Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  There were two metallic snaps on either side of him, then a lurch, and Nathaniel was moving again. He had been tied to a wheelchair! No doubt the passersby thought he was some kind of idiot, incapable of speech, or any movement beyond his jerks. No one would come to the aid of a moaning invalid no matter what kind of action he took. He wondered how Eschaton had dressed himself to hide his strange appearance.

  The wheels bounced and creaked as he was rolled across the cobblestones. “I want you to know, before I show you your destiny, that there is nothing you could have done to stop this. Not Darby, Stanton, or any of the Paragons would have been able to fight what is coming. Your only misfortune is that you were fighting the inevitable fate of humanity. But knowing that you could never win, you should feel honored that you have survived to be such an integral part of it.”

  As they rolled quietly along the path, Nathaniel listened intently to the voices all around him. Most people seemed to be engrossed in conversations about nothing important. They spoke of family, food, and how pleased they were that there had been the sudden arrival of a warm spring day. No one seemed the least bit interested in anything of import.

  He wondered if the rest of the world knew that Alexander Stanton was dead. He supposed that Eschaton would keep it secret for as long as possible.

  The wheelchair lurched to a stop. “Now, before I remove your blindfold and show you your surprise, there is one more bit of preparation that we need to take care of.”

  The sound of Eschaton’s voice moved behind him. “Since you are to be my only controlled subject in this experiment, I’ve decided to attempt something a little more radical with you.” There was a slight pressure on his arm, then a single point of terrible pain as a metal needle entered Nathaniel’s flesh. The cool liquid it contained left a trail of agony as it spidered out into his arm.

  “I’d tell you not to worry, but the material I’ve just injected into you is, in fact, quite toxic, and most assuredly fatal. It’s a concoction of my own invention: a blend of my fortified smoke in a mercury base. Based on my experimentation with animal subjects I can assure you that if left untreated it would lead to a most excruciating death.

  “But,” the gray man said with a chuckle, “I can promise you that one way or the other, this poison won’t be what kills you.”

  He felt a pair of hands fiddling behind his head, and suddenly his mask was lifted away. Nathaniel blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the blinding afternoon sun. But they seemed unable to focus, and whatever it was that Eschaton had put into him was already making him feel dizzy and confused. After a moment, he saw a large green arm in front of him, a torch of brass and glass held in its hand. “Do you like opera, Nathaniel?”

  Nathaniel seemed barely able to move his head, let alone answer the question. He wanted to scream and shout, but the poison had hit his organs, and they were rebelling most painfully.

  “No matter,” Eschaton replied. “I definitely do. Another indulgence of mine. It’s all ridiculous melodrama with larger-than-life characters in outlandish costumes. . . . But there’s a sense of truth revealed by all that spectacle. I’m particularly struck with Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Have you seen it?”

  Nathaniel tried to shake his head, but it refused to move. Mozart had always struck him as terribly old-fashioned. He liked contemporary music, like Strauss—not something that sounded mired in the past.

  “No matter. The story is simple enough: it’s about an unstoppable man who refuses to repent for any of his crimes. He sees himself as a superior to those around him, but in the end he is dragged down to hell, destroyed by a specter of his past.

  “Many men have found the story puzzling, or confusing, but it has always spoken to me as a prescient tale that perfectly encapsulates our mad century.”

  There was a sudden sharp pain in his chest, and his heart began to pound. Nathaniel gasped through the cloth stuck in his mouth, but no air seemed to reach his lungs. “Ah, I see that the poison is starting to do its work.”

  Eschaton walked toward the arm, stopping at a large wooden box in front of it. Nathaniel could barely make him out, but he seemed to be wearing a suit.

  The box was about the size of a large coffin, lacquered black, and he made out the white Omega symbol painted on the front of it. The gray man undid a latch and slid open a panel on the side of the box. “I wish you luck, Nathaniel. No matter what happens next, you are about to embark on a journey to a place where no living human has ever gone before.”

