Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  The boy smiled nervously, revealing even more of the shattered enamel in his mouth. He was obviously pleased at the attention he was receiving, but was clearly not entirely sure about impending transformation from human to freak. “But first,” Eschaton continued, finally getting to the heart of the matter, “I need to know if you have a flask on you.”

  “I . . .” The boy seemed startled by the question. His face hardened as he tried to determine the right answer.

  Eschaton spoke with a tone of tenderness that still seemed to carry with it an undercurrent of menace. “Come on, now . . .”

  “Yeth, thir,” Donny said, and dug out a good-sized container from his pocket. It had been made from silver and leather, and from what Nathaniel could see of the engraving, it was clearly something the boy had appropriated from a far wealthier man.

  Eschaton plucked it from his hand and unscrewed the lid. He held the flask over Nathaniel’s face, tilting it slowly forward. Opening his mouth, Nathaniel accepted the stream of brown liquid that began burbling down from it.

  There was an unusual sensation of pain as it touched his tongue, and although the thickness of the liquor was familiar, the flavor was almost entirely unlike any spirit he had ever tasted before. As he swallowed, a sensation of coolness ran through him and it felt as if he had just consumed a cold glass of water on a hot summer’s day.

  Rather than stopping to let Nathaniel take a breath, Eschaton continued to pour the liquid down his throat. The villain laughed as Nathaniel sputtered and gasped, but just as it seemed like he might actually drown in bourbon, the last dregs drained out of the bottle and into his mouth.

  Nathaniel coughed. Despite the fact that he was no longer drinking, the sensation of coldness continued to spread through his entire body, and he shivered as it reached down into his legs.

  “Was it good?” Eschaton said as he tipped the bottle back up. “It seems that your body is still capable of consuming liquor, although I can’t imagine the full effect it will have on you.”

  The boy was still staring at him—even more intently than before, if that was possible. Nathaniel could see in Donny’s eyes that something was occurring underneath his transparent skin.

  “What was that?” Nathaniel said, breaking the boy’s concentration.

  For all his gawking, Donny refused to look him in the eyes. “Good Kentucky Whithky,” replied Donny, clearly unhappy that he hadn’t been the one drinking it.

  “Thank you, Donny,” Eschaton said, slipping the bottle into his robe. The boy looked up at the gray man with a look of disappointment that he assumed was only matched by his own. “Now you can do me another favor and start to gather the men together. It’s time to call the council.”

  “When, my lord?”

  “Right now.”

  Eschaton craned his neck, looking through the crowd. “And where’s Clements? He was supposed to bring Anubis. It’s time for his trial.”

  “Jack went down to the cellth to feth him!”

  “Hopefully he won’t be long . . .”

  “No, thir.”

  Eschaton stared over at the broken remains of Hughes. “Shell, go down and help Jack bring up Anubis. Can you do that?”

  The machine let out a pitiable moan, and began to roll away.

  Eschaton looked down and shook his head at the sight. “I suppose at some point I’ll have to put that creature out of its misery.”

  “Haven’t you already hurt him enough?”

  “The quality of mercy,” Eschaton said, wagging his finger for effect, “is clearly one of many places where you and I differ.” The gray giant turned around. “All right, Donny, call the men in.”

  The boy nodded enthusiastically, and then ran out of the room, shouting as he went. “Counthel in the meeting hall! Counthel in the meeting hall!”

  Eschaton raised a hand and yelled after him. “And bring me a mirror. The largest one!”

  The Hall had suddenly burst into activity, almost every person springing to life from Donny’s simple proclamation. Nathaniel felt a distant ache. He had once wished for the power to make men do his bidding, but that was less likely now than it had ever been.

  After a moment they began to scatter in all directions—some of them running into the main room, others heading off into corridors and side halls. Many of them had picked up Donny’s message, and were repeating it over and over again. Nathaniel had never seen the once-quiet halls filled with so many shouting men.

  His surprise was doubled as Eschaton wheeled Nathaniel into the main conference room. As he was tilted forward and rolled down the ramp, what he saw made him gasp with shock. The space had been utterly transformed from the shattered ruin it had been the last time he had seen it, and it was nothing like the once-stately meeting room it had once been. The gaping hole in the floor had been patched with concrete, and work was almost complete on the complicated mosaic that was being laid across it. Enough of the design was finished that Nathaniel could make out its intended final form: a massive Greek letter Omega: the symbol of Eschaton.

  But it wasn’t only the floor that had been rebuilt; the rest of the room had been changed, as well. Rows of wooden benches had been built down to the floor, creating a hexagonal theater around the center of the space. Men of all shapes and sizes were already filing into these dark pews, and Nathaniel couldn’t help but notice that some of them were wearing costumes and masks, clearly intent on seeing themselves as Paragons.

  He felt the urge to cry. The villain had torn down the old Hall and replaced it with this mad senate. “What have you done?”

  Most of the work had been done since he had been taken into captivity more than a month ago. There was clearly no shortage of industry inside these walls.

  But exactly what was it that the outside world imagined was now occurring behind the brass doors? Certainly there must at least be some suspicions. Could anyone possibly begin to guess what had become of the Turbine?

