The Flux Engine

by Dan Willis

  John felt the ship dip under his feet as it descended toward the spider house. As they drew closer, he realized it was far more than a simple house. The building was massive, not tall but wide, stretching out over a patch of elevated ground that must have been five acres. The building was hard to detect, even this close, as it was entirely covered with dirt and grass, giving the impression not so much of a compound but a series of grassy hillocks.

  The only sign that something was amiss, aside from the eight massive legs churning below, were the armored shutters set into the hillside. They slid aside as the Desert Rose drew level with the platform, revealing sparkling glass windows beneath. At the end of a short, paved walkway a tall, thin shutter slid away from an ironbound door.

  “Lock us on,” Hickok said, leaning heavily on Crankshaft.

  John unhooked the safety lanyard on the docking arm and pulled the release lever. A claw on a pneumatic arm dropped outboard, extending until it locked onto a solid post on the deck of the spider house. As soon as the clamp attached, a metal ramp slid out to bridge the gap between the two vehicles.

  “Let’s go,” Crankshaft said, helping Hickok onto the narrow walkway. “Mind your step.”

  John made the mistake of looking down as he crossed. The ground moving rapidly below the walking compound looked awfully far away. Fighting off a wave of dizziness, he stepped across and onto the paved pathway. More blood drops spattered the flagstones as Crankshaft helped the injured enforcer toward the door. Hickok seemed to be bleeding faster now. His head lolled forward and Crankshaft grunted under the increased load as he went in and out of consciousness.

  John ducked his head under Hickok’s free arm and lifted, helping the big mechanic carry the even bigger wounded man.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  As they approached the house, the door opened, sliding sideways with a soft, pneumatic hiss like the shutter had done before it. The new opening revealed a portly man in a white shirt and red-striped waistcoat. He had brilliantly white hair with a long, pointed mustache and a goatee strip dangling off the front of his chin. A pair of wireframe glasses were perched on his bulbous nose and his dark eyes squinted against the light that poured in through the open door.

  “Hickok,” he said, with a thick western drawl. “What in thunderation have ya done to yerself this time?”

  “He got hit in the fight,” Crankshaft said. “Two in the upper body, one in the side.”

  “Two or three in the side, two in the gut, one in the leg,” Hickok corrected, gasping and clutching his abdomen.

  “That ain’t supposed to bother a big feller like you,” the portly man said. “Ain’t you been takin’ your elixir?”

  “Gatling gun,” Hickok gasped again.

  The white-haired man’s face turned serious and he stepped back, beckoning them inside.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Meg!”

  This last was directed back toward the interior of the house. As John and Crankshaft carried the now unconscious Hickok across the threshold, a tall, slender woman emerged from a back room. She wore a long red dress with short sleeves and long gloves that reached above the elbow, and her flowing blond hair shone in the light of the glowlamps. As she approached, John could see the white lines of scars criss-crossing her neck and upper arms.

  “Help me get him to the surgery,” the portly man said, indicating a nearby door. A placard hung above the door with the word “Surgery” painted on it in gold letters. The rest of the room seemed to be some kind of shop. Shelves lined the walls, packed with hundreds of green-glass bottles, each labeled and sealed like the one John carried in his pocket.

  This must be the home of the amazing Doc Terminus, he decided.

  “Get him out of his clothes,” Terminus said, pushing the door open.

  John recognized this room immediately. In the center was a large metal box, like a coffin. Metal arms of all description hung down from the ceiling, each with a different device on its tip. On one side, a crystal device was mounted in a glass box connected to a familiar brass crown.

  John helped Crankshaft strip off Hickok’s vest, shirt, and pants before helping the big man into the metal box. A plate attached to the lid read: Rectification Chamber. He hadn’t remembered much detail from his time in the coffin-like device. Inside, it had a metal table with padded arms mounted on runners so they could be adjusted to keep the patient from moving. A drain had been cut in the bottom of the tank, and as John looked at it, he could tell that the table was beveled ever so slightly to allow liquids to run to the drain. The sight of it gave him a sudden chill.

  “Stand aside, son,” Terminus said, nudging John out of the way with his gut. “Give a fat man some room.”

  The doctor examined the ragged wound in Hickok’s lower abdomen.

  “Well, no wonder you feel so lethargic,” Terminus said, pulling the lid of the chamber closed. “That bullet done clipped yo’ spleen. Another minute or two and you’d’a lost all yo’ blood.” He turned to Meg, the blonde woman, who had wheeled in a tray loaded with a case of stoppered bottles and a row of tools that gave John the shivers. “We’re goin’ to have to stop the bleedin’ first,” Terminus said. “Give me the coagulant and two bottles of the liquid blood.”

  Meg selected two of the stoppered bottles and a vial with a dropper in it. Terminus put the controller crown on his head and pulled a small lever in the wall. Immediately the crystal device in the glass box began to whirl and glow.

