Emissary Metal OMNIBUS 1-3

by Paton, Chris

  “He was a buffoon,” Schleiermacher brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his knee. “Is a buffoon. Herr Wallendorf invested heavily in his research, only to be disappointed with mechanical toys with all the automation of a bloated worm.”

  The carriage hushed. It was Schleiermacher's turn to study my face. Even Seffi was still, and my concerns for the lodestone dissipated. I nodded once, twice for effect. “Yes,” I looked from Schleiermacher to Seffi, their impassive facades creasing at the corners of their mouths. A bump in the road tipped the decisive moment in my favour, as Schleiermacher and Seffi both relaxed. “Hyperion's methods, his knowledge and his practical application of his learning is, in my opinion, embarrassingly out of date.” Smoothing my fingers over the soft cushion of the seat, I pushed my luck. “As is that of the entire faculty.”

  “Interesting,” Schleiermacher took a long breath before continuing. “I find myself in agreement,” he nodded towards Seffi, “and my original suspicions confirmed. The lodestones you have appropriated from the Danish thugs,” Schleiermacher held out his hand, closing his fingers around the lodestone as Seffi placed it into his palm, “are of great interest to Herr Wallendorf. What can you tell me about them?”

  “The lodestone is a wayfaring stone. These ones are a little special.” I held out my hand. Schleiermacher placed the stone in my palm. Seffi placed her right foot on the floor of the carriage, the tensing of her body purged the smile from her face, replacing it with a twitch around her eyes as they narrowed, stealing themselves upon my person. “The amber shell, when correctly manipulated,” I continued, “seems to channel the atoms of iron in the air around us, boosting the range of the magnetite, allowing for receptors to receive and transmit signals on these enhanced magnetic waves. At least,” I turned the lodestone in my fingers, “that is my theory.”

  “And have you tested your theory?” Schleiermacher's eyes followed the core of the lodestone as the magnetite seemed to swallow the remaining lamplight.

  “Not fully,” I shrugged. “I am afraid that your presumption as to my economic situation was correct. The parts I have procured have been inferior at best. I have not been in a position to fully test my theories, nor have my theories received sufficient support from my peers.”

  “Rendering further study next to impossible, I might imagine,” Schleiermacher reached for the handrail by the door on his side of the carriage as the driver steamed over a particularly pitted section of road. “You did not keep your opinions of Professor Hyperion secret, did you?”

  “No,” I leaned back against the cushions, resting my hands in my lap, pinching the lodestone between my fingers. “I have run out of all kinds of luck and favour.”

  “Your luck,” Schleiermacher let go of the handrail, “is about to change. Wallendorf sent me to find you to assist us with a particular project. Something I do believe will pique your professional interest and,” he plucked at my shirt sleeve, “provide you with the means to better your current station. There is, of course, one stubborn detail that is not, and never will be, negotiable.” Schleiermacher paused to nod at Seffi. Turning back to me, he fixed me such a stare that I could almost taste the enormity of his coming words, although I admit I was too absorbed by the thought of redemption to pay them any heed. “Utter silence and complete, unadulterated loyalty. You will not publish your work, speak of it, patent it, or profit from it, beyond the generous stipend with which Wallendorf will retain you. You will be removed from academia, stripped of any learned titles you may already have, and deprived of those you might yearn to attain. In effect, you will cease to exist beyond the boundaries of Wallendorf's generosity and the walls of his factory.”

  The carriage interior hushed once more, the very rasp of the iron-shod wheels upon the street quilted from interfering with Schleiermacher's proposal. I strained in silence for an auditory glimpse of the city beyond the carriage walls, the city I must give up, should I consent to the future Schleiermacher laid out for me.

  “And if I...” my words beat against the inside wall of my lips as Seffi leaned forward and plucked the lodestone from my fingers. She moved so quickly, had it not been for the electric brush of her hair upon my skin, I might not have noticed the empty weight between my fingers where the lodestone once resided.

  “Your journey will end here.” Schleiermacher pointed at Seffi. “As will your protection.”

  “My protection?”