  He supposed the world at large must still think that the Society of Paragons was an organization of honorable men, and not what they truly had become: a parade of monsters, rabble, and criminals.

  Eschaton laughed as the cart bumped roughly down the wooden ramp that led down to the center of the floor. “Does it shock you to see your precious Hall turned into a place where men of all backgrounds can come together as equals? This is the first step to my better world—no longer is the Hall of Paragons an ode to Darby’s vision of false charity, but a place where men of strong will can come together to decide not only their own future, but that of all mankind.”

  Nathaniel found himself shocked by the insinuation. “We helped so many people!”

  “You helped yourselves, you mean.” Somewhere above them there was a buzzing sound, and Nathaniel saw a glow rise up in the room. The gaslights had been replaced by electric bulbs. Their glow was harsh—still, their brilliance would have been marvelous if they hadn’t been revealing a monster.

  The look on Eschaton’s face was grim as he leaned down over Nathaniel. “You and the others handed out false justice. You supported a broken philosophy while you perpetuated the very destruction you thought you were so nobly fighting against.”

  With the artificial illumination he could now see the objects surrounding him as clear as day—clearer, if truth be told, although with harsher shadows.

  At the bottom of the ramp was a box-shaped object hidden under an expanse of black cloth. Just behind it, where Darby’s magnificent wooden chair had once sat high atop a pedestal, there now loomed above them a towering structure. A set of spiral stairs wrapped around it.

  The new structure was similar to the pulpit in a cathedral. It made him feel the same cynicism as when he entered a church. He had always been of the opinion that all the religious pomp and circumstance would be unnecessary if the men who relied on it were truly able to call up the power of the divine.

  In the case of Eschaton, however, it was clear that the villain was able to manifest abilities beyond tho
se of mortal men. The gray man tilted the cart so that Nathaniel was essentially standing upright.

  He watched as the gray man walked up the steps, the wood creaking as they accepted his prodigious weight. “It saddens me that you don’t, as of yet, fully appreciate what my purification will bring to the world.” After a few steps Nathaniel could no longer see him, but he could hear his voice. “You are already my greatest creation. I’d hoped the process of your transformation would have cleared away some of your sad misconceptions.”

  Up near the ceiling another Omega symbol hung down where a cross might have been placed in a church. “I think I understand well enough,” Nathaniel replied. “You think you’re some kind of god.”

  Eschaton’s shining head appeared at the top of the pulpit and looked down. “Perhaps I am. I am certainly your creator. But unlike the Christian God, I am willing to share my deification. I don’t need to tower above a race of broken creatures just to prove my superiority.”

  “And what happens if all the purified humans don’t agree with your dream?” Nathaniel shouted up.

  “I suppose there will be fighting for a time, as we discover what it means to re-imagine society in a world of superior beings. But that is the way of the world.”

  Eschaton raised his hands upward and a rousing cheer came up from the stands around them. Nathaniel had been so busy arguing with the man that he hadn’t even realized that the council was now in session.

  “Gentlemen! Thank you so much for attending this council. My Children, we have work to do tonight.”

  The crowd once again roared in response, and then they began to chant Eschaton’s name over and over again. Nathaniel could feel despair settling into whatever remained of his bones. It seemed too late to stop whatever awful plan this villain had in store. The Paragons were gone—there was no one left to stop him.

  As the cheers died down, he heard a single voice from the entranceway. “Here you are, my lord! I’ve brought the mirror you athked for!” Nathaniel recognized the massive looking glass immediately as the one that had once stood in Peter Wickham’s chambers. It was tilted upward, and it glowed brightly from the electric lights in the ceiling, almost as if the surface of it had been lit on fire.

  “Bring it here . . .” Eschaton said, motioning toward the boy hidden behind it.

  “Yeth, lord!”

  Without being asked, a number of men hopped from their seats to help carry it down the ramp.

  As it grew closer, Nathaniel thought that the image it displayed had somehow been distorted, the glass melted or scratched in such a way that it was hazy, or unreal.

  It was only when he realized that the reflection in the mirror was truly his own, that Nathaniel began to scream.

  Chapter 9: The Mechanics of Emotion

  CHAPTER 9

  THE MECHANICS OF EMOTION

  Two full days had passed since Tom had returned, and yet Sarah was still avoiding him. She knew she couldn’t delay long. Wasn’t she the one who had warned them that inaction only brought Eschaton’s plans closer to completion? And that was hardly the only reason that she had to go and see her friend.

  Ever since the day Sarah had seen Lord Eschaton smash Tom to pieces with his own arm, she had dreamed of the day that he would return to her—not as the gigantic monster he became in the theater, but as the Automaton who had saved her life that day in February. As the metal man who had run her through the streets of New York to get her to a doctor after she had been injured in the fire. And now he had returned and Sarah was still terrified, afraid that this still wasn’t the same Tom she’d lost, but something else that merely looked and spoke like her old friend.

  And according to Emilio, he was more alive now than he had ever been. He told Sarah how Tom had rebuilt himself, using the piano wire to weave wire flesh on top of his new frame. Was this the Tom she knew? Would he have abandoned Darby’s designs so easily for his own desires?

