the last hero left in the world. Which, incidentally, he isn't.”

  Grüsser chimed in next, as he always did. “Industrialist, ist only fair to give ze man his say.”

  “Thank you, Helmut. I'll take that under advisement.” He quickly rose from th
e chair. “Now, if you could kindly get the hell out of here, the Paragons will continue with the business of finding men of worth.”

  The White Knight reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing a round, red face underneath. The hair on top was a blond thatch of thinning curls. His face was puffy and his eyes were wide and dark, sitting above small nose and an almost lipless red slash that acted as a mouth. Taken all together, it appeared to Alexander as if they were being addressed by an enormous baby, and from the look on his face, Alexander wouldn't have been at all surprised if the man were about to cry.

  Instead, he finally managed to speak. “I'm offended by your accusation, sir.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you're not drunk, or that you aren't a buffoon?”

  The man stumbled with the false choice for a moment until Alexander decided to help him. “Or maybe the word you're struggling to find is idiot? Either way, you're clearly not cut out to be one of us.”

  As crimson as Clements's face already was, Stanton could see the red growing even deeper as the man slowly absorbed the meaning of his insult. Staring at his face, he wondered what it must be like to go through life with a range of expression so limited that it had become necessary to use the exact same look for both anger and embarrassment.

  The reply came out in a manner that could only be described as sputtering. “I, I, I am a gentleman. I will not be treated this way!”

  Stanton drummed his fingers across the table. He felt a moment of doubt pass through his chest, but the momentum of the anger was pulling him forward now, and there were times when it was necessary to let the inexorable happen without trying to step in its way. “When you're ready for it to stop, the door is over there.” He pointed at the exit.

  “There's no need to be that insulting,” Nathaniel chimed in, stating the obvious in his own obtuse way. Of course there was no need for it. The boy still had far more heart than sense, especially considering everything he had been through recently.

  “My point exactly, Turbine. And the moment Mr. Clements vacates this room, we can stop being insulted.” He was still the president, and sometimes power was there to be exercised.

  “I demand satisfaction!” Clements shouted, throwing his mask to the ground in an attempt to add weight to his pronouncement. The cloth landed in a limp pile.

  “Of course you do,” Alexander replied. If the man wanted a fight, then they were in perfect agreement.

  Hughes rose forward and up, the legs of his frame giving him impressive height. “Now Clements, there's no need for that! I'm sure that the Industrialist only means to test you.”

  “Hughes, I remember when you used to be a man whom I could rely on to fight the enemies of justice.” The words were just tumbling out of his mouth now. There was something refreshing about being honest, no matter what the consequences turned out to be. “I was hoping that maybe we'd see some of that man come back to life, but instead you're making excuses for villains.” Often when his anger began to spin out of control, the visage of his dead wife would appear before him, still the powerful woman that she had been the day she died. This imaginary woman would give him the stern look she had always used with him when his temper threatened to get the better of him.

  And although Amelia Stanton had never been willing to back down from a fight, she had always been a woman of peace. She had died before Alexander had ever been given a chance to properly reconcile his secret life as the Industrialist with her pacifist views.

  But this time, oddly, it was not his wife's face that appeared in front of him, but Sarah's. And in his mind's eye she was wearing the Sleuth's mask, just as she had on that last night that he'd seen her, except that the leather veil had been torn away, revealing tears streaming down her face. Her lips were pressed together in angry line of recrimination.

  Was it his anger that had driven his daughter away? It had been terrifying to see his own dark side reflected back at him through her face that night. All he had ever wanted for her was the best, and somehow in trying to ensure that she had it, he had managed to lose her altogether.

  “No,” he mouthed back at her, and her face disappeared, replaced by the visage of the quivering charlatan in front of him.

  “When would you like to meet, sir?” the White Knight asked him.

  “We Paragons are men of action.” When he stood up he realized that he was still wearing his gun, and he laughed as he pulled at the straps on his harness to undo the belts that held it onto him. When he was finished, he placed the weapon, along with the steam bottle that powered it, down onto the table in front of him. “Since you won't leave, I propose to take care of you here and now.”

  Clements's eyes widened. Whatever he had expected coming into the courtyard, it had not been a battle with the Industrialist. “Whatever you want,” he replied, clearly trying to push some courage into his voice.

  “Since you called for the duel, I assume that you'll let me choose the weapons.”

