“Open the cell door.”
“No,” the Irishmen said, shaking his head. “I’m not supposed to do that.”
“I’m not asking you, boy. I’m telling you.”
The Irishman pursed his lips together for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not he had been insulted, and then tilted his head. “If you say so.” He pulled a heavy ring of keys off his belt and walked up to the iron door. “But it’s on your head.”
As he slipped his key into the lock Anubis lifted himself up off the bench. “I know you,” the Negro said to the red-bearded man. The Irishman seemed unimpressed by his recognition, but said nothing. “You were one of the boys fighting Jack in the square,” he continued. “You threw a knife at his head.”
“Yeah, and you saved him,” the Irishman finally replied. “You saved him, and now I’m working for him. Funny how things work out.” He turned the key in the lock with a sharp click.
Clements grabbed the bars, more eager than ever to enter the cell. The red-bearded guard swung open the door. It was almost silent on its hinges. Once it was open the guard turned and pointed. “I’m not responsible if you get into trouble.”
Clements nodded. He was tired of being treated like that scared, helpless child. He’d prove to the world that pathetic little boy was dead and gone. And to do it he would have to act now—fighting the fear before it could take him. “All right, all right.”
The Irishman stepped back, and Jordan entered the cell. “Okay, Mick, you can leave now.” He didn’t bother looking at the guard to see how he had taken the insult. He knew the man wasn’t looking for a fight. After a few seconds he heard footsteps diminishing behind him.
Clements turned to look at the black man. It was cramped inside the cell, and as he stepped in, the stone room seemed somehow both hotter and damper than the hall. He wondered if it was some kind of effect from the walls, or perhaps it was simply his close proximity to the Negro that was making him so warm. It had been years since he stood so close to an African—perhaps not since he had left the plantation. He’d forgotten what it was like to be so near to something that looked almost like a human, but was so different in so many ways.
“You don’t really need my judgment, do you, Clements?”
He hated the way the Negro talked. It was all riddles and questions, as if he somehow was better than everyone around him, when he was better than no one at all. “What do you mean, boy?”
“In all my life,” Anubis said, narrowing his eyes, “I’ve never, ever seen a man so afraid of what’s in his own heart.”
Clements’s hand shot out, striking Abraham in the face. He had underestimated the strength of his blow, and both his fingers and Anubis’s jaw smashed into the cell bars. They let out a simultaneous yelp.
The pain was intense, but clearly not nearly as bad it had been for the Negro. Clements felt a thrill as Abraham collapsed to his knees, and seeing the Negro on the ground in front of him put a smile on his face. “See, boy? You needed that, because I just asked for a little bit of respect.”
Anubis took a moment, then grabbed the edge of the bench and pulled himself up off of the floor. He had clearly been hurt, and Clements could see that the wound to his head was already starting to ooze blood. “I . . .” he started, and then coughed heavily, wiping away his ability to say anything else.
The smile grew on the White Knight’s face. What was it that he had been so afraid of? A pathetic Negro with a growl in his voice? “What were you trying to say to me, boy?”
Clements felt something strike the edges of his shins, hard, knocking his feet out from underneath him and wiping the smile off of his face. His hands instinctively reached up to grab the bars, but his momentum was too strong, denying him any purchase. Instead, the stone floor rushed up to meet him, and in his head there was a sound almost like a hurricane. The air was forced out from his lungs as he hit the earth, followed by an uncanny silence.
For just a moment Jordan’s world was free of pain and fear, although he could feel a kind of fuzzy tingle in the fingers of his left hand where they scraped hard against the rough iron bars on his way down.
Then he could hear Anubis’s voice coming from somewhere up above him. Amplified by the stone walls, it rumbled almost like thunder: “I have judged you, and found you wanting.” He felt the pressure of a foot on his back, and as he gasped for air the fear came rushing back, pushing past the pain and filling him like some terrible liquid that had been injected into his body.
Clements’s jaw clenched tight. He needed to push his fear back down, but there was no place in his mind that would give him purchase to fight back. The world was fighting his attempts to escape as well, and as he pushed against the floor, desperately trying to rise up, he could feel Anubis’s heel grinding against his spine and pain beginning to blossom in his hand. His fingers were wet from blood, and his hands slipped against the floor when he tried to rise.
Helpless and desperate, Clements’s fear began to shift to terror. A rumbling voice commanded him to “stay down!” but it might as well have been a million miles away. The fear had filled him completely now, until he felt like he might be ready to burst. His throat was on fire from the acid that clawed its way up his throat from his stomach. He was helpless, at the mercy of an angry Negro—a man clearly intent on killing him if he didn’t do something!
And then, like waking up from dream, the fear inside of him began to transform from a cold dark terror to warm power flowing through his veins. It was the same alchemy he had felt before, when he had been fighting the Industrialist in the courtyard: the terror inside him was melting away, replaced by a rush of energy that flowed through his veins like sunshine. Muscles that had been trembling and weak only a moment before were suddenly solid and strong. Clements pushed upwards, easily dislodging the man from his back.
