Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  As Emilio swung the heart back into the body, Sarah had a shocking realization—she had never known the professor as anything but an old man. Who was to say that he hadn’t been similar when he was Emilio’s age? The Darby she had known was a man nearing the end of his years; full of the kind of calm confidence and stories that could only come with years of work. But what failures had occurred before he could reach that place? It would have been a question to ask Peter Wickham, or her father. But now all those men were gone, taking with them the answers to the mysteries of the past. Perhaps that was part of the price of progress. She was sure that Lord Eschaton would agree with her.

  It took Emilio a moment to fully lock the chestplate back into place. Even half-finished, what he had managed to accomplish with the tools he had “liberated” from the Theater Mechanique was astounding. “Amazing,” she said out loud.

  “Now what do we do?” Viola asked with an undisguised tone of scorn. “Because I don’t think he’s simply going to come back all by himself.”

  Sarah felt her heart sink. She had half hoped for a miracle—that Tom would simply decide to reanimate once the heart had been placed back into his body, the same way he had at the theater. That was clearly not going to happen today. They would need to try something else—anything else. “Are the boilers up?” Sarah asked, nodding out toward the yard.

  “Is up,” Emilio said, and reached out for one of the long hoses that hung from a wire along the back wall. He grabbed it from the valve on the top and pulled downwards, the slack spring that had held it out of the way unwinding with a series of throaty “boings” as it fought in vain to reel the rubber tube back.

  When he had pulled it down far enough to reach the mechanical man, Emilio attached it to a nozzle sticking out from the manikin’s (no, not Tom’s . . . yet) back. Emilio had clearly figured out what it was that Sarah was intending, and as he stuck it into place, he let out a weary sigh. “We try this before. It doesn’t work.”

  “Please try again, Emilio.” She tried to sound commanding as she spoke the words. It would be better than pleading. She was unsure if he would continue to humor her if he knew that she was simply guessing desperately. From the look on Viola’s face, she had no faith in Sarah at all.

  Jenny was hanging back, slightly curious as to all the goings on, but clearly nervous. Sarah wondered if her friend would be terrified if this faceless, half-finished creature actually did spring to life.

  “You ready?” Emilio asked, his hand resting on the wheel that would unleash the pressurized vapor into the tube.

  Sarah nodded, and after a moment he began to turn the valve. As steam poured into the manikin it began to twitch and jerk. The taut wire strings hummed as it moved, playing a tuneless song. Peering into the chest, Sarah could see that the reverse power was causing the heart to spin. Moisture dripped off of the frame where the steam poured out, and it splashed against the floor in sloppy dark drops. “Turn it off now,” she said.

  As the valve squeaked closed the whole device once again fell limp. Sarah peered into the chest, hoping (praying?) for a sign that they might be at least headed in the right direction. But whether Tom’s previous animated state had been true life or simply a crude approximation, one thing that it shared with the genuine article was that it was either all or nothing: something was either dead or alive, and there was no space in between.

  Feeling a sense of rising desperation, Sarah told herself not to panic. “That was just a test,” she said out loud.

  “Of what?” Viola said with a mocking sharpness in her tone. “Shove a steam-hose up my backside and I’ll jump, too.”

  “Hush now, you rude thing,” Jenny said sharply. Her rebuke came so quickly that it was practically a reflex.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, Sarah tried to relive the moment of Tom’s return to life back in the theater. It all seemed like a blur now. She had been afraid for her life, desperate to find a way to hide the Automaton’s heart from the Children of Eschaton. Shoving it up into the body of the Colossus had been an act of desperation, and yet it seemed to be the only sensible act at the time. She could remember how it felt as she had pushed it in, her arm scraping against the side of the hatch, the brass organ catching against the gears once she had shoved it in as far as it could go. Then she had pulled out her arm, covered in muck from the inner workings of the machine. “Maybe it was the grease?” she asked out loud.

  Emilio shook his head. “Plenty already, Sarah.” He looked unhappy. “Maybe we should stop. I finish him tomorrow and we try again.”

