by Dan Willis
“Oh, come on, Fixer,” Robi’s wheedling voice cut back into John’s consciousness. “Do it for me.”
Twang. A broken crystal rang out.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Fixer said, sounding genuinely regretful. “I just can’t. Do you have any idea how expensive the Neuro-Chromatigraph is to operate? It eats three resonance crystals each time I use it. And then there’s the chemicals, Green Vitriol, Alkalized Nitre, and Black Flux. That stuff’s not cheap.”
Ting. Another good crystal.
“Well, maybe we can work it out in trade,” Robi said.
Twang.
“Maybe there’s something you’d like me to—acquire—for you?” she asked.
Fixer thought for a minute, scratching absently at his side burns. Somehow his mechanical eye managed to look shifty. Finally he shook his head.
T-ting! This time the sound resounded through the room. It was so loud it began to give John a headache. He could never understand why most people couldn’t hear the racket crystals made, especially the rare and valuable ones.
“Excuse us for a second,” John said, putting his hand on Robi’s shoulder and pulling her aside. “How much money do you have left?” he whispered.
“About forty bucks,” Robi said.
“Give me twenty.”
“What for?”
“Trust me,” John said.
Robi looked as if she wanted to argue, but thought better of it with Fixer looking on. She extracted a ten-dollar bill and two fives from her purse and pressed it into John’s hand.
“Now, where were we?” she asked, turning back to the ironmongery’s portly proprietor.
John picked his way through the debris-strewn floor until he’d reached the woman with the box full of crystals.
“What are you doing?” he asked as she continued to strike each crystal.
“Leave me alone,” she said, not bothering to look up.
“I really like crystals,” John said, slowing his speech so as not to sound overly bright. “Are any of those for sale?”
The woman’s hand froze over the box, then she looked up at him. She wasn’t as old as she looked. Clearly she’d lived hard.
“I’ll sell you the whole damn box for the right price,” she said. John held out the twenty dollars and the woman’s eyes grew wide.
“Will this be enough?”
The woman snatched the bills and pushed the box into John’s hands. Without a word of thanks, she hustled out of the little shop, leaving John standing alone. He realized that it had suddenly gone very quiet. When he turned around, he found Robi and Fixer watching him, the latter with a look of amusement on his face.
“Boy, that’s got to be the daftest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I was only going to offer her a tenner for that box—and that was being generous.” He turned back to Robi. “Where did you pick up this nutter?” he asked.
“How much does it cost to run the Neuro-Chromatigraph?” John said before Robi could speak.
Fixer regarded him for a moment, focusing his prosthetic eye as John picked his way back to the counter.
“About two hundred and fifty dollars,” he said.
John sorted through the box until he found the crystal that had made the ringing tone.
“And what would you pay for a working fertility crystal?”
Fixer’s eye got wide as John removed the crystal from the box and set it on the counter.
“I bet there’s a rancher around here who would pay good money to get his hands on that before breeding season.” John reached back into the box and brought out two more. “What about a medium lifter crystal, or a minor resonator?” John added them to the pile. “Here’s a cracked energy crystal,” John said, holding up a purple stone with a burn mark running around its middle. “Any Thurger worth his salt can repair it for a small fee.”
“How are you doing that?” Fixer asked, suspicion on his face.
“I was trained as a Thurger,” John said. “I can recognize most crystals by sight.” It was a lie, but he doubted Fixer would believe he could pick them out by their sound.
“All right,” Fixer said after a long moment. “You trade me the good crystals out of that box, and maybe identify a couple more I got laying around, and I’ll let you use the Neuro-Chromatigraph.”
They shook on it and John quickly separated the useful and reparable crystals from the junk in the box. He noticed with a pang of guilt that there were at least two hundred dollars worth in the pile, yet he had paid the woman only twenty. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but he hated the thought that he’d abused the woman’s trust. Just because he was surrounded by thieves didn’t mean he had to become one of them. There probably wasn’t any way to find the woman and make amends, but John resolved not to take advantage of someone like that again.
The decision made him feel better.
Once John finished with Fixer’s crystals, the portly man levered himself out of his chair and led them through his maze of junk to an enormous fan mounted in the back wall. He touched the end of a bolt sticking out from the fan’s housing and the whole thing slid to the side. The room beyond the hidden door was almost as large as the shop out front but with none of the clutter. The skeletal frameworks of machines stood at regular intervals along the walls like clockwork sentinels. Most of them were in various stages of construction, missing crystals or gears or levers, but some were whole, silently waiting for Fixer to need them. Thick rubber hoses connected the working devices to a steam line that ran along the wall about waist high. None of the valves were open and the machines were all still and silent.
Fixer led John and Robi through the room to a workbench in the back where a machine sat covered with a canvas tarp.
“Sit here,” Fixer said, pulling up a stool for John.
The machine beneath the tarp was at least a Third Order device, with gears and cogs that moved its crystals in and out, back and forth, and round and round each other, multiplying the effect of their interactions by at least a factor of ten. It was the most complex machine John had ever seen. There were six separate groups of crystals mounted on gears, each one designed to interact with a sister set, then move on to another. Gears, cogs, and wheels stuck out everywhere and glass bottles of various chemicals hung suspended above the device with black, rubber hoses hanging down into its guts.
