The Flux Engine

by Dan Willis

  John felt a cold shiver run down his back. The Tommy in his vision had done exactly that.

  “Was anyone hurt?” he asked. The man shrugged.

  “Don’t know. It’s worse down at the mine, though. I heard a couple of tunnels caved in.”

  The man in the waistcoat hurried on after the wagon and John stared around the city in shock. There seemed to be damage in every quarter. It just wasn’t possible. Handlers didn’t control Tommys directly, like he had in his vision, they only gave them commands. On top of that, the handler box only had a range of about a hundred yards. The mine was at least a mile out of town.

  Somehow his mother’s crystal had boosted the signal from the handler box, amplified it by a factor of ten—or more.

  It simply wasn’t possible. As he looked out over the smoke-filled skies of Sprocketville, however, he couldn’t deny what he saw. He reached out to the doorframe for support as his limbs began to tremble. The damage must be extensive; when everyone found out what he had done—he’d go to jail. What if someone died? He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but would a jury believe that? If they didn’t he’d be hung as a murderer.

  Run.

  Get out now. Run and don’t look back.

  He took an involuntary step but a moment later he calmed down enough to think. If the handler box was fixed and working properly when Doctor Shultz got back from Ironton, no one would ever know what he had done. Taking a deep breath to keep himself calm, John turned and went back into the lab, barring the door behind him.

  No one could be allowed to find out what really happened, and, with a few hours work, no one ever would.

  John entered the lab, passing the workbenches full of grow trays where new crystals were forming in various tanks of chemical solutions. He stopped in front of the locked cabinet that contained the finished crystals. Doctor Shultz always kept it locked, but John had seen him hide his spare key. Next to the crystal cabinet stood a heavy shelf filled with dozens of containers of salt, the primary ingredient in crystal growing. Each heavy glass jar held a different grade of salt, from sources all over the world. Most of them were colored to better identify them, making the shelf an entire spectrum of hues. He surveyed them briefly until he found one labeled Antarctic Sea Salt.

  Plunging his hand in, John reached around until his fingers grasped a hard metal object. What he came up with was a long steel key with teeth cut along its top and bottom edge and a third edge protruding from the middle. Without replacing the jar, he turned back to the cabinet and unlocked it. Inside were row upon row of drawers, each meticulously labeled with a small paper card.

  John didn’t have to search for the crystals he needed; he’d memorized the position of every crystal in the cabinet. He’d even grown some of them himself. Moving quickly, he gathered the four crystals he’d need to replace the damaged ones in the handler box, then turned.

  He almost dropped the crystals onto the stone floor. Standing not ten feet away, watching him with an amused smile, was a woman. Woman might be too generous a term, for she was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, only a few years older than John himself. She wore a loose-fitting shirt with a tight corset over it that accentuated her curves perfectly and ended at the top of a knee-length skirt. She had a top hat of brown silk with a pair of aviator’s goggles strapped around it and a peacock feather sticking up from the band. Her hair was brown and her skin tan and she had a dark tattoo covering the left side of her face. A thick leather belt was bound around her waist that reached down to a heavy holster on her right hip. John could see the wooden handle of a flux pistol protruding from the holster where her hand rested easily upon it.

  “Well, hi there,” she said, her face breaking into a dazzling smile. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful, with a sharp, angular jawline, prominent cheekbones, and dark eyes. Her nose was perhaps a bit overlarge, but in the exotic beauty of her face it was more of an accent than a detraction. John suddenly had trouble making his mouth work.

  “Who—,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “I was hoping you’d lead me to the crystal, but I see you’re busy,” her dark eyes bored into him with an intensity that defied the easy smile. “So why don’t you just show me where it is and we can avoid any unpleasantness.”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.” John wasn’t lying, he really had no idea what the smiling woman wanted. If she had known about his mother’s crystal she might want that, but how could she? No one knew about that except Doctor Shultz and a few of the sisters from Saint Archimedes.

