Emissary Metal OMNIBUS 1-3
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Emissary Metal Insert
Part 1: ACTIVATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 2: ANIMATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part 3: NEGOTIATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
More MICRO Adventures
Concerning Emissaries and Şteamƙin
About the Author
By the Same Author
Emissary Metal
A HANOVER & SINGH MICRO OMNIBUS
ACTIVATION - ANIMATION - NEGOTIATION
By Chris Paton
Copyright © 2015 by Chris Paton
Cover Art by Nicole Cardiff
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or organisations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
www.chrispaton.dk
Emissary Metal
PART 1
ACTIVATION
Chapter 1
The creak of the top step of the wooden staircase, in the hall outside my door, suggested someone heavy was about to knock. I brushed breakfast crumbs from my patched shirt, weaved my way around the piles of clothes, wooden crates and assorted engine parts littering the floor, and opened the sash window looking out onto the many roofs of the University of Frankfurt. I savoured the bite of coal dust on my tongue as I took a deep breath of the morning air. Turning at the expected knock, I plotted my course back to the door. It rattled within the tired wooden frame under a renewed round of knocking.
“One moment.” I repositioned the largest of the crates behind the door, imagining the arc within which the door would swing and catch on the corner of the crate. “Perfect,” I whispered.
“Herr Finsch?” The German accent muffling through the wood startled me.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to open the door?”
I gripped the handle with my right hand, turning the large iron key with my left. The lock had barely clicked open before I cracked open the door and peered into the gloom of the hall. The lamplight flickered across the man's face, a different face than that I had expected. I glanced down at the man's shoes, working my eyes up his well-tailored body, stopping just beneath the brim of his stovepipe hat.
“You are not fat,” I peered around the man.
“No,” the man shook his head. “Should I be?”
“The top step,” I flicked my finger at it. “It creaked for someone larger, or...” I leaned out into the hall and looked down the staircase.
“Or?”
Pulling my head back inside the doorway I gripped the handle. “Or two people, walking side by side.”
The man turned to look at the step. He gestured at the staircase with his hand. “It is very narrow.”
“Yes.” I considered this as he turned back to look at me. His jacket, the colour of tea brewed long and strong, absorbed the lamplight. “Two people,” I muttered.
“Herr Finsch,” the man nodded toward the room behind me. “May I come in?”
“No,” I shook my head. “This is not a good time. I am waiting for someone.” The words tripped over my tongue before I had the sense to regret saying them. The man shuffled his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps you could come at another time?”
“You don't know who I am, Herr Finsch?” the man rocked forwards on his heels. “I will forgive you that oversight. Although, it surprises me,” he turned his head, dipping the rim of his hat toward the staircase. “An intelligent man such as yourself, acutely aware of his surroundings, not recognising the assistant of one of the University's chief benefactors.”
“How would I...”
“Indeed,” the man's teeth flashed a brief smile in my direction. I felt more than a little exposed as he studied me. “Your attire, Herr Finsch,” he wagged a finger at my shirt. I imagined his fingernail pricking through the holes, tugging at the ragged patches I had hastily stitched when the holes had begun to snag on my equipment and the corners of my workspace. “Your rather dishevelled appearance and,” he wrinkled his nose, “lack of interest in the city's bathhouses, suggest either a commitment to your studies or a precarious financial situation. Perhaps both?”
“Perhaps we should start again?” I held out my hand. “I am Karl Finsch.”
“Herr Finsch,” the man shook my hand in a firm grip. “My name is Hans Schleiermacher, assistant to Direktor Luther Wallendorf of Wallendorf Industries.”
“Wallendorf?” The very air I breathed each day carried the bitter tang of Wallendorf's, rising up from the great sprawling factory buildings and dirtying the bricks of the University's Halls of Residence rising in a crooked tower above the Confederation's greatest industrial giant. “Wallendorf?” I repeated.
“Yes,” Schleiermacher let go of my hand. “I have come to speak with you about your research.” We both turned at the sound of creaking wood rising up from the very bottom of the winding staircase.
“Ah,” I turned to look at the stairs.
“One large man?” Schleiermacher suggested.
“No,” I felt the crease of skin on my forehead as I frowned. “Two large men.” Gripping the door, I looked up at Schleiermacher. “Perhaps we can reschedule? I could come to the factory?”
“Are you in need of assistance, Herr Finsch?” Schleiermacher nodded at the staircase.
“No,” I shuffled upon my feet. “Unless you have a friend who is skilled in the art of blunt persuasion?”
“As a matter of fact...” Schleiermacher began.
“Another time,” I moved to close the door. Schleiermacher waited until the door was but an inch from closing. He pressed his toe into the gap between the door and the frame. “My card,” he pulled a postcard from his pocket. Posting it through the door, he waggled the card in his fingers until I took it, folding it into my trouser pocket.
“Thank you for calling,” I looked down at his shoe preventing my closing the door. “Until next time?”
“You were right,” Schleiermacher smiled as he moved his foot. “There are two of us.”