  “As you say, sir.” Even beneath his thick jowls it was clear that the man's jaw was clenched.

  He started to pull off his heavy gloves. “You claim to have both strength and reflexes beyond those of a normal man. I say we put that claim to the test, and engage in a round of fisticuffs.” The metal-lined gauntlets landed on the table with a heavy thud.

  “Zis should be güt,” Grüsser said with a laugh.

  “Whatever you'd like,” the Southerner replied. “But it is customary for me to have a second.”

  Hughes was quiet for a moment, but the fact that he'd balled his hands into shaking fists made it clear that he was unhappy with the direction that things had gone. “Don't be a fool, Stanton. The man is ten years younger than you are.”

  “Do you hear that, Mr. Clements? Mr. Hughes is concerned for my safety. But if you're capable of it, sir, you can beat me to death.” He heard Nathaniel let out a gasp. “That way you can be sure that you've removed the most vocal opposition to your membership in the Society while simultaneously proving that you have the strength needed to actually deserve the role. And if you don't think yourself capable of at least breaking a few bones, I'd suggest that you simply leave now.” Alexander let himself smile. To be honest, no matter what happened, it would simply be nice to have a chance to hit something again.

  Clements pulled off his white gloves and began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. “I'm not afraid of you, sir, and I'll gladly accept your challenge.”

  Stanton pointed to Nathaniel. “I'll need you to second for me.”

  The boy stood up and took off his jacket. “I don't think this is a good idea, Industrialist.”

  “You don't have to. Your job is to make sure that this gibbering coward doesn't pull out a hidden weapon in the middle of the battle. And if he does, it will be your job to take revenge.”

  Nathaniel blinked a few times. “I'm not sure that…”

  “Yes,” Alexander asked him, letting his voice drop a bit, “or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And Hughes, since you seem so concerned with the welfare of our applicant, why don't you go ahead and second for him?”

  “I object to your behavior.” Hughes rose up on his frame and began to clank around the side of the table. “But if you are determined to go ahead with this foolishness, far be it from me to dissuade you.”

  “Thank you, William.” He slowly unbuttoned his leather jacket. It did provide protection, but he'd only just had it cleaned, and it would be a shame to soil it with another man's blood.

  As he stretched to pull off the sleeve, he felt the pain from where the Bomb Lance's harpoon had pierced him and winced slightly. The wound was mostly healed, but not entirely. It would certainly slow him down a bit. Trying to hide his discomfort, he slid the coat off the rest of the way and handed it to Nathaniel. He carefully unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and rolled up his cuffs.

  Properly prepared, the two men took up their positions in the courtyard with their seconds standing beside them. “You
can end this by simply calling surrender.”

  Clements narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said I could beat you to death.”

  Alexander nodded and raised his fists into the air. “I've never admitted defeat.”

  The White Knight came at him like a freight train, barreling forward with the clear intention of planting one of his slablike fists directly into Stanton's stomach. Instead, Alexander stepped out of the way and jabbed at the man's head, managing to knock him off course.

  Now that the fight had begun, a thrilling feeling of satisfaction flooded through him. Darby had always been their conscience, always trying to steer the Paragons away from violence in pursuit of a more “honorable” path. But there was only so far down that path a man—a real man—could travel, before he needed to stop being righteous and start doing what needed to be done.

  The man in front of him might not be a villain by the standard definition, but he had all the attributes of one: a blowhard, a liar, someone who believed that the world owed him all the things that he couldn't work to get for himself. And in the end, it had felt good to hit him, and that made it right.

  The blossom of pain in his side was as disorienting as it was surprising, and it forced him to let out a shout. Clements had seen an opening and used it to make a low blow to his back. Stanton hadn't even seen it coming, and it proved that his opponent was surprisingly quick for a man of such meaty stature.

  He danced away and tried to clear his head. “Good, Mr. Clements. Well done.” This wouldn't be as easy as he first thought. “Better than expected, in fact.”

  There was an ugly sneer on the other man's face now. He had tasted blood and he obviously liked it. “Call me all the names you want, Industrialist, but you're about to find out I'm no liar.” He jumped forward, and before Alexander could react, he'd been struck twice, once in the face and once in the chest. It felt like he had been hit by metal instead of flesh, his rib cage flexing from the force of the blow. “I'm not an ordinary man.”