  “Yes,” Schleiermacher studied his fingernails. “Seffi is a Wallendorf chaperone. Skilled in the wilding arts from the Black Forest. She will be your chaperone for the duration of your employment with Wallendorf Industries.”

  “She will be my assistant?” I glanced at Seffi.

  “Oh no, Herr Finsch. Not your assistant at all. In fact, you will report to Seffi, and she, in turn, will be responsible for you.” Schleiermacher sighed. “The project to which you will be assigned has not been without trials. I don't mind admitting that we have experienced some setbacks. The very nature of the project demands both secrecy and success. Seffi,” Schleiermacher paused, “will ensure the secrecy of the project, and you, Herr Finsch, will ensure its success.”

  “You need me then,” I turned that thought over in my mind as the steamcarriage slowed to a stop outside a set of very large green doors nestled in the red brick wall of a factory building.

  “To a degree,” Schleiermacher nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  “In that case,” I paused, surprising myself with my boldness just as Seffi leaned forwards in preparation for our disembarking from the carriage. “I may have some amendments to your somewhat restrictive terms and conditions, Herr Schleiermacher.”

  “Go on,” Schleiermacher cautioned Seffi to wait, her fingers softening from a fist to a curl as she let go of the door and leaned back in her seat. “I am listening.”

  “I have a mother,” I began. “She is somewhat dependent upon me, although I have failed of late to be much less than a burden to her and her failing health.” I paused for a moment, considering the import of what I was about to say. “While I have failed to support her in life, I may be better able to do so in death. If,” I looked at Schleiermacher, “I am to effectively disappear from society, would it be too much to ask to make it more permanent?”

  Schleiermacher frowned. “I am not sure what you are asking of me, Herr Finsch.”

  “I wish for you to make my disappearance official, and procure a certificate of death so that my mother may allow her disappointment in me to fade with memory, rather than to be revitalised with each and every misfortune I seem to attract.”

  “You are in debt, Herr Finsch?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Quite desperately so.”

  “And in the event of your death...”

  “My debts will be attended to by the bank. My mother will be saved the embarrassment and challenge of rebutting the men they send to appropriate compensation.”

  “If you are dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seffi?” Schleiermacher turned to my new chaperone. “It seems your first duty in protecting your new charge is to arrange his death. What do you say to that?”

  I watched the soft skin to each side of Seffi's lips dimple, her lips stretching in a slow smile punctuated with a flash of teeth and the tip of her tongue questing the point of her incisors. I admit to being aroused, an admission that would follow me to the grave – the first grave at least.

  “Poisoning is very fashionable at the moment,” Seffi paused. Her smile faded as she pondered the problem of my death. “I can have our alchemist whip up a deep sleeping draught,” she nodded. “You would sleep so deeply that were your mother to rest her head on your breast when saying her last farewell she would not notice your breathing. But, there is always the chance that you would, in fact, die. No,” Seffi leaned forward in her seat, “I think a burning is best.”

  Alarmed at her enthusiasm, I studied Seffi. Looking from her to Schleiermacher, I noticed a brief flash of affection and admiration pa
ss over his face. I might have thought it fatherly, but for the wont of personal experience.

  “You will need a body,” Schleiermacher pinched at his chin. “And a place to burn.”

  “I think Herr Finsch's lodgings will do for the burning.” Seffi wrinkled her nose in my direction. “The University would likely welcome the chance to de-louse the place.”

  Schleiermacher stilled my protest with a hand upon my knee. “Seffi will find a suitable doppelgänger from the poorhouse. Somebody already at death's door.” He patted my knee, warming to the task. “I will arrange the necessary papers and we can schedule the day of the funeral for the end of the week.”

  “Saturday?” Seffi Shook her head. “I don't think so. The Danes will be scouring the city for Herr Finsch. No, better to get it done quick and to have it in the papers before the weekend. It is Tuesday,” Seffi tugged a fob watch from her jacket pocket. “Nearly noon. There is a death almost every hour at the Frankfurt poorhouse. I will get over there and make arrangements.” She gave me a quick glance. “In the meantime, I suggest Herr Finsch meet with Direktor Wallendorf. The Danes are likely rummaging through his lodgings as we speak. Let's give them a few hours before we burn the place.”