Fixer opened a drawer in the workbench and removed a thin copper plate from a cardboard box. Being careful to grip it by its edge, the portly man deposited it gently in a steel pan that slid out from the side of the Neuro-Chromatigraph. He opened several of the valves connected to the rubber tubes, letting their liquid flow for a few seconds. John coughed as the strong odor of chemicals wafted out of the metal tray.
“Put this on,” Fixer said, handing John a metal circlet that reminded him uncomfortably of the Tommy control crown. A bare copper wire ran from the circlet into the Chromatigraph and John was careful not to touch it as he put the circlet on.
“Okay,” Fixer said, opening the valve on the steam line. “Close your eyes and think about the person you want. See them in your mind.”
John closed his eyes as the Chromatigraph’s steam piston began to chug back and forth. He tried to picture the dark-haired girl as the gears inside the machine turned and the harmonic whine of the crystals ramped up to a pulsating screech. The noise was nothing like the harmonious sound the Tommy motivator made when he’d used his mother’s crystal. This sound set his teeth on edge.
He could feel pressure from the metal hoop, as if it were boring into his head with some invisible force. John fixed the image of the tattooed girl in his mind just as the pressure from the machine became a stabbing pain.
“There might be some discomfort,” Fixer said as John grunted and gripped the sides of the stool. “Just another minute.”
John kept his eyes shut and his mind focused on the girl as the Neuro-Chromatigraph worked behind him. The metal tray was clearly moving through the lattice of crystals an
d he could hear the splash of more chemicals being added. The acrid smell of alkali permeated the air along with a burning odor, like singed hair.
The machine made an audible clack as some lever or escapement was thrown into place and John heard the crystals begin to wind down. He ventured to open his eyes as Fixer shut off the steam valve and the Neuro-Chromatigraph lurched to a halt.
Donning heavy leather gloves that reached past his elbows, Fixer used a pair of tongs to fish the copper plate out of the steel pan. Being careful not to drip any of the remaining solution on himself, he moved to the far end of the table and washed the plate in a bucket of water.
John’s head spun for a moment when he took hold of the brass hoop. It seemed to have become attenuated to his mind and he could feel it trying to hold on as he lifted it off. Once he had set it aside the effect vanished. He hoped the machine hadn’t done anything permanent.
Fixer removed the tintype from the bucket and wiped it down with a soft cloth. Once he was sure it was dry and free of chemicals, he stared at it for a long moment. He almost seemed sad to let it go when he finally did pass it over to Robi and John.
Etched into the surface of the copper plate was the image of a dark-haired woman leveling a smoking pistol directly at the viewer. A chill ran up John spine at the sight of her and he shivered. The image depicted the last time he’d seen her, right after she shot him in the chest.
“You’re looking for this woman?” Fixer said, a strange tone in his voice.
“She took something of mine,” John said. “Then she tried to kill me.”
“Do you know her?” Robi asked. Fixer stared at the picture for a moment then shook his head.
“She’s enchanting,” he said, as John handed the brass plate to Robi.
John started to say something but a wave of dizziness swept over him and he staggered.
“You’d better sit down for a few minutes,” Fixer said, helping John back onto the stool. “I’ll go get some whiskey to steady your nerves,” he said. “Don’t go away.”
As Fixer made his way back to the front of his shop, Robi examined the tintype.
“Is this it?” She indicated the woman’s other hand where she clutched a familiar crystal. John nodded.
“Do you think this will help us find her?”
Robi grinned her wolfish grin.
“I don’t care how careful she was, John, someone saw her. Someone saw where she stayed when she was in town. Someone saw where she went when she left. All you have to do is find them.”
John’s head snapped up at this. Robi had said you instead of we.
“You got me out of jail,” she said, “and I got you what you need to get your crystal back. It’s time for me to move on.”
John hadn’t thought about Robi leaving. She was annoying and abrupt but John didn’t know how he would get his crystal back without her. If it wasn’t for her he would never have gotten this far.
“I can’t stay,” Robi said, reading the look on his face. “There’s too many people looking for me here, I’m going to try my luck in Denver or Gearsburg, or maybe Castle Rock.”
“Thanks for your help,” he said after a pause. He smiled, trying to break the sudden tension, and held up the tintype. “So, how long do you think it will take me to find someone who saw this girl?”
“Not long at all, I should guess,” a new voice said.
Chapter 8
The Deputy
John leaped off the stool in surprise, nearly dropping the tintype as he whirled around. Robi was faster. She stepped away and turned. Just for an instant, before he turned, John saw her face—drained of color, as if she’d seen a ghost.
The man who had come so silently up behind them was tall, well over six feet, and gaunt with long, slender arms ending in long-fingered hands. His head was bald and vaguely egg shaped, with dark, intense eyes and a beak-like nose over a clean-shaven face. The stranger wore a bottle-green military-style long coat with a gray waistcoat and pants. His white shirt was crisp and bright and his boots shone with polish. Gold buttons gleamed from the front of his waistcoat and John could see the holster of a flux pistol on his hip.