  But no matter how else he might have changed, the heart that beat inside of him, the one she had fought so hard to protect, was still the same.

  “Or is it?” she mumbled to herself, letting her hand fall to the place on her chest where she had worn Darby’s Alpha Element, the one that now gave Tom life.

  She thought back to the promise she had made to Darby just before his death. He had asked her to help Tom discover what he was capable of. But what if that was not what she wanted? What if he became capable of terrible things?

  The thought filled her heart with terror, but also a tiny thrill. The choice between the great and the terrible was one that every living being had to make. Whether she was ready for it or not, the moment she had waited for, for so long, was finally here.

  And Sarah had, so far, been unable to bring herself to actually go and face whatever the Automaton had become. Instead she found herself walking down by the East River, watching the boats go by.

  Whoever had owned the junkyard before the Armandos had constructed a large wooden dock that hung out over the edge of the river. It was dilapidated, but still serviceable.

  Emilio had told Sarah that there were still occasionally barges loaded with junk that would come down the river and tie up to the dock to try to sell scrap to the junkyard. Once they realized that Emilio only dealt in metal and machinery, fewer and fewer of them had come calling.

  Still, keeping river access was worth the effort to Emilio, especially when it had become necessary to use the dock to get the machines he wanted from the theater back to the yard. Emilio had even hired on a few hands, and repairing the structure had been a way to free himself from worrying about his sister.

  Sarah had never been fond of the water as a child, but as the spring rains had given way to the summer sunshine, she found the idea of the river that ran along the western edge of the junkyard to be more and more alluring.

  When she stepped out onto the dock for the first time, Sarah had only been able to stand out on the wooden slats for a few minutes before the mere thought of the river rushing under her feet had driven her to the safety of the muddy shore.

  But by the end of a week she was no longer afraid, able to trust the floats and wood that kept the dock afloat. She soon discovered that there was something deeply soothing about simply standing out on the dock and watching the world go by. And as her fear vanished the river had become a revelation: a living painting filled with boats of all sizes and shapes, backed by the rough mystery of the city of Manhattan outlined behind it.

  It was only over the last few days that she no longer wanted to stare out at that particular view, concerned that she might see another black cloud rising up above the city—proof that they had waited too long.

  Instead she stared down into the rushing waters of the East River, contemplating the possible ways she might still put a stop to Eschaton, occasionally glancing away as some poor creature or horrifying lump drifted by the shore. She had yet to see anything that she could clearly identify as a human body, although she was sure it was only a matter of time.

  The sun was rising high into the sky now. She had spent the morning wandering along the waterfront, but she would go to speak to Tom this afternoon. She had to!

  But as she rounded the remains of a rusting boiler that time and tide had firmly planted into the muddy shore, Sarah saw that the moment she had feared had come to her.

  Standing in front of her, only a few short yards away, were Tom and Viola. The two of them were facing each other, and Sarah saw them only for an instant before hiding herself inside the rusting chunk of metal.

  At the angle they were standing, she was sure they must have seen her. For a moment she held her breath, waiting for the inevitable confrontation. But as their muffled conversation continued, it became obvious that neither was aware of her. She exhaled softly, thankful that the breeze that carried their voices in her direction also made it more difficult for Tom’s incredible hearing to detect her.

  Viola’s voice was her usual shrill staccato, although the tones were far softe
r than they might have been if she had been directing them at Sarah. Tom’s voice was totally different—musical notes instead of the familiar whistling tones.

  His words now came out in an almost-angelic harmonic trill. The sound made Sarah think of a choir of singers, each one of whom had been given the task of producing a single syllable before letting the next one talk. She found it both entrancing and alien at the same time.

  Pulling together her confidence, Sarah peered out around the edge of the metal slab. Viola was closer to her, and turned slightly away. Despite that, she most likely would have seen Sarah if her vision hadn’t been obscured by the edge of her mask. The metal face-covering was new and completely different than the porcelain one she had seen the Italian girl wearing previously. It came only halfway down her face, but covered both of her eyes . . . looking far more like a theatrical mask than her previous one had.

  The hammered brass gleamed in the sunlight, the shape of it sensual. The curve of it around her face and nose gave it a soft shape somewhere between a butterfly and Viola’s own lips.

  But her mouth itself was not obscured: hanging down from the bottom curve of the metal mask was a lacy veil that obscured the lower half of her face without hiding it completely. The entire effect was clearly intended to be alluring, and Sarah thought it did an effective job.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are,” Viola said to Tom loudly, the sound of her voice almost a growl, “an absolutely gorgeous creature?”

  Sarah realized now that what the Italian girl was wearing was most decidedly a costume, although it was one that would have never been allowed inside the Hall of Paragons. Viola seemed unconcerned with the scandalous nature of the outfit. She approached Tom, not so much walking as swaggering. As she moved, her dress parted near her hemline in a way so far beyond scandalous that it seemed almost ridiculous. Each step revealed a flash of leg covered in a pair of long leather boots laced so tightly that they almost appeared to be nothing more than another layer of particularly darkened skin.