He rose, smiling. He could actually feel his muscles pressing tightly against his clothes where they had expanded in size. He glanced down at his hands and saw that his skin was practically glowing. Not quite as powerfully as the gray man’s, but with more purity. “A true white knight,” he whispered to himself.
This was his power, the gift Eschaton had given him that turned him from just a man into a purified human. It was all he had wished for and more. It was only a shame to have to go through so much fear to arrive at the place where he could finally be the man he always wanted to be. His heart was pounding in his chest like a mallet smashing against stone. He could hear the sound of his blood roaring through his ears, drowning out all other sounds from the world around him. His vision was tinted red, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart.
He saw Abraham lying against the wall. He hadn’t been badly hurt, and the Negro was trying to right himself and make another attack. Watching him now, it seemed to Jordan as if the man were moving in slow motion.
The White Knight’s thick hand wove through the meager defenses that Anubis tried to put up, and his fist landed hard against Anubis’s face. The brown skin rippled and shivered from the force of the impact, and as his hand rolled away Clements could see the imprint that his fingers had left on Anubis’s face.
As his enemy reeled from the blow, Clements reached out and wrapped his hands around the black man’s neck. His fingers dug deeply into the soft flesh and his grip was already more than tight enough to choke the other man, but not quite enough to snap his neck—yet. As he considered his next move, Anubis’s hands beat hard against Clements’s arms. The attacks would leave bruises, but none of that mattered for now. He had this animal underneath his hands, ready for slaughter. If he squeezed just a bit harder, the problem would be gone forever. He would win again. He could keep the head as a trophy and place it up on a shelf in his office. Maybe he’d make it wear Stanton’s hat.
Anubis’s blows slowed, and Clements could see that Abraham was quickly losing consciousness. Those green eyes that had been so terrifying before had begun to roll up into his head. Clements’s fingers twitched. It would be s
o easy to finish what he started, to do what he hadn’t been able to do before. Surely Eschaton couldn’t need him that badly. There were so many other men in the world. And what if Anubis somehow actually was able to become purified? What if he became too strong to stop? The risk was too great—the Negro had to die.
Clements felt another tug on his arms: another pair of hands trying to pull his fingers from Anubis’s throat. The interloper wasn’t nearly strong enough to break his grip, but it was annoying nonetheless. He turned to see that it was the Irishman. The man was screaming “stop” at him, barely loud enough for him to hear it above the roaring of the blood in his head.
He nodded and released one hand, cradling Abraham’s limp head with his other. He turned and faced the red-bearded man with a smile. Without warning he lashed out, his fist catching the other man full in the chest. Caught by surprise, the Irishman reeled back, landing hard against the stone wall before sliding down to the ground.
Clements looked at his hand and marveled at the power it suddenly contained. He was so much stronger than he’d been before. Perhaps his powers would continue to grow. Maybe he would be able to control them without the fear. Maybe he’d soon be stronger than Eschaton himself!
But just as he thought he could feel his power growing to new proportions, it began to drain away. The strength was rushing out of him like hot air from a torn balloon, vanishing back to whatever unknown place it had come from. Last time, Nathaniel had managed to surprise him, attacking him before he could complete his fight with the Industrialist. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
He turned his eyes back to the Negro. When he looked down at the unconscious man’s face it was Lord Eschaton’s angry features that he seemed to be holding in his hands . . . the smooth gray flesh . . . the lightning bolts that he could throw at command. No matter how much power he might have when he needed it, Clements was still not nearly close enough to having the strength and skills he would need to stop Eschaton when he was angry.
He felt his fear growing. The body of Anubis—which had seemed almost weightless in his hands—now slipped heavily through Clements’s bleeding fingers, crashing back into the hard straw mattress.
His heart hammered in his chest, and Clements gasped for breath. He shivered at the sight of the two men’s limp bodies on either side of him. He sat down, onto the edge of the bed frame, rocking as he moaned quietly to himself. “What have I done?” he repeated to himself over and over again. It seemed that an eternity passed before he could manage to gather together enough of his wits to answer his own question by checking on the conditions of the men.
Anubis was unconscious but still clearly alive, his chest still rising and falling, if only slightly. The other man was utterly still, a pool of blood growing around him from the place where his head had smashed against the wall. If he was still alive, then it was just barely. He pulled the keys out of the man’s hand and noticed that his fingers were still warm. Not proof of life, but a chance at it. Then again, the fool shouldn’t have tried to stop him.
Clements dragged himself out of the cell and closed the door behind him. It took him multiple attempts with the keys before he managed to slip the right one into the lock and throw the bolt closed.
Utterly drained, he collapsed onto the wooden stool that the Irishman had been using just outside the door and fell into a deep, hard slumber. He had no idea how long he had been asleep when Jack found him.
Chapter 7: The Heart Should Be Home
CHAPTER 7
THE HEART SHOULD BE HOME
Emilio found himself with nothing to say to the Automaton, even as he sat at the table and worked to attach Tom’s last remaining limb to his body.
At some point they would need to converse, but he wasn’t the only one having difficulty finding something to say to the reincarnated creature. In the two days since the return of the metal man, Sarah had refused to come see him. What had clearly been intended as a grand reunion had instead been a sad revelation.
