Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  He fell into a run and threw himself across the rooftops. As his feet left the building he could feel himself rising just a hair less high than he had before. He doubted it was something that anyone else would notice, but his edge was missing. He’d need to remember that when he came into contact with someone dangerous.

  As he reached the next rooftop and leapt into the air he couldn’t deny the warmth rising in his body. He was a hero again! Moreover, he was free from the clutches of the Children, no longer a morally compromised man, although his mission to destroy them from within had failed utterly.

  As he got nearer to the park things quickly became more serious, and the scene that unfolded in front of him was one of unbound terror and carnage. Wisps of the black smoke still crawled around the grounds of the park, burning and blackening the grass that it touched. The trees were stripped of their leaves, the bark burnt and black. Most of the people who had been caught in the cloud were already dead, their bodies tight like coiled springs, their hands and legs pulled in and backs bent. Some of them seemed to have almost become wrapped around themselves.

  A few unlucky survivors wandered in a daze, their clothes mostly gone, their skin blackened. Or perhaps they were just . . . smoked? And one man stood in the center of the park. All that had survived from the explosion and the corrosive gas were rags, and a cloth wrapped around his waist—but rather than black, his body had been turned to purest white by the exposure to the deadly gas. “Eschaton,” Anubis whispered in recognition. Sitting in front of him was a man in a wheelchair. He was writhing in the chair, his wrists and arms clearly bound.

  Anubis lodged the head of the staff into a nearby smokestack and jumped off of the roof, letting the unreeling wire break his fall. The moment he reached the ground he retracted the spines and retrieved the tip of it, and sprinted toward the park. Survivors begged for help as he ran past.

  As he got closer, he was almost blinded by the brightness that surrounded the huge figure of Eschaton, white lightning flashing underneath his skin. “Anubis! Of course you came!” The white man’s voice seemed amplified somehow, the sound of it ringing off the walls of the buildings nearby.

  Perhaps this was the fruition of Eschaton’s mad plans. Had he come too late? “What have you done?”

  Either Anubis’s eyes were adjusting, or he had become more accustomed to the villain’s dazzling light. “I’m so glad it was you, Anubis. Who better to be witness to the first dazzling rays of the new dawn.”

  “You’re a twisted murderer!”

  Eschaton shook his head. “You can no longer judge me! I am your superior now, Jackal! Look at me and rejoice, for I am your Ra! I am the god of a new day, the bringer of light for all mankind!” He swept his hand around him. “And these are my subjects.” As Eschaton laughed, Anubis felt a wave of sickness rising up in him.

  He took a breath to steady himself, and realized that there was something familiar in the sharp chemical odor of the smoke. He had smelled the same strange scent when Prescott had burned to death in front of him. The stink of Eschaton’s corruption truly was everywhere.

  The man in the wheelchair let out a moan. Now that he was closer, Anubis could see that there was something terribly wrong with him. His skin was a sickly white, as if his flesh had been transformed into living alabaster. Flickers of silver raced up and down his exposed flesh, like tiny fish swimming in his veins.

  Eschaton noticed. “What do you think of my latest creation?”

  “It’s an abomination,” he replied, “like everything else you create.”

  Eschaton let out a laugh. “Do you hear that, Nathaniel? This man thinks you’re a monster.”

  “That’s Nathaniel Winthorp?” It was only half a question, and as he realized that it was true, recognition still fought with disbelief that the boy could have been so utterly transformed.

  “Indeed,” Eschaton replied as he reached down and ran his hand almost lovingly across Nathaniel’s shoulder. “An experiment of mine . . .” The bright glow around Eschaton was definitely fading, but it was still powerful enough that creeping bolts and electric arcs travelled across the flesh of the bound man as he caressed him, making him twitch. “Whether I can control not only the frequency of successful transformation, but the method of it.”

  Anubis had harbored his suspicions previously, but surely there had to be more to it than this. “And this is your plan? To smother the entire world in your deadly smoke?”