I caught a glimpse of a shadow moving around Schleiermacher as he reached his hand up to his hat, gripped the rim, doffing it in my direction as he turned and walked the short distance to the stairs. I closed the door and locked it, glancing at the open window to make sure it had not slid within the frame and closed in the time I had been talking with Schleiermacher.
“Odd,” I tucked my shirt into my rough wool trousers, slipping the braces up and over my shoulders, the rear of the trousers warming my kidneys as it blocked the draught from the open window. “Why,” I fastened the button fly, “would Wallendorf send his assistant to speak with me?”
The creak of the top step and the rattle of the door in the frame stopped my train of thought.
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br /> “Finsch?” The door handle turned. “We know you are in there.”
Grabbing my boots from the surface of the stove, I pushed my barely-stockinged feet into them. Skirting around the crate, I took a step closer to the door.
“Finsch?”
“Yes,” I glanced over my shoulder at the window. “I am here.” Taking a deep breath, I gripped the door handle, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door. “Gentlemen,” I worked my mouth into my most convincing smile.
“We don't like to be kept waiting,” the larger of the two men jabbed his finger at me as he leaned around the second man scowling at me on my doorstep.
“Hello Larsen,” I moved my head back out of range of the man's finger. Turning my attention to the man standing right in front of me, I held out my hand. “It is good to see you again, Brix.”
“Can't say the same,” my fingers quailed as Brix squeezed them. “You do have the money this time, Finsch? It is a long way from Copenhagen to Frankfurt.”
“And those steamcarriages aren't what they used to be. Eh, Brix?” Larsen cracked his knuckles.
“I can imagine.” Rubbing my fingers, I nodded at the bulge in Brix' coat pocket. “Have you brought the lodestones?”
Patting his pocket with the stubby fingers of his right hand, Brix nodded. “Yes.”
“Amber?” I leaned forward.
“And magnetite. The biggest ever found on the West Coast of Denmark.” Brix let his hand fall to his side. “The price has doubled.”
“Doubled?” The stiff tangles of my fringe flicked across my forehead as I looked up at Brix. “Double is...”
“Yes?” The points of Brix' incisors caught on his bottom lip as he smiled.
I took another deep breath. “Double is just fine.” Holding out my hand, I nodded. “Just fine.” I looked from Larsen to Brix. “May I see them?”
“So refined.” Brix turned to Larsen. “Hardly an accent. You would think he was from some wealthy family in Berlin, not some wharf rat from Hamburg.” Brix reached into his pocket. I followed the outline of his fingers as they creased the fabric of his pocket. Brix gripped one of the lodestones. He turned his gaze upon me, pupils engorged in the gloom of the stairwell. “The money, Finsch.”
“Yes,” I waited for Brix to withdraw his hand from his pocket. “Can I at least see both of them, first?” I shrugged as Brix' gaze narrowed, his brow squeezing shadows from his forehead. “I am paying double.”
“Careful, Brix,” Larsen placed his hand on the threadbare shoulder of Brix' jacket. “We don't want a repeat of last time.”
“No,” Brix flicked his shoulder free of Larsen's grip. “But he paid for that. Didn't you, Finsch?”
I rubbed my left wrist with the palm of my right hand. “I did.”
“No hard feelings,” Brix removed his hand from his pocket. Placing a lodestone in one palm, he fished in his pocket for the other. “It was just business.” The lodestones in Brix' palms sucked the lamplight from the stairwell, drawing it into the ovals of black magnetite embedded in a century of amber. The magnetite pulsed, flecking the amber with a tumultuous sea green. I stared, fathomless, like a hare caught in the glare of a sodium lamp.
“He's gone all limp,” Larsen tapped Brix on the shoulder. The movement caught my eye, but I struggled to pull myself away from the lodestones. “We should have charged triple.”
“He hasn't got triple,” Brix clasped his fingers around the lodestones, one in each hand, his fingers and thumbs barely meeting. He opened them again, hefting the lodestones up and down before me.
“That's right,” I licked my lips. “I haven't got triple.” I cast a quick glance at Larsen, and then flicked my eyes back to Brix. I locked my eyes on his as he continued to weigh the lodestones in his palms between us. “In fact...” I lifted my hands to my forehead, smoothing my hair to the sides.
“In fact, what?” Brix frowned.
“I've got more,” I smiled up at Brix. Bringing my hands down in a rapid arc from my forehead, I swiped the lodestones from Brix' palms and darted inside the door to my lodgings. Picking my way around the crates and assorted obstacles, I scrambled for the window. “More balls than brains,” I yelled as I grasped the lodestones to my chest and hurled myself out of the open window, the crash of instruments and equipment chasing me as I tumbled into the first of three heavy cloth tarpaulins stretched over the balconies below my window.
Larsen was faster than I could ever have imagined – most likely due to his weight. Where I bounced from one tarpaulin to the next the rotund thug cannoned through them, the distance between us diminishing as my pulse throbbed at my temple, and my fingers squeezed bloodless around the lodestones. I crumpled into the last tarpaulin with a thud, the air whumping from my lungs as I tumbled onto the cobbled streets at the entrance to the University Halls of Residence.