  His hand had already reached out to undo the latch on the cheastplate when Sarah’s fingers landed on top of his. “Please Emilio,” she said. This time the pleading in her voice was obvious, and his hands tensed almost as if her flesh had wandered too near to a fire. “I know we can figure this out. I know you can do it!” She moved her head around, trying to catch his eyes with hers, but he was better at looking away.

  From somewhere behind her, she heard Viola’s shrill laughter. “You think you can just make him come back to life because you want to?” The mocking sounds sent a chill up her spine. The feeling was halfway between anger and dread. “Stupid rich girl, nothing can bring back the dead.”

  Reaching her limit of frustration, Sarah reached out and placed two fingers against Emilio’s chin. He resisted only slightly as she pushed his face around until he was looking directly into her eyes. She spoke her next words as simply and clearly as she could muster. “I can’t fail this time, Emilio. Not again.”

  “Not again,” Emilio repeated. For a moment she thought that she was seeing the clouds clear, and then his eyes glanced over to his sister. “No, not again,” he repeated, but this time she could hear that the tone in his voice had changed.

  “Damn you, Emilio Armando,” she shouted at him, “I know you can be better than this. Where is your fire? What happened to the man I was falling in love with?”

  “You did, rich girl,” said Viola without missing a beat. “You and your heroes happened to all of us.”

  “It’s time for you to shut up, Viola,” Sarah said, her anger obliterating any remaining sympathy she had for the girl. “I’m done with your guilt. What happened wasn’t just my fault.”

  “Sarah!” Jenny was shocked. “No matter what you want, the poor girl has suffered. Don’t be cruel.”

  Looking at Viola, Sarah saw that the girl was smirking, clearly pleased that she had managed to garner genuine sympathy from Jenny. Sarah walked over and stared hard at the scars with an impassive scowl. “You think you know me well, don’t you? Rich girl. Rich girl. But you have no idea what that even means. If I was the spoiled child of privilege you think I am, would I have come anywhere near a fallen guttersnipe like you?”

  Viola moved away from her. It was only the smallest flinch, but it was enough for her to gain purchase, like finding an unexpected crack on a sheer cliff face. Sarah was determined to climb it. “You should be happy that you’re still alive, grateful that you can go on living. But that’s not possible for a mean-spirited, horrible creature like you. You cling to life out of spite, making the lives of everyone around you into a misery. I’ve seen so many better people lose their lives . . .” Sarah let out a barking laugh that washed away her feelings of sadness. “There’s no more fitting mark of the unfairness of your continued existence than what happened to your face, and I refuse to let you torture me with it anymore.”

  Viola turned away, her hands over her eyes as if she had been struck. It had taken a long time, but Sarah had finally made the girl react. She knew she might regret it later, but just for this one moment, it felt good.

  “Sarah, please . . .” Emilio pleaded. “Stop.”

  “No,” she said primly as she turned to face him. “You can’t ask me to stop. Not if you won’t be by my side when I need you.” Taking a step closer, she gave him the same intense glare she had just given his sister. “I’m afraid that’s not one of the options I have available for you. But her
e is what I can offer: you can help me, or you can get out of the way.”

  Sarah pushed Emilio aside, revealing the faceless visage of Tom behind him. “And you!” Sarah pushed the metal body, sending it rocking on the metal stand that held it up. “You were supposed to be my friend!” Sarah wanted to stop. She knew it was ridiculous to be chastising a lifeless manikin. But a curtain of red had descended over her world, and she realized that it felt good to finally tell the truth for a change.

  Besides, the fact that Tom’s lifeless frame couldn’t fight back made him the perfect target for her rage. “What’s the matter with you? You promised me! You promised!” She was shrieking now, and she shoved the half-finished manikin body back into the workbench. Somewhere on the tables something shattered, and there was a hiss as one of the burners belched a ball of flame.

  Sarah hadn’t felt that kind of heat since the day Darby’s house had burned down, and she brought her hands up over her face to protect herself, but the heat had already vanished. There was the familiar scent of singed hair, and it brought back the memories of being in Tom’s arms. “I’m sorry,” she said as the tears rolled down her face. But truth be told, the only thing she truly felt sorry for was herself.