  “We will lunch with the Direktor,” Schleiermacher rose from the bench and opened the carriage door. Stepping out, he smoothed his hair back with one hand before placing his hat on his head. “Keep the carriage, Seffi. Herr Finsch?” Schleiermacher held out his hand. “Are you ready to meet your new benefactor, and,” he gestured at the green doors of the factory, “begin your life's greatest work?”

  Shielding my eyes from the midday sun, I climbed out of the carriage. Seffi leaned out of the window, griped my arm and pressed the second lodestone into my palm, I slipped them into my trouser pockets. I followed Schleiermacher across the cobbles, waiting as he pulled at the chain of a steam whistle. I confess that my mouth dropped as the huge double doors, concertinaed to the sides, revealing an engineer's playground awash with a tumult of activity between the bursts of steam, the tap tamp of hammers and tongues and the smell of coal dust and ingenuity.

  “Yes,” I grinned. “Yes, I am ready, Herr Schleiermacher. Lead on.”

  Chapter 3

  It wasn't that I was easily impressed, nor was I unused to the sight, sound and smell of makers at work. No, it was the scale that awed me into silent reflection as I followed Schleiermacher through the green doors and into the first work bay of the massive Wallendorf factory. I confess, my mouth was more than slightly agape as I marvelled at the workspaces within each bay, fed by tubes of steam powering all manner of intricate tools and their blunter companions. The men and women, makers and workers all, sweated beneath heavy leather aprons, the smudge of coal and grease welding the brass goggles to the faces of some, ringing the eyes of others.

  One of the maker's assistants caught my eye, grinning as he patterned the inside of a brass dish with furious taps of his ball hammer. He beckoned me over with a flick of his head.

  “Go on,” Schleiermacher gestured as I hesitated. “I do believe Herr Wallendorf can wait a minute or two more.”

  Nodding my thanks I ducked into the workspace and greeted the young man with a smile. “What are you working on?”

  “Socket cups,” he grinned, tapping the hammer into the brass socket as he looked me in the eyes.

  “For what?”

  “Don't know,” the hammer stilled as the maker picked up a new sphere of brass, bent it over the iron ball in front of him and began anew. “Secret project. One of many. But,” he leaned forward, “I think these might be cups to hold eyes. What do you think?”

  I picked up one of the small brass cups, smoothed my fingers around the inside and set it down inside the top cup of the stack wobbling at the far end of the maker's worktable. “Could be,” I agreed. “Although it will be easier to guess when it is finished. It will need a hole drilled in the base.”

  “That it will,” the maker switched the newly tapped brass cup for another sphere.

  “Good day to you,” I dipped my head before retracing my steps to Schleiermacher's side. We resumed walking, waving at the makers and their assistants in each of the bays until, stepping beneath an arch of red hot pipes, we stopped at the edge of a jungle of hawser vines, thick as arms, and metal scaffold trees each bridged and connected with wooden planks, wobbling under the weight of workers pounding back and forth along them. I followed the trees up to the roof of the factory, craning my neck and arching my back before I could see the crown of each scaffold.

  “What do you think, Herr Finsch?” Schleiermacher gripped my elbow as I tipped off-balance.

  “Trees and vines,” I replied, raising my voice over the din of activity.

  “Yes,” Schleiermacher nodded. “But what of the walkers?”

  I looked along his arm as he pointed between the first copse of scaffold, squinting at first the legs and then the great ears of some mechanical beast. The ears were swivelled into seats on either side of its massive head. All that was missing was a trunk and I could swear I was looking at some ancient metal pachyderm.

  “They are fashioned after elephants,” Schleiermacher explained. “Mammoths, actually. Designed to carry twenty men protected behind iron plates. We can even hang furs from the skeleton to block out the cold.”

  “Mammoths indeed,” I took a step forward. “They are huge.”

  “Yes,” Schleiermacher guided me around vagrant nuts and assorted metal litter as we crossed the floor and entered the jungle. The hawser lines creaked through the block and tackle above us, the planks vibrated with a shudder of timber and workers in swing seats swung like monkeys around each of the mammoth walkers, tightening bolts with steam-powered spanners, applying paint to ward off rust, greasing the joints against fatigue.