“Who are you?” Robi demanded, edging away from the imposing figure. John noticed that she’d shifted her stance, crouching a little as if she were about to run.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. His voice was deep and penetrating. “My name is Derek Morgan, I’m a … friend of Fixer’s.”
At the sound of his name, the fat man appeared from behind a nearby machine.
“What did you do, Fixer?” Robi said, not taking her eyes off Morgan.
“Oh, you mustn’t blame Mister Fixer,” Morgan said. “He has standing instructions to let me know if anyone comes around asking about dear Sira.”
“Sira,” John said. His would-be assassin had a name.
“Sira Corven,” Morgan said. “And that must make you the boy from the Thurger’s Lab. I’ve been most anxious to speak with you.”
John didn’t like the sound of that. Despite Morgan’s easy, almost friendly manner, something about him made every word seem like a threat.
“Why?” he said.
“That enforcer,” Morgan said. “The one who’s been following you around. He seems to think that the bloodsand crystal belonged to you rather than your master. If that’s true, I’d very much like to know where you got it.”
What had he said?
John could tell a Bug Crystal from a Glowstick on sight. He knew the precise combination of salt and chemicals used to grow Lifter Crystals, Repeaters, and Regulators but despite all that knowledge and study, he had no idea what Morgan was talking about.
“What’s a bloodsand crystal?”
Morgan’s mask of affability cracked. For a fleeting instant, a look of raw anger washed across his face.
“Unfortunate,” he said, his quiet manner instantly returning. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He seemed genuinely sorry. “Now I’m afraid I must insist that you answer my questions.”
There was a metallic hiss as Morgan drew a short, broad-bladed sword from beneath his coat. Robi took a step to run, but Morgan’s arm flashed out so fast that John could barely follow it. Robi froze with the point of the blade pressing against her chest.
“I’m not done with you, young lady,” he said, pushing her back next to John. “Now that we understand one another, I’ll ask again.” He turned to look at John. “Where did you get that crystal?”
“What crystal?” John lied. Morgan laughed.
“You know, John,” he said, “disaster seems to follow you around. First the Tommys, then that mismanaged escape from the jailhouse. I wondered about that. Now I see it’s because you make bad choices.”
Like a snake uncoiling to strike, Morgan’s left hand darted out and grabbed the back of Robi’s hair. He moved so fast that John didn’t have time to think, much less react. Pulling her into his chest, Morgan rested the blade of his sword against Robi’s throat. Robi froze, a look of terror on her face.
“You need to learn something about life, John,” Morgan said. “Poor decisions get people killed.”
Morgan’s pulled the blade an inch across Robi’s neck, slicing into the top layer of skin and leaving a ribbon of blood in its wake. Robi gasped.
“Stop!”
Morgan’s blade paused, and a crimson rivulet ran down the skin of Robi’s throat. All the rest of the world seemed to stand still.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, I swear,” John said. “Just don’t hurt her.”
Robi’s eyes were as wide as saucers and she held her body perfectly still. A look of amusement crossed Morgan’s face and John was sure he’d signed Robi’s death warrant.
“You swear it, do you?” he said.
“Yes,” John said. “I’ll answer any question you have, just let Robi go.”
Morgan seemed to consider this, his eyes boring into John’s, daring him to show any sign of weakness.
“Very well,”
he said, taking the short-bladed sword away from Robi’s neck. “Let’s see if you really are a man of honor. Sit down.” He indicated the empty stool with the point of his sword. As soon as John had taken the seat, Morgan’s long fingers uncoiled from Robi’s arm and she bolted behind John, clutching her neck.
“Now, tell me about the crystal,” Morgan said, his eyes again fixed on John’s. “And remember, you promised to tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
A bead of sweat ran down John’s neck and into his collar. He had intended to lie to the tall stranger, but thought better of it. Morgan proved he was capable of casual violence. The only thing keeping John and Robi alive was the truth.
“It was my mother’s,” John said.
“You were raised in the orphan asylum,” Morgan said. “I talked with the sisters. They told me all about you.” He slid his thumb along the edge of his sword in the manner of someone looking for a nick in the blade. It gave John chills.
“She gave it to me right before she disappeared,” John said. “It’s the only thing I have of hers.”
Morgan nodded, seeming to accept this answer as true.
“How did you come to use such a special crystal in a Tommy handler control box?”
John took a deep breath and launched into his story. He’d never told anyone about his mother’s crystal or how it sang to him before. Morgan listened patiently, interrupting only once to ask how John had survived being shot in the chest. When John finally finished, Morgan just sat, regarding him for a long moment. His fingers were laced together in front of his face and his dark eyes seemed dull as if the big man were lost in thought. Finally, he picked up the tintype of the dark haired woman, Sira.
“So you intend to follow dear Sira to the ends of the earth if need be to get your crystal back.”