  “And you call me a maniac! The world is, sadly, out of my reach, so currently I am only concerned with the population of this city. But once I have transformed New York, then my new brothers and I will set our sights on the other great cities. Paris next, I think.”

  “Your brothers?” He stared at Eschaton, his eyes wide with shock. “You want to create an army of men like yourself?”

  Eschaton nodded vigorously. “Men, women, children, dogs, cats . . . A new race: a true ruling class. One born of technology, and not of the pathetic whims of biology.”

  “A race of monsters.”

  “The first step toward godhood.”

  Anubis looked around him. For every one moaning survivor there were a dozen or more of the silent dead. “You’ll kill hundreds.” Somewhere in the distance he could hear the shrill melodic trilling of police whistles.

  If Eschaton had heard them, he was completely unconcerned by the imminent arrival of the authorities. “And now you’re thinking too small. Thousands will perish—millions, if I have my way.” He placed his palm on Nathaniel’s head. What remained of the boy’s hair came away under his hand. “But they would all die anyway. Their lives would have been meaningless, but now they can be the first martyrs of a new and better world.”

  “That’s what you want to believe, but all I see here is murder.”

  The glow around him had almost vanished now, and the figure of Eschaton was becoming less blurred all the time. A dark hue was beginning to return to the giant’s skin.

  Eschaton slid his hand down toward Nathaniel’s mouth and slipped his fingers into it. “Tell him Nathaniel. Let him hear the words of the first true child of Eschaton.” Lifting up his glowing arm, he pulled a scrap of charred cloth out of the writhing figure’s mouth.

  Nathaniel let out a sound that was halfway between a shout and a whimper. “Help me! For the love of God, please help me.”

  Eschaton chuckled. “Your God clearly doesn’t love you the way that I do.”

  Anubis felt the anger rising in him. He took a single step forward, and then charged toward the figure, raising his staff and firing the tip of it at Eschaton as he ran.

  The ankh slammed into the gray man’s hard flesh and bounced away, almost without effect. Anubis followed a second later, dropping low and slamming himself into the towering figure’s legs.

  A normal man would have toppled under the assault, but crashing into Eschaton was like slamming into a brick wall, and Anubis fell to the ground instead, all the air expelled from his lungs. He could feel the tingling electric energy coming off of Eschaton’s skin even through his costume.

  Taking a moment to shake off the pain, he twirled his staff, managing to drop a loop of the wire around Eschaton’s neck.

  Rather than staying within the gray giant’s grasp, he ran off toward the iron fence. If he could reach it, he could find enough purchase to topple Eschaton.

  Only a few feet from his destination, the wire pulled taut. As he fumbled for the catch that would allow him to reel out a bit more cable, Anubis had an instant of hope. Perhaps he could gain enough of an advantage to at least grab Nathaniel—not that he’d have any idea what to do with the boy once he had him. So far Eschaton had won every battle. Even a desperate victory was a victory.

  Just as he was about to string the wire through the iron fence, he felt a tug against the staff in his hands strong enough that it almost threw him off of his feet. Instead it spun him around completely so that he was suddenly facing Eschaton. The gray man was holding the wire between his
massive hands and smiling at him. He reached out with his other hand, grabbing the taut end and tugging it toward him. Anubis tried to hold his ground, but it was useless. His boots slid across the concrete as easily as if he were standing on ice.

  “You are already most admirable as a man, Anubis.” Eschaton yanked again, closing the distance between them by a few more feet. “I can only imagine how much more spectacular you’ll be once I’ve purified you.”

  For a moment Anubis considered throwing down the staff and running away. Despite any wounds his pride might take, at least he’d survive his encounter to fight another day. But what did that mean, really? Would he go back into hiding? Pick up his tools and head back to the factory?

  And then what would he do next? Simply wait until the next cloud of gas rose over the city?

  Anubis had had enough of that. And the casualties of his cowardice, no matter how tactically sensible it was, were all around him.

