Twelve hours, she promised herself. No, eleven and one half by now. Stealing the money had been all too easy, and she refused to feel guilt. But it was all for naught if she didn’t stay safely hidden until the next morning.
When she turned placidly—heart pounding erratically—into the corridor, the professor resumed his pace. Gratefully, she focused on maintaining her guise. “It is a very determined and sturdily-built piece of machinery.”
“It’s an abomination.”
“Indeed?” He was leaving her behind again.
“Your inventor,” he said, as if the word were a lemon, “took my beloved, departed pet’s body without my permission and turned it into that—that thing—and expected me to be pleased.”
The movement jarring the carpetbag in her hand suddenly made her ill.
He stopped. He pivoted. “Please tell me that all of his devices are not built from the bodies of once-living beings.”
“I have never witnessed the creation of a device, nor did I have a memory installed of my own creation.”
He stared at her and only the dim light saved her from revealing some hint of her own dismay.
But this was not her problem. The creation of devices was not her problem. The destruction of devices she’d left behind did not concern her. Not even the abomination in her carpetbag should be her problem, and she heartily regretted succumbing to the urge to rescue it.
Staying undiscovered until noontime most certainly was her only problem. She renewed her determination to do just that.
The professor passed a door that stood ajar, revealing a basin and tap within.
“Professor,” she announced, brooking no backtalk. “If that is a water source, I must withdraw for a few moments to refill my reservoir.”
“Good heavens!” He spun on his heel again to stare at her with wide eyes. “You actually are steam-powered?” He stepped forward, reaching as if to examine her torso. “How long can you run without more water? Must we stop right now?” And then, clearly unable to refrain himself, “Where does the steam escape? I can’t imagine how such a lifelike and subtly crafted clockwork uses steam. This is most intriguing.”
By her calculation, the water closet was four steps away. “If I might be so bold, you have made it clear that time is vital. I would not suggest an adjustment and refill if it were not necessary.”
“Oh, if only it were my brother carrying out these wretched orders,” he said. “But no, his lordship resides blithely in Wiltshire overseeing his vast estate whilst he has tasked me with stopping General Sherman before he blows up our family’s textile mills in Atlanta!” The professor spat. “He treats my scientific enquiries as if they are merely a hobby for him to exploit at will to protect his financial holdings. As if the ability to drop a directed bomb precisely upon Sherman is worth redirecting my talents, when I have—I have inventions of my own in London waiting for me!”
This—this educated, wealthy, spoiled professor wanted to complain about familial demands? If he continued whining in this way, she would explode.
She took slow, shallow breaths. The war was not her concern. She cared not who won or how, as long as she remained hidden for the night and escaped on the morrow.
“It’s under your skirt, is it not? A reservoir in your—posterior? Perhaps you have twin reservoirs where the gluteus maximus would be.”
She captured his gaze with hers and held it, even as she began slowly raising her skirts. “My apologies, professor. I misunderstood your . . . desires. As you want to examine my body . . .” She slowly raised her skirts to expose the laces of her boots, her stockings, her knees—
“Dash it all, that is not what I—I told you, I did not acquire you to fulfill the purposes of a—those purposes!”
Flustered, he fluttered his hands at her. “Never mind. There is no time. No time at all. Do what you must and follow. The stairs are at the end of the corridor.”
He hurried ahead of her most satisfactorily.
If she had thought his preliminary tests of her dexterity had satisfied him, she had been most sadly mistaken. Once they reached their destination, tucked away in a corner of the attic, furnished with an array of apparatus, equipment and scientific novelties, he checked her hands once again. He scowled and checked items off a list in his composition book as he had her lift various things from a heavy lead brick to a pin, to a marble-topped laboratory table.
“Well, then.” He glanced at her gray linen dress with concern. “It seems useless to attempt to protect your gown, when the risk goes so far beyond a layer of fabric . . .”
Risk? Suddenly, the room of automaton corpses might be explained.
“But at least put this on.” He held out a heavy canvas coat that would cover her almost to her ankles. She turned efficiently so that her arms were reaching straight in, with the coat covering her front. She would attempt to save the gown, as she had no spare. She reached behind her neck, buttoned a single button, and then dropped her hands. “Is this adequate?”
“Not at all.” But he threw up his hands and said, “I’m being foolish. But I do wish you did not look quite so human.”
She wished she didn’t have a very human need to swallow hard, and once again prayed he could not see her pounding pulse.
He took a different coat down from a wall hook. It was leather, but the way he hefted it indicated it was lined with something very heavy. He removed a brass helmet from a shelf, buckled it under his chin, and adjusted it to completely cover his head, leaving only his face open. Finally he replaced his spectacles with multi-lensed goggles. Catching her watching him, he said, “You can never be too cautious.” He then seemed to think better of what he’d said, looked embarrassed, and carried on with prophylactic efforts so extreme that her heart threatened to start missing beats.