  There was a metallic “clunk” as the switch was thrown, and from somewhere deep inside there was the chugging sound of machinery springing to life. A few seconds later a puff of black smoke spewed out from the side of the box, and the cloud began to grow. “Either way, if you want to have any chance of surviving the poison in your veins, I’d suggest that you start by breathing deeply . . .”

  Eschaton leaned down and gave Nathaniel a kiss on his forehead as the smoke began to swirl around them. The electric jolt that came from the gray giant’s lips threw him back into full consciousness for an instant. He could see the cloud in front of him growing, and the concerned looks from the park-goers nearby as it rolled toward them. “I’d wish you good luck if I believed there was any intelligence in the universe.”

  The black smoke enveloped him, and Nathaniel could feel it burning his skin as if he were being rubbed with liquid fire. Although he was still gagged and unable to scream himself, it didn’t take long before he could hear the shouting of people nearby.

  Chapter 3. In Gratitude

  CHAPTER 3

  IN GRATITUDE

  Jenny Farrows hopped off the carriage and looked up at the one-eyed driver’s haggard and dark-skinned face. “Thank you, Mr. Niles.” He wore a patch over the missing eye, and despite a tiny bit of curiosity about the scars that peeked out underneath its edges, she had no real wish to see what his eye looked like uncovered.

  Despite her staring, the man looked down from the cart and gave her a warm, lopsided smile. “You can call me Willy if you like, Mrs. Farrows.” He winked at her with his remaining eye.

  Jenny only nodded in response. When his grin faded away she realized that he had expected a smile in return and not the emotionless mask she had cultivated through a lifetime of devotion.

  Digging deep she conjured up an expression that she hoped was suitable for the situation. At the same time, she was a married woman, and the idea of becoming so familiar with a man she hardly knew . . . She was certain that her husband would not approve.

  Still, the man and his old mare were kindly enough, and they had driven her out along the desolate dirt road that led to the junkyard from the train car. “Thank you, Willy,” she replied, hoping her distress at the uncomfortable level of familiarity was not too obvious on her face.

  From what little she knew of him, she liked the man, and to her mind the Negroes had been treated poorly from the start. With the end of the war, and with it the end of slavery, things could only improve for everyone.

  It had taken her a few trips before she had coaxed Mr. Niles’s particular story out of him, and despite it being a true tale of mystery and adventure, the old man seemed almost embarrassed by his past. Jenny had found it very interesting; the man had escaped from servitude on a cotton plantation, arriving in New York just in time to be drafted, and then lost his left eye as a soldier for the Union in the Great War. It was the kind of bravery she felt the world could use more of.

  The old Negro grabbed her bag and jumped out of the car, running around the back end of the cart to reach her before she could even begin to step down.

  The back was half-filled with junk—Willy being one of the few men who still both brought and took away odds and ends from the rusting piles of metal in the junkyard. He held out his hand to help her down. “Take care, Mrs. Farrows. I’ll be back ’round this way tomorrow morning. I’ll check by and see if you need a ride to the city.”

  Jenny was shocked to find herself needing to take a mom
ent before grasping the brown fingers in her own, but when she finally reached out she grabbed his calloused hand firmly. “You’re too kind, Mr. Niles.”

  “Willy.”

  “Thanks very much, Willy.” She gave him only a wave as he jumped back up onto the wagon, and then turned toward the junkyard. Behind her she heard Willy shake the reins, and the muffled clip-clop of the old mare’s hooves as it started down the road.

  She had only taken a few steps when she saw another Negro running directly toward her. He was a much younger man, and far more whole and handsome. As he came toward her, he was waving his right hand frantically in the air.

  She thought he had been trying to get her attention, but just as Jenny opened her mouth to ask what the man wanted, he sprinted past her. He moved with grace and speed, far more like a dancer than she would have expected for a man of his stature. His features were sharp and striking, and his skin as dark as any man she had ever seen. His clothes were worn, but the creases were sharp, his pants held up by a pair of black leather suspenders with brass buckles so well-shined and crafted that they somehow seemed out of place with the rest of his clothing.