  The woman’s smile widened, shifting from easy and friendly to vicious and predatory with alarming ease.

  “Don’t lie to me, sugar,” she said, stepping closer to him. She touched his face with the back of her fingers and drew them down the line of his jaw. “You’re cute and I’d hate to have to mess up your pretty face.”

  John didn’t know what to do. The girl’s presence so close to him was making him nervous. She smelled of lavender and jasmine and that somehow made it difficult to think.

  “Just give me the resonator you used to control the Tommys and I’ll be on my way,” she said.

  John almost dropped the crystals again. How had she known? She might have guessed that he caused the accident with the Tommys, but she couldn’t have known that he’d replaced the resonator in the handler box with his mother’s crystal.

  “Don’t act so surprised, sugar,” the girl said, walking around him while tracing the line of his shoulders with her hand. “I’ve been looking for you for quite a while. The Shokhlar told me I’d find you someday.” Her voice came very close, and John could feel her breath against his ear. “And here you are.”

  John suddenly felt the cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat.

  “Now give me the crystal.”

  John’s eyes darted to the vat of cleaning solvent. His mother’s crystal lay at the bottom, gleaming and free of the smoky coating it had before. He had to do something. Had to distract the girl long enough to get his crystal and escape.

  John opened his hands, letting the crystals he held fall and fracture on the hard stone floor.

  “It’s over there,” he said, pointing to the salt shelf. Clearly the girl had seen him get the key, it was likely she would believe that other things could be hidden there.

  The knife was withdrawn and she patted him on the shoulder with her free hand.

  “See,” she said. “Things are so much more pleasant when you do what I tell you. Now, go get it.”

  She pushed him hard and John staggered for a moment; she was stronger than she looked.

  “It’s up there,” he said, pointing to a jar on the top.

  “Well, go on,” she said.

  John put his foot on the side of the shelf and hoisted himself up. He took a deep breath and grabbed one of the heavy jars, tipping it suddenly onto the girl below. It only took an instant but that was almost too long. With an unnatural swiftness, the girl tried to step out of the way of the falling jar but it caught her in the back as she turned. They fell together, obscured by a shower of salt.

  John didn’t stop to watch. Leaping from the shelf, he ran, dunking his hand in the solvent tank as he went by. Ignoring the stinging liquid, he grabbed the crystal and turned for the door.

  It was then that something hit him square in the chest.

  John didn’t hear the shot, but its echoes resounded off the stone walls like thunder. The girl, hair disheveled and covered in salt, stood between him and the door. Her hand clutched the smoking flux pistol.

  Something was terribly wrong. He didn’t seem to be able to keep his balance. He looked down to see a rapidly spreading red stain in the center of his close-fitting work shirt. His mother’s crystal slipped from his nerveless hand and bounced across the floor, ringing as it went. A moment later John followed, his vision going sideways as he landed heavily on the salt-strewn floor.

  “Thank you,” the girl said as she reached down, scooping up the fal
len crystal. “I appreciate all your help.”

  John tried to yell, to summon help, to stop the girl from leaving with his mother’s crystal. The only sound he could make, however, was a ragged wheezing noise coming from the gaping wound in his chest. Before John could wonder why he couldn’t speak, darkness rose up and claimed him.

  Chapter 2

  Heir of the Cat

  In confusion, there is profit.

  The old man had told Robi that dozens of times and he’d never been wrong. He said it so often she’d grown tired of hearing it. Now she’d give a considerable sum to hear him say it again.

  Don’t think about that, she admonished herself. Burglary was an art and, if the old man taught her anything, it was that an artist had to stay focused. He didn’t get to be the world’s greatest thief by being sloppy.

  The memory of him tugged at her heartstrings again but she was ready for it. Clearing her mind, Robi closed her eyes and listened. Sounds of commotion filled the air, screams of horses, and the sound of metal being twisted. People called out, warning each other of danger. There were no sounds of injury or death—at least not yet. She tilted her head, widening her range. Similar sounds arose all around her, as if the whole city were in chaos.