  “I am impressed, Herr Schleiermacher.”

  “I thought you would be. Just a moment,” he stopped between the front legs of a walker, the knee joints another arm's length or two above his head. Schleiermacher peered around the legs.

  “Herr Schleiermacher,” a worker called down from his swing-seat above us. “That way.” He pointed the end of his spanner to the right, reaching around the ribbed hose of steam hooked to his back and over his shoulder with thick twists of copper threaded through the leather loops of his tunic.

  “Thank you,” Schleiermacher doffed his hat at the worker. Leading me around the walker's legs, he grinned. “Once they start moving them about, it is all one can do to get one's bearings,” Schleiermacher lowered his voice as we brushed through a canvas tarpaulin draped over a door. “It's this way.”

  Beyond the jungle the factory took on the air of a cathedral. The high ceiling sloping down along the walls to small recessed workspaces, lit with bright sodium crystal lamps – the flame flickering in intensity depending upon the task of the men and women beneath them. The vast floor between each bay of activity was bare but for one tarpaulin tent in the middle. It was guarded by two men and two women, each of whom, I thought, could easily have been related to Seffi. They had the same determined stance, offset with a casual menace.

  “What's in there?” I pointed as we passed far to the right of the tent.

  “Later,” Schleiermacher hurried me along the floor. Reaching the last of the maker's bays, he led me into another part of the factory and through a maze of desks. The squeak of slide-rules and the scratch of sharp-pointed pencils betrayed the otherwise invisible presence of the architects of heavy metal submerged beneath stacks of books and sheaves of papers curling at the edges.

  Safely through the hush of the designers’ domain, Schleiermacher led me up the metal stairs to the offices above, the bulbous glass windows peering down at the activity below with a sense of anticipation. I followed Schleiermacher through a thick oak door and stepped onto a plush carpet the colour of seaweed clinging to the wooden legs of a pier. Indeed, the odd metal nut and bolt forgotten within its fibres reminded me of the mussels I used to pick from the weeds at the sea
side. I pushed the thought from my mind as we stopped in front of the door at the end of the short corridor.

  “This is the quiet room,” Schleiermacher curled his fingers around the metal handle carved in the shape of an elephant's trunk. “Direktor Wallendorf's office is behind us to the right. He likes to keep an eye on things. This room, however,” Schleiermacher turned the handle, “is better suited to conversations of a more delicate nature.”

  “How should I address Herr Wallendorf.” I had felt a sense of awe infusing itself within my bones as we had made our way through the factory. It seemed to have culminated in a slight paralysis of the legs and a stutter in my speech as we prepared to meet the great mind responsible for such momentous activity.

  “Try to relax, Herr Finsch,” Schleiermacher smiled. “You may address the Direktor as Herr Direktor. Beyond that, I am sure you will find him to be most amenable and down-to-earth. He has often been accused of being jolly.” Schleiermacher paused. A shadow twitched upon his lips. “I would be more concerned with Herr Feld, if I were you. Shall we go in?”

  “Herr Feld?” The question died on my lips as I followed Schleiermacher into the quiet room, catching my breath as a white-haired man rose from a plump armchair, steadying himself with gnarled hands gripping the ivory pommel of a silver-capped cane.

  “Karl Finsch,” the man stepped forward, holding onto the pommel of his cane with one hand as he thrust out the other to greet me. “I am a great fan of yours, young man.” The Direktor's grip was warm, confident and brief, unlike that of the next man to shake my hand. “Let me introduce you to Franz Feld, chief engineer on the emissary project. He is a renowned maker himself.”

  I turned to offer my hand to a thick-bearded man with powerful arms and a grip that threatened to break the bones of my little finger.

  “Finsch,” Feld looked up, squinting at my face beneath heavy, knitted brows. “Can't say I am pleased to meet you.” He flicked his gaze towards Wallendorf. “He knows how I feel about supposed up-and-comers.” Feld contracted his thick fingers. He pulled me down to his level. “He thinks you're something special. I say you are a fake, Herr Finsch.”