  The next yank brought them within a few yards of each other, and the grin on Eschaton’s face was clearly growing. “What element would you like me to inject you with when I expose you to my smoke? Silver perhaps, or maybe gold, like that ankh on your chest.”

  As the giant pulled again, Anubis let himself go with the momentum. As he flew across the distance that separated them, he reared back with the staff, and then cracked it across Eschaton’s head.

  The gray man did at least have the courtesy to flinch from the impact of the metal rod against his face, and the annoying smile disappeared. But if the attack had been a minor annoyance, it was clearly not much more than that.

  Then Anubis felt his staff ripped from his hands, and before he could respond it was being turned against him, crashing into his chest. Unlike the villain he was facing, Anubis was neither towering nor unstoppable, and the impact of the attack drove him to the ground.

  Perhaps, he thought, now would be the time to escape. But as he struggled to catch a breath, Eschaton’s hand reached down and grasped Anubis by his chestplate. A moment later he felt himself being lifted directly up into the air. He felt like a child’s toy as he was spun around, and suddenly he was staring directly at Eschaton’s terrifying gaze.

  The gray man could hold him up with a single arm, and he took his free hand and wrapped it around Anubis’s head. There was a familiar tugging sensation as his mask began to slip free. His lungs had gasped in enough air for him to choke out a single word . . . “No.”

  Eschaton shook his head. “Don’t worry, Anubis. I already know your secret. Jack saw your skin weeks ago, after you killed that boy.” He pulled off the mask completely, revealing Anubis’s true face underneath. “But it had never really been hard for me to guess why you might want to hide your identity. No white man would willingly accept a Negro’s help, or consider you anything but a criminal, really. But wearing a mask could allow you to pretend to be a hero in an ungrateful world.”

  “Didn’t kill . . .” Anubis tried to choke out, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Eschaton tilted him toward Nathaniel. “What do you think Mr. Winthorp? Is this the savior you expected?”

  The boy looked away. The expression on the young man’s face said everything Anubis needed to know about his opinion of being saved by a man with brown skin. But Anubis had never let that stop him. He was the same man, with or without the mask.

  Still, for a moment, Anubis wanted to rage and scream. Then the moment passed, and he suddenly felt at peace.

  He let himself relax in the gray man’s electric grip. Eschaton lifted him higher and studied his face. “I’m surprised at you, Anubis. How sad it must have been for you to hide your true face from me all this time.”

  “My secrets . . .” he choked out.

  “In my new world, you won’t need them. We will all be new colors: black, white, gray! Our new hues will reveal our power, and we will all be equals in each other’s eyes!”

  From the corner of his eye, Anubis saw Jack running toward them. The thin man was smiling. “Hello, Anubis. It’s good to see you and our lord together again. We were getting afraid that you’d never come back to us.”

  “What’s going on, Jack?” Eschaton asked.

  “Me and the boys got the coppers on the run, for now. But it won’t be for long. We need to get out of here.”

  Eschaton nodded. “Round up any of the survivors you can, and put them in the wagon.” He lowered Anubis to the ground. “Take him, as well. I’ll use him for the next experiment. I’ve never exposed a Negro to the formula before. Perhaps his dark skin will give us an . . . interesting reaction.” Then he turned to Nathaniel. “Although it would have to be spectacular to be more interesting than you, my boy. And we’re not done with you yet.”

  Anubis prepared himself to attack the moment he was let go. It might be that he couldn’t fight this monster directly, but he could certainly escape Jack Knife and a few of his thugs.

  Eschaton’s arm went white, and Anubis suddenly felt every muscle in his body contract and shake. It was as if his entire self had been stolen by some mysterious demon, grabbing him and shaking him from within like a gibbering puppet. When Eschaton let go, Anubis crumpled to the ground, every muscle exhausted. He found himself staring into his own discarded mask—the face of Anubis. He had been judged, and was found wanting.

  As he lay there, helpless and unmoving, he watched Eschaton turn and walk away. White lines crackled across the giant’s bare flesh, and Anubis could feel the ground shuddering slightly with each step the man took. It was hard to deny that whatever Eschaton had become, he was certainly no longer human. But what did that make him? A god? Eschaton would have certainly claimed the title, or at least used it as an excuse to mock the deity he had fashioned himself after.