Viola, on the other hand, had discovered a kindred spirit. She had taken to spending almost every waking moment with Tom, only leaving when Emilio came into the room to work toward his completion.
He had tried to listen in on the conversations between his sister and the Automaton, but so far Emilio had only heard whispered mutterings and the twanging of the Automaton’s piano strings.
But for all his trepidation about having this dangerous machine in his lab, he had to admit to himself that so far Tom had shown nothing that hinted he might once again lose control the way he had before. And he was relieved at that. For better or worse, he was the man responsible for bringing this creature back into the world.
And now, under orders from Sarah, he was giving the Automaton back his ability to walk and fight. He wondered how Darby had lived for all those years knowing that no matter how miraculous his wonderful inventions might be for humanity, there was also the possibility of death and destruction in every creation.
It was Emilio’s greatest fear as an inventor. Mankind could find endless ways to hurt each other. It was no wonder that the old inventor had been such a philosopher: every creation of genius came with so many consequences. It made sense that some sense of direction must be provided in each act of creation, just as God had given man the Bible after he had created the Earth.
What had always puzzled Emilio, and what he most wished he could have asked Darby before he died, was whether he had ever regretted playing in the garden of life—creating something that mocked the ultimate domain of God himself. And by reanimating the creature, had Emilio aided in that heresy?
The mechanical man sat patient and unmoving as Emilio loosened the bolts in his shoulder. The legs were already in place, and he only needed to mount a final limb before the Automaton would be complete. Glancing over at Tom’s painted face, Emilio realized for the hundredth time that the expression that Tom wore would provide him with no clues to his true intentions, although even a bolted-on smile made him seem far more human.
Alfonso had shown up with the new face soon after the Automaton had returned to life. Viola had pounced on the portly Venetian the moment he had walked through the door, demanding that he make her a mask. She had unleashed reserves of charm that she had not shown to anyone since the accident. Emilio doubted that the man would have denied her a chance to cover her damaged features under any circumstance, but it had been enough to convince the “Talentless Pig” to paint her a new face of her own to match that of the Automaton. He had fitted her that day, and come back the next morning with a half-metal plate that she now wore constantly to cover her ruined flesh.
It was, despite it being a lie, also an improvement. The molded steel worked well with her unique looks, and only a tiny view of the scars around her eye were visible through the hole in the mask, making her more mysterious than monstrous.
The image that had been painted onto Viola’s mask was intended to be more than the simple mockery of humanity that Tom wore. From a distance it seemed to be a re-creation of her lost features, but up close it was almost a work of art: a finely detailed bouquet of rose blooms that came together to form her eyebrow, the thorny stems reaching down to outline her eye itself. It made her appear even more exotic than she had been before.
It was a stark contrast to Tom’s new features. His face was far more similar to that of the Pneumatic Colossus than to the images Emilio had seen of the original Automaton’s soft smile. He had rosy dots on both cheeks and a painted mustache that completely obscured the line of his mouth. The effect was as if someone had attempted to make a china doll of a proper gentleman.
Emilio jumped when the Automaton spoke to him. “Why are you . . . smiling?”
“Ehh?” he said, trying to regain his composure, but instead simply ended up feeling slightly foolish for trying to hide his thoughts from a machine. If there was a single advantage to metal over flesh, it was that it had little concern for the rules of society. “I think of you in a top hat and a proper c
oat.”
“I like wearing . . . clothes.”
Emilio nodded. This wasn’t the first time the Automaton had spoken to him directly, but it seemed that it was going to be their first conversation. “But you don’t need to.”
“No. But I . . . like them. It makes me . . . comfortable around others.”
“And how did you know I was smiling? You can’t see!”
“These . . . wires,” Tom said, and sent of a trill of musical notes through the piano strings running across his body, “have made me far more . . . sensitive than I was before.”
Emilio considered asking the mechanical man for more details, but resisted the temptation. He had held the creature’s heart in his hands and constructed the body he wore, and yet the fact the creature lived and talked was still nothing less than a miracle. No amount of questions would ever allow him to completely understand the transformation that brought this creature to life.
And yet, for Darby, the creation of this creature hadn’t been an accident. Creating Tom had been his intention. “Meraviglioso.”
The head turned to face him. “I’m . . . glad you think so.” The tone was a flat and definitive statement. If Tom was truly pleased, it was still a very different kind of happiness than was felt by creatures of flesh and blood.
Even if the Automaton was no longer the dangerous monster he had become that day in the theater, there was also no doubt that whatever or whomever this new version of the mechanical man was, he was not the same Tom that Darby had originally created, or that Sarah had known before.
He was cold and considered, and perhaps it was that very lack of humanity which seemed to have created an almost instant bond between the mechanical man and Viola.
Before the creature had returned to life, he had assumed that Viola would detest the metal man. While it was possible to argue that the Automaton wasn’t directly responsible for the damage to her face, it would be equally impossible to avoid the fact that if Tom had not gone mad in his new body, the events in the theater might have had a very different outcome.
Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam) Page 10