  Robi blessed her good fortune. If it had only been the one Tommy in the street below that had suddenly run amok, she wouldn’t have much time, but it seemed the whole town’s worth of them had gone mad. That should keep Mister Pemberton, of Pemberton’s Grain and Feed, busy for at least half an hour.

  Opening her eyes, she moved from the shadows of the hotel’s billiard room out onto the sturdy, second-floor balcony. The Tommy in the street below tore the guts out of a steam cart while a Nipponic immigrant swore at it in his native tongue. A workman in a canvas boiler suit whacked at the Tommy’s knees with a wrench but the metal man ignored him. On the wooden sidewalks in front of the shops, a crowd had gathered to watch the strange sight. A barbershop patron had moved outside still with half-a-faceful of shaving cream. People of every description filled out the crowd. There were men in shoddy work clothes and fine ladies in corsets and fancy hats. Men of means in expensive suits milled about while a garishly clad prostitute went by unnoticed. All eyes riveted on the scene—which left no one to watch Robi.

  It was always a costly mistake, not watching Robi.

  Robirah Laryn was the only child of Hiro Laryn, the world’s greatest thief. For most of her first thirteen years Robi traveled from place to place as her father plied his trade. They lived in the best hotels, ate the best food, and Hiro taught Robi all his tricks. Everywhere they went, Robi had to hide her smile when people spoke of the Cat, the uncatchable thief.

  All that ended two years ago.

  With a last glance at the mayhem in the street below, Robi broke into a dead run down the length of the balcony. When she reached the end, she vaulted up onto the railing and jumped, propelling herself into empty space. The open window of Pemberton’s Grain and Feed was at least fifteen feet away. Extending her body to its full length, Robi caught the sill with her fingers. As soon as she touched it, she pulled her knees up to her chest and hit the wall of the building with her feet. Without stopping, she pushed off. Using her grip on the window as a fulcrum, she somersaulted through the open window, rolled, and came up in a crouch. No new cries of surprise or alarm erupted from the street; she’d made it.

  The room beyond the open window was clearly a parlor. Four elegantly carved chairs stood round a mahogany game table, rendered in the Louis-the-Fourteenth style. A thick carpet covered the center of the floor flanked by embroidered couches accented with silk pillows. Portraits of singularly ugly people hung on the walls, relatives of Pemberton, no doubt. Despite the pedestrian subjects, Robi thought she recognized the hand of a true artist in a few of them.

  She sighed. Paintings were far too large to make the jump back to the hotel.

  Moving silently, Robi made her way to the parlor door. Reaching into her sleeve, she removed a small glass vial. She wore a loose-fitting shirt and pants of desert tan with a darker brown waistcoat. Most girls her age went in for corsets, but Robi’s wardrobe afforded her easy movement and convenient places to hide things.

  Unscrewing the vial, she withdrew a small brush that had been attached to the inside of its cap. Carefully she brushed the oil from the vial on each of the door’s hinges, then returned the vial to her sleeve.

  Satisfied that the oil had done its work, Robi pulled the door open a crack. When no discernible sound came from the space beyond she let herself out into a carpeted hallway. A quick search of the upper floor yielded two small bedrooms, a master bedroom, and an office. The rooms were sumptuous, with carved furniture and overstuffed bedding. The office, on the other hand, bore a more practical countenance. A sturdy desk with a marble top stood in the center of the room, flanked by shelves on the back wall. The one on the left held a chaotic scattering of mementos and knick-knacks covered in a thin layer of dust. The other held rows of books on every subject imaginable. Unlike its sister shelf, this one was orderly and clean.

  Robi took it in with a single glance, just like the old man taught her. The knick-knacks were souvenirs of travel, some coming from as far away as Britannic Africa and the Far East. Clearly Mister Pemberton liked to travel. Though judging from the condition of the mementos, it was his wife who collected them.