  He could feel Jack’s hands on him, rolling him over. He tried to will himself to lash out, but there was no fight left in him. “Come on, Anubis,” the tall man said, lifting up the limp man’s legs and tucking one boot under each arm to drag him away. “We’re heading to the Hall of Paragons. You’ll love what we’ve done with the place.”

  Chapter 5: The Body of a Man

  CHAPTER 5

  THE BODY OF A MAN

  “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Farrows.”

  Sarah hugged Jenny tightly, her eyes squeezed shut. She could feel emotions pounding through her in waves: relief, fear, sadness, love . . .

  For as long as she could remember, growing up meant watching the world take away everything she had ever known or loved: her mother, her father, Darby, Tom . . . But Jennifer Farrows was still here, and still alive. For now that would have to be enough.

  As Sarah opened her eyes and blinked back the haze of tears, she was startled to see something staring back at her from the shadows in the corner of the room. It was a dark, angry gaze that compelled her to look away. She fought off the instinct and simply stared, the power of her embrace with Jenny only moments before now almost utterly forgotten. The conflicting feelings still swirled around inside of her, but the intensity seemed to be have been dwarfed by the sudden quiet battle of wills with the wild, damaged creature that she shared the house with.

  She knew that if she turned away even for an instant she would never find the courage to be able to look Viola Armando in the eyes again. Instead she stared directly at the girl, trying not to focus on the dark wounds on her face. Instead, she stared directly into her soul.

  Viola had always been uncivilized—there was no denying that to a greater degree her wild, exotic nature was a part of her charm. Sarah had admired Viola’s ability to move through the world unencumbered by the rules of society. In many ways the short time they had spent together as friends (or something close to that) had increased Sarah’s desire to throw caution to the wind and live the life that she wanted in her heart, instead of the one that her sex and position demanded of her.

  Looking back at her life, it seemed that all of Sarah’s greatest moments of happiness had come during those times when she was breaking the rules, whether it was
playing in the secret passageways of the Hall of Paragons or being taught forbidden subjects by Darby.

  But that kind of freedom also came with a heavy cost. As she widened her eyes and stared intently into the angry visage of Viola Armando, she realized that being outside of society also meant that when the world began to collapse around you there was nothing to hang on to. If you ran away from the world that supported you, there was no foundation on which to rebuild your life. Yet that was exactly what she had chosen to do the night she had run away from her father in the park.

  At least Sarah had known what it was that she was giving up. In Viola’s case, she had never been given a choice. Her anger was a survival mechanism, and even so, the world had reached out and punished her for it. Thinking about Viola’s plight made Sarah’s hard stare soften with pity. The returning gaze narrowed angrily in reply—clearly enraged that anyone would dare to feel sorry for her.

  But everyone faced challenges in their lives, big or small. When she had first met Tom, Sarah had asked why Darby had made his body so round, rather than making him more human in shape. “We are all birthed in the shape of our creator’s intentions,” he had replied to her, “but we die in the form given to us by our actions.”

  Whatever the intentions, whether they were good or bad, Viola had arrived here defined by the actions that she had chosen to take. When she was beautiful she had tried to make everyone in the world feel nothing for her but envy. Now that Viola’s beauty had been ruined, no one would give her even that. It was only her brother who seemed unable to see just how broken his sister had become.

  Sarah began to feel Jenny’s grip around her loosening. Sarah stiffened, locking her friend into the hug for just a moment longer, and then quietly, and with some exaggeration, mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” to Viola.

  Jenny pulled back, breaking out of Sarah’s grasp with some awkwardness. Sarah quickly caught her friend’s eyes and she smiled at her. Then, her eyes twitched, looking back into the corner, unsure whether the Italian girl had seen what she had done. But the shadows were empty now. Viola had scampered away into the curtains and the darkness.