  His black bowler was tilted loosely back.

  “Willy!” the man shouted, and the wagon slowed almost instantly. “You got room for me up there?” the man asked.

  Willy lit up with a smile that seemed a bit wider than it had for her. “Sure do, Abraham. Come on up!”

  The other man hopped up off the ground and straight into the car in a way that seemed to defy the bounds of earth, landing directly in the passenger’s seat.

  “So long, Mrs. Farrows!” Willy said with another wink. Jenny was shocked to realize that she had been staring at the two men the whole time, and she felt her fair skin flush red with shame, but it seemed that Willy and Abraham had a great deal to discuss, and neither of them were paying any attention to her.

  Jenny grabbed her suitcase and clomped toward the house across the stony, rutted mud. The fence around the main building was a motley collection of clashing cast-iron gates that had been lashed together with bailing wire. The hodgepodge wall of spears ran along the entire outer edge of the yard. Most were plain and simple, with straight metal bars, but others were adorned with fleur-de-lys, or metal roses.

  The piece above the entryway was the most ornate of all. It was a full gateway, and it was covered with tiny cast-iron grotesques. Each cherubic demon had the same pair of bat wings and a toothy grin, and the first time she had walked through the door she found the little creatures quite shocking, but over the course of her visits to the Armandos’ home she had begun to warm to their cheeky smiles, and now she found them almost endearing. She reached out and patted one of them gently with two fingers.

  For all its patchwork qualities, the fence that surrounded the junkyard seemed to give the place a genuine sense of security, and it was a stark contrast to the feeling of barely contained formality that the walls in Manhattan always seemed to project.

  As Jenny slipped open the main gate, it squealed loudly on rusty hinges. If there had been a dog living there Jenny was sure it would have come out bounding and barking—intent on discovering what the commotion was, while causing one of its own. But it seemed that this particular junkyard was the only one in all of Brooklyn that didn’t have a canine guardian. She had been barked at dozens of times on the way here from the train station.

  The sprawling compound made Brooklyn seem exotic and very far away from the cramped hustle-bustle of New York. Jenny tried to keep a smile on her face and not let it lapse into a disapproving frown as she walked the twenty yards from the gate to the front door of the house. When she had first come to visit, the thing that had shocked her most was just how much the sprawling junkyard had matched the image in her imagination.

  But what did surprise her was the ramshackle palace that Emilio and Viola had built in the center of it. It was hardly a mansion—as she knew from experience—and yet it was so much more . . . Italian than she could have ever believed possible. She knew that the races of Latin descent were by and large an ostentatious people—they had been the founders of the Roman empire, after all—but it was strange to see just how much gaudy ornamentation the Armandos had crammed into every nook and cranny of their home. It was a spectacular feat to be ostentatious in an age as gilded as this one. For years, every time she picked up the feather duster she had found herself muttering a small prayer of gratitude that Mr. Stanton was not addicted to the accumulation of ridiculous knick-knacks that many of the other wealthy families had encrusted their homes with. She wondered how the servants could ever manage to keep them free of the ever-present scourge of dust.

  As she thought about the mansion, a sudden wave of sadness washed over her. Both of Sarah’s parents were gone now; both victims of the terrible curse of heroism. It was a disease that had brought tragedy to the family time and time again, and now Sarah seemed determined to make sure that particular sickness would be the death of her as well.

  The front door was wide open, and before she walked through the doorway Jenny yelled out Sarah’s name. When there was no reply she tried shouting out after Emilio, but the response was equally absent.

  “Lord preserve me,” she said, and crossed herself before heading in. As she passed the living room she poked her head past the gauzy curtains to peek inside. Sitting on a low table was a bottle of vermouth. It had been tipped over on its side, although even from here she could see that it still contained a swallow or two of drink. Standing next to it was a glass stained with the sticky residue from someone’s adventures with the alcohol the night before. She hoped that Sarah hadn’t taken up consumption of the liquor. A girl her age already had enough to worry about in life without adding intemperance to her problems.