Pushing myself to my feet, I gained a moment of respite and a much needed advantage as Larsen lay still where he crashed into the cobbles, his forehead bleeding from the impact, his limbs sprawled like a flat octopus. My ill-timed wave of compassion dissipated as Brix, cudgel swinging from his right hand, burst through the door and onto the street. I didn't give Larsen another thought as Brix leaped over him, chasing me towards the pedlars and merchantmen setting up stalls for the March Market just outside the University grounds. I ran toward them.
Lighter on his feet than Larsen, Brix pounded the cobbles behind me, the short breaths between each staccato slap of his soles quickened my heart. I risked a look over my shoulder, and crunched into a cart, spilling the pedlar and his wares onto the street.
My arms flailing as I collapsed onto my back, the lodestones slipped out of my grip, the cobbles nicking and pitting the amber shells as they rolled away from me. I lifted my hands to protect my face as Brix loomed before me, cudgel raised, spittle flecking his chin. I cringed from the rage blazing within his eyes, staring through the gaps in my fingers until his face disappeared from view, and a gust laced with a hint of wet moss, washed my hands to my sides.
I breathed.
I waited.
Ignoring the pedlar's rant as he herded his wares onto a brass tray, I pushed myself onto my elbows and stared at a woman, perhaps five years younger than I, as she dusted the brim of Brix' bowler hat and slipped it over her head of shoulder-length black hair. Bending her knees, the woman picked up the cudgel and slipped it into the broad leather belt cinched around her waist with three buckles and as many straps. She stood, the steel caps in the toes of her boots clicking as she walked past me to retrieve the lodestones from the pedlar's tray.
“Those are mine,” I croaked, the dust from the street tickling my lungs.
“Yours?” the woman grinned, her hair flicking from one shoulder to the other as she shook her head. “Not yours,” she opened a pouch at the side of her belt and pressed the lodestones inside it, tugging the drawstrings closed as she approached. “But, perhaps we can come to an agreement?”
Sitting up, I gripped the woman's hand in mine as she offered to pull me to my feet. “My name is Karl Finsch,” I let go of her hand.
“Seffi Achterberg.”
“Seffi?”
“Short for Josepha,” Seffi shrugged. She pointed at Brix. “He will be waking shortly. Come, there is someone you need to meet.”
“What did you do to Brix?” I skirted around the pedlar as we passed him.
“Do to him?” Seffi laughed. “He succumbed to the wilding arts.” She prodded me in the chest. “As will you if you do not behave.” Seffi gripped my arm and pointed to a black carriage, steam clapping from the thin smokestacks above the boiler as it idled by the University gate. “Herr Schleiermacher is waiting for you.”
“Schleiermacher? Then you work for Wallendorf?”
“Yes,” Seffi pulled me through the carts and stalls as she picked her way to the gates. “And now,” she stopped at the door to the steamcarriage, “so do you.” Opening the carriage door, Seffi bundled me inside.
Chapter 2
The interior of the steamcarriage muffled the thunk thunk of Wallendorf's with a thick crimson upholstery, patterned with embroidered symbols and the chemical equation of coal – the lifeblood of the Confederation. Schleiermacher moved his hat and patted the space next to him on the carriage seat. I sat down, moving my feet as Seffi swirled into the carriage, pulling the door closed with a click before sliding the window up, flush with the frame. She grinned at me as she slouched onto the seat opposite, pressing the slippered right sole of her supple leather boot against the handle of the door.
“Welcome aboard, Herr Finsch,” Schleiermacher twisted on the seat, fixing me with a rather suggestive stare. “Perhaps we can resume our conversation,” he raised his eyebrows, casting a quick glance at Seffi, “now that the excitement is over.”
“I am in your debt,” I watched as Seffi untied the drawstring of the pouch on her belt. She removed one of the lodestones. I pointed at it as it drew the glow of the lamp into the magnetite at its core. “However, I should very much like to discuss alternative means of compensation.” Placing my left palm on my chest, I appealed to Schleiermacher. “That stone represents my life's work.”
“Your life's work?” Schleiermacher pursed his lips. The diminishing light cast shadows about his face. “How old are you, Herr Finsch?”
“Thirty-two,” I paused, my fingers twitching, as Seffi flicked the lodestone from her forearm to her palm and back again. The steamcarriage jerked into motion.
“And you have been a student of lumino-engineering for the past six years, I believe?” Schleiermacher shifted position on the bench, crumpling his jacket as he leaned back against the cushioned wall of the carriage.
“Six and a half,” I glared at Seffi, scowling as she tossed the lodestone higher and higher, daring me to lunge for it.
“You studied under Professor Hyperion?”
“Yes,” I wrestled my gaze from Seffi and forced myself to give Schleiermacher my full attention. “He was,” I tapped my fingers on my knee, searching Schleiermacher's guarded features as I weighed my response.