  Meg attached the green bottles to hoses dangling from two of the metal arms, then withdrew the dropper from the vial and began dripping the contents onto a spongy pad at the end of a third. As soon as she was done, the machine lurched into motion. The metal bed in the tank tilted on an angle, allowing the metal arms to access the wound in Hickok’s side. At the same time, the arms began to move.

  John couldn’t see what they were doing inside the rectification chamber, but at least a dozen of them moved at any one time. When they emerged, their tips covered in blood, the arms would move to the back wall, dipping their tools in a constantly flowing tray of cleaning solution, then return to their position to await further orders from Terminus. The machine looked uncomfortably like a metal spider was savaging the occupant of the metal coffin.

  It made John a little sick to watch.

  Doc Terminus had his eyes closed and he was sweating. It looked like controlling his surgery machine was much harder than directing Tommys.

  A clattering sound from the machine drew John’s attention. One of the arms had emerged from the lid and come forward, depositing a bullet into a tray mounted to the front of the chamber. As he watched, three more arms emerged with bullets as well.

  Doc Terminus’ machine was working on all the wounds at once. No wonder he was sweating.

  A few minutes later the metal arms pulled back from the chamber, rising up to the ceiling and out of the way. With a massive sigh of relief, Terminus removed the control crown and shut down the crystal engine.

  “Wake him up,” he said to Meg.

  The blonde woman pulled a lever and the rectification chamber lid opened up with the hiss of a steam piston. Hickok lay inside, unconscious. John could see neat rows of stitches in the enforcer’s side and leg where the bullets had struck him. Meg held a vial of smelling salts under Hickok’s nose for a few seconds and the big man’s eyes snapped open. His hand grabbed at his hip, where his holster would be, before the pain hit him. Hickok gasped and tried not to writhe as his face twisted and paled.

  “Sorry, Bill, but you need to be awake to drink this,” Terminus said as he passed one of the green-glass bottles to Meg, who pressed it to Hickok’s lips. The painted label read: Doc Terminus’ patented Heal Quik Formula. Bolsters the immune system while promoting accelerated cell growth. Do not use while Pregnant. As the enforcer drank, his face contorted and he coughed and spluttered.

  Clearly Heal Quik was less than tasty.

  “Go on,” Terminus said, passing ove
r the other bottle. “Drink it on down. I can’t afford to have you dyin’ after I patched ya up.”

  “Damn it, Doc,” Hickok said, tossing the bottle away. “Why don’t you add some whisky to that stuff?”

  “If I did that, it wouldn’t work.” Doc Terminus chuckled. “Then you’d be drinkin’ it for nothin’.” He picked up the metal pan where the bullets had been deposited by his machine. There were six slugs in the pan, four small and two large.

  “No wonder you didn’t shrug these off,” Terminus said, fishing out one of the big slugs. “It’s as big around as my thumb.”

  “What about the others?” Hickok asked.

  “One caught you under your arm, in th’ spleen,” Terminus said. “The rest didn’t penetrate fully.”

  John picked up one of the smaller bullets and whistled. It was small, but still plenty big enough to kill a man. Whatever elixir Hickok was drinking must have made his skin as tough as boiled Shredder hide.

  Hickok pushed himself out of the rectification chamber. John could see the welts and bruises where the small bullets had hit.

  “Thanks Doc,” he said. “I feel great.”

  Terminus laughed.

  “That’s the Heal Quik gettin’ in your system,” he said. “Yer goin’ ta feel like you can take on the world for the next couple of hours, but I want ya ta take it easy.”

  Hickok nodded.

  “Much obliged, Doc. What do I owe you?”

  Terminus waved him off.

  “Let’s just call it payment for services,” he said. “After all, you got all shot up runnin’ them pirates off of my doorstep.”

  Terminus finished washing off his hands in a basin of water, then turned to his other guests.

  “Shaft,” he said, shaking the black man by the hand. “You still havin’ trouble with the rheumatism?”

  “Not since you gave me that ointment,” Crankshaft said.

  “Now this bright young man looks familiar,” Terminus said, turning to John.

  “That’s my new deputy, John Porter,” Hickok said. “You patched him up in Sprocketville.”

  “Of course,” Terminus said, nodding. “Tricky bit of work. The bullet was near the heart, but you look all healed up now.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. “I’m fine.”

  “Speaking of which,” Hickok said, moving gingerly off the table. “I’m going to need another couple of bottles of stabilizer.”

  “A couple of bottles?”

  The look on Terminus’ face suggested that Hickok had insulted his mother. He rounded on the enforcer and began wagging his pudgy finger in Hickok’s face.

  “Do you have any idea how long it takes to make a batch of that stuff?” he said. “A whole, entire year. On top of that I could buy my own airship for what it costs.”