  It was the orderly shelf that revealed the man. The leather spines on the books were cracked from use and dark from the oils of many hands over the years. The best read subjects were on agriculture, trade law, and animal husbandry. Pemberton was a man who took his work seriously.

  The desk, like the bookshelf, was neat and orderly, with a stack of papers waiting to be read on one side and a basket of outgoing mail on the other. A simple brass inkwell and blotter were the only other things there. Clearly Pemberton was a man of regular habits, who craved order, and didn’t squander his vast wealth on needless ornamentation.

  Having taken the measure of Pemberton, Robi turned her attention to the only other object in the room, a large iron safe. It sat directly behind the desk and between the shelves. No effort had been made to hide it. Clearly its owner didn’t fear robbery.

  Moving carefully so as not to cause the polished wood floor to creak, Robi approached the safe. Jefferson Mark Six. Four tumblers, three numbers, with one repeated.

  Child’s play.

  She knelt on the Siamese rug that covered the floor in front of the safe. Pressing her ear to the cold surface of the door, she spun the tumblers, listening to them click and clack as they turned.

  It reminded her of the old man.

  He’d made her do this hundreds of times, maybe thousands, until she could open a lock by sound alone. He always believed in being prepared.

  Know your target. His voice echoed in her head as if he were present. He drilled his rules into her as she trained her fingers to manipulate the pins of a standard lock. Never go in wondering what you’re after. Always know what’s in the safe or strong box.

  Click.

  The first tumbler fell into place.

  Robi hadn’t been the best student, but she’d learned the value of her father’s advice. After his death, she reached out to his contacts, establishing networks of her own. Networks like the one that informed her of Pemberton’s recent shipment of black pearls from Tahiti.

  Click.

  Don’t steal something you can’t sell. Black pearls were rare, but not so rare that she’d have trouble selling them.

  Click.

  Never take everything you find. When you clean a man out, he tends to take it personally.

  According to her sources, Pemberton had two dozen pearls. Half that would set Robi up nicely for the next few months and there was sure to be some cash in the safe as well.

  Click.

  Robi sat back on her haunches and took a deep breath before opening her eyes. Hiro Laryn had been the world’s greatest thief. Stealing pearls from a wealthy merchant was too si
mple a job to attract his notice.

  Still, a girl had to eat.

  Someday I’ll make you proud, Old Man. Someday I’ll be the world’s greatest thief.

  She took hold of the brass handle protruding from the safe door and turned it. The door yielded easily, swinging open without a sound.

  Just as the old man taught her.

  She smiled and set to work.

  The inside of the safe was as orderly as the office around it. File folders stuffed with papers were stacked on a shelf above a neat pile of account books for the business. On the left were several small drawers over an open space that held a stack of cash tied with a string, and a loaded flux pistol. The strangest thing, however was a nearly empty glass of water sitting right in the middle of the space.

  It must have been left there by accident, or maybe Pemberton had been drunk. After all, who locks up a water glass?

  Robi picked it up and sniffed it. No odor, but it might still be alcohol. There was a faint trace of a chalky substance on the inside, like it had been used to dissolve bicarbonate of soda. The perfect remedy for a hangover.

  Satisfied that she understood the glass, Robi set it aside, stuffed the cash into her bag, and turned her attention to the drawers. The first held gold coins in small envelopes, the second had several necklaces of emerald and pearl. In the last, she found a silk bag with two dozen glossy, black pearls inside. Working quickly, she counted out twelve of them into a leather pouch and returned the rest to the safe.

  With the pouch safely concealed beneath her shirt, Robi rose and closed the safe. Or rather she tried to.

  As she rose, she found she couldn’t move her feet. It was if they were stuck to the floor. She wobbled and squatted back down, bracing herself with her hand. The moment she touched the Siamese carpet, she knew something was wrong. It felt wet and slimy. Instinctively she pulled her hand away, but it wouldn’t come. The gooey rug held her fast.

  “By the Carpenter,” she swore, pulling with all her strength.