  Emilio ran around her, scrambling to get the damage she had caused under control. Maybe the whole place would burn down . . . maybe that was what they all deserved.

  He pushed the scorched frame aside, and it began to slide sideways. Sarah grabbed it, trying to stop it from falling, but she underestimated its weight, and instead it took her down with it. She and the metal body crashed to the ground together in a cacophony of snapping strings and broken notes. She turned her head to look at the faceless thing—another dead friend. “Another failure.”

  “No . . .” said Emilio, from somewhere up above. She felt the weight coming off of her as Emilio pulled Tom’s body away. “I think I know.” His tone sounded different.

  “Now stand up, Sarah,” Emilio said, taking her hand. “I think you will want to see this.”

  She let herself rise up, and wiped away the tears from her eyes. “What is it?”

  “To invent the impossible, imagine the improbable,” Emilio recited. Sarah recognized the words—they had been inscribed inside the walls of Tom’s heart.

  The stand had been bent slightly in the fall, leaving the body hanging at a slightly odd angle. Behind it the wooden surface of the workbench was still smoldering.

  Emilio took a few minutes to straighten up as best he could. Once he had things fairly stable, he reattached the tube, and then re-opened the steam valve. Once again the mechanical man started to jump and shiver. Emilio pulled out a wooden match from a small paper packet and struck it against the table. It flared to life, and he used it to light a shard of wood he grabbed from the floor. After it was burning merrily he waved the stick out, and held the smoking ember underneath the steaming organ.

  “You must will your success into being,” he continued. Sarah was impressed with how clear Emilio’s English was when he was quoting Darby. “I say, live, Automaton!”

  Sarah felt herself flush with embarrassment. Tom hadn’t returned to life because she’d shouted at him.

  The smoke rising up from the smoldering stick mixed with steam, surrounding the heart in a gray glow. “Live,” Emilio said again, more loudly this time, and grabbed Sarah’s hand. “Say it with me!”

  Sarah frowned, but Emilio was not willing to take no for an answer. “If you need him, he will come back to you, Sarah.” This was ridiculous. “Say it!” he said.

  She had tried everything else—maybe it could work. “Live!” she said, but even she couldn’t hear the meek words over the clattering metal and the hissing steam. She said it again, this time yelling as loud as she could. “Live, Tom!”

  Then she began to chant the words over and over again, a tiny flicker of hope rising up inside. But nothing seemed to be happening to Tom except for the same twitching that had come from the steam.

  As Sarah felt her feelings of hope turn to despair, the shivering stopped entirely. Emilio had obviously shut off the steam again—hadn’t he? But his hands hadn’t moved and the hissing continued.

  When she looked up, there was a smile on Emilio’s face. He reached out and closed the steam valve. The hissing died away, except for a small, steady beat that came from the heart, small wisps of white vapor rising out from it in regular beats. “It’s working,” he said.

  Tom’s working arm rose up, and Sarah held back a gasp as he began to speak. “I am . . . here.” The voice was different than it had been before. Instead of the previous throaty whistle, the sound was a glissando from twisting strings—far more musical, but somehow unearthly, like an angry choir of angels singing together to form a single voice. “But . . . where am I?”

  The arm groped around blindly, clearly trying to discover more about the world. Sarah reached out and took his hand, grasping it in hers. As his fingers closed around hers, the grip was tight, almost painful, but not more than she could stand. “I missed you, Tom. I missed you so much.”

  “Sarah . . .”

  She could feel the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, and flinging sensibility to the wind she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The metal was cold and unyielding, but it felt somehow different knowing that Tom was animated. “Thank God,” was all she could think to say. “I didn’t know what to do without you.”

  “I am sorry . . . Sarah.”

  She pulled away, but kept his hand in hers. “Sorry? Whatever are you sorry for?”