But there was a thick-looking wall complete with glass window that appeared to be a wire mesh sandwiched between panes so thick and rippled, surely anything observed through the mess would be distorted beyond the most general use. Which was certainly not a problem for her. Whether he directed her to or not, she would find a way to retreat to safety while he did—whatever he planned to do. She had been willing to allow him the use of her body if necessary, but not the harm of it.
Except.
To her horror.
He retreated to the wall, and before taking his place behind it, pointed to the work surface on the far side of the room. “All I need you to do, Miss Eglan—” He broke off, looked away. “Nova-model.” He swallowed thickly. “Using the tongs provided, take each of the small glass cylinders from the compartments where they currently rest—”
There were five of them, each appearing to have a dark mist settled at the bottom.
“Carefully reverse each cylinder’s poles without stirring the mists within.”
The mists suddenly appeared ominous.
“And seat them precisely in the indicated notches awaiting them.” He attempted to mop his brow, but it, too, was covered with protective devices. “You will note each one has a copper seal on either end. Using the utmost precision, you must take this copper wire and wrap it around each one, starting at the top anti-clockwise, until they are all joined one to another.”
“And finally—using the leather-protective device provided at your left—”
A glove. A leather glove.
“Slowly close the hatch. Very slowly. At no time must you jar the instrument or its individual parts in any way. To do so will produce—” He audibly gulped. “Most unfortunate results. That is how you always fail. You automatons.”
Yet his own hands trembled uncontrollably. Clearly he did not trust his own abilities to carry out the task.
Images of the room filled with pieces of automatons ripped asunder, scorched and blasted, and air filled with the stench of grease, coal smoke, and electrical ozone by attempts at this very same procedure assaulted her.
And yet, of all the threats to her safety at this point when her escape from certain death w
as mere hours away, one possible injury horrified her beyond reasoning. The only aspect of her mother she possessed was that of dark eyes, so dark they appeared almost black. Her eyes. Not her eyes.
“Professor, I must stress that my ocular devices are very sensitive and deserve protection. If they are not protected, and you destroy them with your experiment, my creator will charge you a most stunning penalty.”
My eyes. Please. Not my eyes.
He laughed wildly, hysterically. “Your oculars are the least of the risk to your structure, Miss Eglan—”
But he ripped the goggles from his face and thrust them toward her, dangling them from trembling fingers.
She took them and, hoping he did not detect the trembling of her own hands, managed to seat them on her nose, and tighten their leather band at the back of head.
The world was a wavy ocean that sickened her stomach.
“Here,” he said, standing before her and adjusting them almost . . . tenderly. “Oh, wait.” He flipped a lens high on her forehead. “You don’t need the ectomorphic gel for this procedure. I’m sure it’s distorting your view beyond repair.”
“Ectomorphic . . . ?”
“Corpse gas. It provides the ability to see in the darkness of night. I really wish . . .” He scowled.
“That I did not look so lifelike. But you see, it is the Courtesan model that by design, must look most lifelike. And by demand, must have the highest skill level of all automatons. So you must endure, Professor. It is what one does.” She caught herself short before she went too far. “And again, I assure you, my creator will be most gratified to know that you thought me almost human. It is something he pondered himself on many occasions.” With pride, she noted the absence of bitterness in her tone.
“There are societies in England that believe automatons have souls,” he said.
“How remarkable.”
“I finally understand why.” Shaking himself, he backed away. “The clock ticks . . .”
“Tick,” she said coldly. “Tock.”
“If the Confederacy is to stop General Sherman before he can destroy my family’s textile mill in Atlanta, this device must be secured, protected, and ready for the hot air balloon that will set down briefly on a roof platform in the early hours of this very morning. I cannot impress upon you enough with how important this is to my brother and our family.”
She did not care about the war. She certainly did not care about this man and his family and of all things, she did not care about their financial welfare. Wasn’t it the price of gold put on actual human flesh and the belief that those with that dark flesh had no souls that was the root of this wickedness?
She could not care. She could not let herself care. She could only protect herself. Anything beyond that was beyond her ability.
The professor’s eyes were blue.
She despised blue eyes.
Her father had blue eyes. Her half-sister had blue eyes. And in that twisted terrain of the human heart, she loved them both. Even though she knew that they, too, considered her almost-human.
She blinked away tears, no longer caring if the professor noticed. Secure behind her goggles, she turned toward the worktable on the farthest side of the room, as far away as possible from the protective wall. The professor stood staring at her, confused, but she could not think about him. She could only think about surviving the few hours left here, if she had any hope of surviving beyond.
The mists in the glass cylinders stirred gently, and a spark flashed.
“It appears to be—” she began, worried.
“Hurry!” he said. “Before it degenerates!”
If putting the cylinders in the notches was going to keep them secure and protected, she intended to do just that. She looked at the first diagram he had drawn. It was done with extreme precision, and was easy for her to follow. She took the tongs and lifted the cylinder. She simply had to do that single thing that had become imperative to her.
She held the first small cylinder at arm’s length and slowly, afraid to breathe, tilted it and switched the poles.
She braced for disaster.
But disaster did not occur.
She lowered the cylinder ever so slowly toward its notch. She must not tremble or shake.