  And she knew where it could lead . . . Jenny knew that there was some kind of romance between Sarah and Emilio, although whether they had consummated that relationship was a question she wasn’t sure she actually wanted the answer to.

  Walking around a threadbare couch covered in crumpled blankets, Jenny picked up the bottle, intent on righting it. Instead, after taking a quick look around, she finished up the remains, the flowery taste warming her body as it slid down her throat. She placed the empty bottle back on the table, telling herself that she was protecting Sarah from temptation as she headed back into the hallway.

  The house was surprisingly sturdy for its ramshackle nature. The place had been built like a maze, with each “wing” of the house sprawling out from this main room. Jenny pushed back a heavy Persian rug. The thick piece of carpet acted as a doorway into the section that Viola had claimed for herself.

  The hallway that led down to her bedroom was dark and cramped, lit only by the tiny slices of daylight that had managed to creep in through the cracks in the walls. When she had first seen the light leaking in, Jenny had suggested to Emilio that he might want to consider sealing the cracks, but he had only laughed and informed her that this was exactly the way his sister wanted it to be.

  She trailed her hand along the wall to guide her way as she walked down the black corridor. She had been down this hall before, and was well aware of the sharp angle at the end that marked the entrance to the girl’s bedroom. The first time she had discovered it, it had connected directly with her nose, leading to shouts and blood.

  The main space was better lit, with a cloth-covered window in the roof letting in enough gloom that she could make out that there was someone in the bed, snoring solidly.

  Seeing a cracked chimney lamp on a cracked marble table, Jenny picked it up, lifted the glass, and lit the wick from a match that she pulled out of her skirts.

  The yellow light smoked viciously as she adjusted it, but once she had it set right, it provided a cheerful glow to the otherwise-dreary scene. The room had a musty, unhealthy smell, and she had to tamp down an overpowering urge to rip everything down and start cleaning.

  Viola’s tastes had run toward the dark even before the accident. Since then, i
t seemed that she had banished anything that wasn’t red or black in color. The black taffeta that hung along the walls had been ripped from the skirts of mourning dresses, and gave the whole place a sad demeanor.

  Moving the light closer, Jenny Farrows looked down at the sleeping girl and frowned. Viola wriggled in response to the illumination, and for a second it appeared as if she might awake. Jenny tugged back the light, and after a moment the snoring began again, although this time Viola was on her back.

  Raising the lamp, she examined Viola’s face. They had waited so long for her to heal after what had happened to her at the theater. After the stitches, there had been weeks of pain, and now that the scabs were finally beginning to fall away Jenny found herself still wondering if the girl might not have been better off if she had simply never woken up from the explosion at all.

  Jenny scowled and chastised herself for having such thoughts, and then took another look. The expression on Viola’s face wasn’t exactly peaceful, but at least she was at rest. The wounds had taken weeks to heal, and for a short time an infection had taken hold, threatening to melt away the rest of her skin. It had been the girl’s brother who had come to the rescue, finding an old Italian woman who had a way with herbs that put a halt to the creeping damage.

  After Sarah and Emilio had taken the girl to the doctor, it had been Jenny who had been pressed into service to care for her. At first she had resisted, but the entire mansion had been thrown into disarray after the news of Alexander Stanton’s death.

  What had previously been a stately home was now filled with lawyers and accountants, busily tearing open drawer and safe in search of the details of the family fortune, clearly intent on cutting through the legal morass that kept them from getting their hands on the money.

  O’Rourke, the old butler, had taken to wandering the mansion aimlessly for hours at a time, the dementia that had been held at bay by his work suddenly overwhelming him in a single wave. Jenny imagined that perhaps losing his mind was a better way for the old man to stave off his grief.