  But before Tom could reply, she heard Viola’s voice from over her shoulder. “He’s sorry that he came back.” Once again she heard the sharp sound of the Italian girl’s mocking laughter tearing apart her joy. “You’re sorry that your rich girl didn’t let you stay dead.”

  Sarah felt the anger rush up into her. “You couldn’t know. You don’t remember. He wanted me to save him. He wanted to live! He said so!”

  Then she felt Tom’s metal hand on her shoulder and she turned around to stare into his faceless visage. “I am sorry I . . . left you. I am sorry I . . . hurt you.”

  She stared into the emptiness, trying to remember the face he had worn before. Those eyes had seemed kind, but they had been painted that way. It had never been possible to know what it was that truly lay behind them. And now there was this new Tom. Was he the Automaton she had known, or the colossus that they had faced in the theater?

  Every time her metal friend had saved her, it had come at a cost to the people around her. “Stop! You weren’t in control of yourself, but you are better now.” If Tom was a weapon, at least he was her weapon.

  “I think that your . . . friend may be . . . right.”

  “No. She’s not.” Sarah could hear the anger in her voice, but she didn’t care. She had been given a miracle, and Viola wouldn’t ruin it. “We need you, Tom. I’m so glad you came back to us.”

  Sarah looked to Emilio, hoping to find some support in his eyes, but his gaze was locked on the Automaton. He had been the one who had truly believed, and now he seemed astounded by what he was seeing.

  “Hello, Tom. I am Emilio.”

  Tom’s voice dropped lower, and it came booming out of him angrily. “I . . . REMEMBER YOU.” His hand pulled free of Sarah’s and rose up threateningly.

  Emilio stumbled back, and Sarah gasped.

  “Tom,” Viola said, and stepped in between the automaton and Emilio. “This is my brother. He’s your friend. He rebuilt you!”

  “YES! He . . . I . . . understand. I AM . . . sorry.” The hand lowered, and then extended in a far more friendly gesture.

  Emilio took it with a surprising lack of hesitation. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  But Sarah could think of nothing to say. The idea of Tom returning to life had seemed ridiculous, and yet that had been her dream. Now it was shattered by the realization that the monster she had met at the theater was still there, hidden somewhere inside of him. The thought was dizzying—o
r, perhaps, Sarah was simply becoming dizzy. She certainly could feel the walls closing in around her. She had been waiting for this moment for so long, it had come at such a cost; and even now there was still more to be done.

  Trying to maintain her composure, she stood up and took a few unsteady steps. From behind her she heard Viola’s mocking tones. “Is this what you wanted, rich girl? Is this what you wanted?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but she had nothing to say. Instead she heard Tom’s voice. “You brought me . . . back. I came back for . . . you.”

  She looked at the metal man in front of her, and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. Before she could stop herself, her feet were carrying her out the door.

  Chapter 6: The Transformation of Fear

  CHAPTER 6

  THE TRANSFORMATION OF FEAR

  When Jordan Clements first saw the truth that lay behind Anubis’s mask, he realized that he’d known the truth all along.

  In retrospect, it had been staring him in the face every time the jackal had turned toward him and he could see nothing behind his hidden eyes. “As simple as black and white,” the White Knight muttered to himself, and then stifled a laugh.

  As he walked down the granite halls and down the stairs to the cells, he marveled again at just how grand the Hall of Paragons was. There was little of the usual opulent collections of artifacts and paintings that stuffed wealthy homes of the city—Darby would have never allowed that. What little ornamentation there was had been mostly destroyed after Hughes had been swallowed into the belly of the building. But despite the lack of all of that, it was still impossible not to be impressed by the sheer size of the structure, and all the different rooms they had hidden inside it.

  One of Clements’s first acts after moving into the headquarters as a Paragon had been to claim the Industrialist’s old office as his own. The quake that had proceeded Hughes’s rebirth as the Shell had almost emptied the shelves of Stanton’s dusty collection of books. Jordan had taken them all and piled them high into a corner, waiting for one of the servants to collect them and throw them out. So far, no one had come. Most of the servants had fled the building during the shaking and had never come back; the ones that remained were employed in doing Eschaton’s bidding.