She repeated her actions almost perfectly, four more times. And despite the nerves twitching beneath her skin, she had to continue until the wire was wrapped five times anti-clockwise and its end secured.
She froze in place. She could do nothing but stand rigidly, for if she allowed herself any sense of relief she would collapse. She jerked the leather gloves—protective devices, she corrected herself—onto her hands.
Finally, without a whisper of a tremor, she eased the hatch closed.
She stared at the device, at what she had done, and all that it would mean.
She had survived, where the automatons had failed.
She had . . . survived.
But she had also doomed his endeavor with such delicacy he had not even noticed.
She took a breath, but held it. She couldn’t show panic, relief, or desperation. Not now.
And when the professor would have embraced her in an exuberance of triumph, she stood coolly and glared through glassy eyes. It was incredibly nerve-wracking, glaring at someone considered her better, but she found herself relishing the thrill.
He backed away, once again discomposed, but not for long. His features transformed by jubilation, he fastened the buckles that held the box closed. The device now looked like merely a small leather case, other than the black skull and crossbones burned into its smooth brown lid.
“I thought it best to remind them most diligently that this side must stay up,” he said, grinning.
And when, just before noon, she stepped into the lead-lined trunk that awaited her in her room, its address an abolitionist society in London, and took a dangerous dose of laudanum to sedate herself for the beginning of a voyage across the sea to freedom, she prayed to a god whose presence had never revealed itself before. She prayed that the lead-lining would indeed block the tracking button that had held her enslaved for her entire lifetime.
She curled her body around the mechanical dog, finding its oily fur oddly comforting beneath her fingertips.
And she drifted into sleep, knowing that she would either awake to a long, horrifying death . . . or to a new life, without the white father who had given her to her half-sister as a gift.
Either way, she would leave slavery behind.
If the professor eventually discovered that she had fulfilled his directives with only almost-perfection, well, surely that is all that could be expected of an almost-human? One twist of wire clockwise instead of anticlockwise surely wouldn’t be noticed quickly.
He should have never entrusted such a vital task to her, whose appearance from first sight had advertised her real identity.
He should never have entrusted to her his act of war against those who sought to free slaves.
She, whose plantation-owning father viewed her as only almost human.
And now, an escaped slave.
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PART III: HUMANITY
Secundus
Brenda W. Clough
Part 1
From the journals of James Laurence, lately of Concord, MA
Catania in Sicily, August 1868
Oh, my boy! My boy!
A suicide. He killed himself. That accursed girl! Her last letter to him, rejecting his proposal of marriage, was in his traveling desk. May she burn in Hades, along with all the other March girls. Oh! But not little Beth. No, no. I must not let bitterness overwhelm me. No hand but his own was responsible for Theodore’s death. I should have intervened years ago.
Would that I had died for thee, Teddy—my boy!
The provincial carabinieri traced his journey up Mount Etna to the top. But to retrieve Teddy’s body was beyond their simplicity. The resourceful American consul here in Catania, one Samuel Whiddimor
e, came to my aid. “Be of good cheer, sir,” he said. “In the consulate gardens my staff uses a steam plow—have you ever seen one? I modified the German design extensively.”
His kindness brought tears to my eyes. “God bless you, Whiddimore,” I choked, wringing his hand. “If you can help me—I will recompense you. Anything!”
“Never in life!” Mrs. Whiddimore’s tears of sympathy did not slow her tongue at all. “My Samuel will not accept a cent. That darling, curly lad! I cannot think how you bear it, Mr. Laurence. Your only grandson! It is no more than a Christian should do, to lend a hand in this calamity.”
It took them all day to load the massive device onto an ox-drawn sledge, and haul it up to the top of the mountain. The following morning, Mrs. Whiddimore helped me into her own pony trap, and we set off up the mountain road. Above us the terrible peak loomed dark against the brightening morning. Only one skein of pale smoke twisted from the summit.
As we ascended the baleful influence of the volcano became plain to see. Gradually all vegetation ceased, and we plodded uphill through a gritty and barren desert. Gray as mummy powder, the ashy dust was kicked up by our wheels and the pony’s hooves. The road ended where the foul belchings of the mountain had last halted. Jet black stone, still hot from its forging in the belly of the earth, rippled uphill to the ultimate verge, which was haloed with a fiery glow.
The steam plow was still up on its sledge. The gardeners had just finished stoking its great brass boiler. Whiddimore clambered onto the sledge and then up into the saddle to fuss with the dials and levers. Gradually the engine took up the load and the treads began to creep around. The helpers scurried to steady the ramp that allowed the vehicle to trundle down to the ground.
Even through my grief I could appreciate the cunning of the artifice. A wide flat steel shovel was clamped to the front of the vehicle. In happier times this doubtless facilitated the transport of heavy potted plants or small trees. Now the metal treads could creep safely across the hot unstable rock. A couple of the boldest Sicilians stood on the shovel blade, pointing ahead and crying directions up to Whiddimore. Theodore’s footprints were still visible in the gray ash that dusted the cooled lava. At all costs, my boy, I will claw you back from the abyss!
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