  “I’ve got a deputy now, after all, Doc. Besides, I don’t need a whole batch,” Hickok said in a soothing voice. “Just a couple of bottles.”

  Doc grumbled.

  “Yeah, that’s what you always say.” He waved his hand at Meg, and the woman nodded and left. She returned a moment later with two bottles of stabilizer and a small, intricately carved, wooden case.

  “I figure since you’re here, you might as well have this,” Doc Terminus said, opening the lid of the case. The inside was lined with green velvet and John could see an engraved brass plate mounted under the lid. It read Paragon Elixir. The case held twelve crystal vials, topped with crystal stoppers and sealed with lead. The liquid that showed through the glass was a pale purplish color and glowed softly with its own light.

  Hickok inspected the vials, carefully lifting each one and checking its seal. Finally satisfied, he closed the lid on the box and secured the brass latch.

  “Well I hate to bleed and run,” Hickok said. “But we’re supposed to be in Castle Rock by tomorrow.”

  “At least stay for dinner,” Terminus protested.

  “Sorry, old friend; I wish we could,” Hickok said. “I owe you one, though.”

  Doc Terminus stroked his goatee for a moment as Hickok gathered up the wooden case and the stabilizer.

  “Well, since you mention it, there is something you can do for me,” he said. “I’m having trouble getting a fresh supply of Flux. Have you got any you can spare?”

  “What do you mean, you can’t get Flux?” John asked in surprise.

  “Just that,” Terminus said. “Last two towns I passed were picked clean.”

  “I’ve got a five gallon can in the hold,” Crankshaft said. “Be right back.”

  “Is there some kind of shortage?” Hickok asked as Crankshaft left.

  “That’s impossible,” John said before anyone could answer. “Why don’t they just make more?”

  “Do you know how to make Flux, mister smarty-britches?” Terminus said with an amused look.

  “Sure. It’s an infusion of Fuller’s Earth in Limewater with Blue Vitriol, Oil of Hartshorn, Alkali Salt—”

  “A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed,” Terminus said, cutting John off. He turned to Hickok. “Where did you say you picked this boy up?”

  “He was apprenticed to a Thurger,” Hickok said.

  Doc Terminus found this very interesting. “Well now,” he said, his round face lighting up. “Thurgery and Alchemy are related sciences. Kissin’ cousins if you will. If you don’t go back to the Thurger, Johnny, I’d have a place for you right here.”

  “I thought Meg was your apprentice,” John said.

  Terminus laughed.

  “Meg’s my wife,” he said. Meg smiled and put her arm around the Doc’s neck, pecking him on the cheek. “She was the only survivor of a Scrapstalker attack in Dakota. I found her and nursed her back to health. She’s been with me ever since.”

  John shivered. He’d never seen a Scrapstalker, but their cousins, scraproaches, gave him the willies and they were tiny.

  “I didn’t think Scrapstalkers left survivors,” John said. He regretted it instantly. It was the kind of question that was prying and impolite. If Doc or Meg noticed, they gave no sign.

  “I suspect they didn’t mean to,” Doc said. “She was hurt pretty bad; any other doctor would have lost her. Still, I wasn’t … quite fast enough.”

  An angry look crossed Meg’s porcelain face and she grabbed her husband’s chin, turning his face to hers, wagging her finger at him.

  “The Scrapstalkers cut out her tongue,” Doc said once Meg released him. “I was so busy with her other wounds I never even looked. By the time I discovered it, too much time had passed. My formulas can only regenerate fresh wounds.”

  Nothing that had happened in Doc Terminus’ rectification chamber had affected John significantly, but this made him so sick to his stomach he considered throwing up. No one knew exactly how Scrapstalkers had come to be, but everyone knew that they hated life, everything living. They didn’t just kill, they made it an art, torturing their victims to death in the most vicious ways possible. If Scrapstalkers had left Meg to die, it was a sure bet they’d done a thorough job on her.

  Meg smiled at him. The look said that she knew what he was imagining and that it was all right, she’d been saved. John thought back to the airship pirate he’d killed. It might make him feel better to imagine the young man as a monster, on par with a Scrapstalker, but he just couldn’t make himself believe that.

  A few minutes later Crankshaft returned with the five-gallon can of Flux, dropping it heavily onto the tiled floor.

  “Much obliged to ya,” Doc said, shaking Crankshaft’s hand, then Hickok’s. “And you, young fella,” he said, extending his hand to John. “If ya ever decide to settle down to an honest trade, I’d love to have you here.”

  John shook the offered hand. He hadn’t really thought about what he would do once he and Hickok had recovered his mother’s crystal. Up till now his main goal had simply been living to see tomorrow. Doc Terminus had made him an incredible offer. Apprenticing to an alchemist of his obvious talents would set John up for life, but
it would take years. Somewhere out in the world, he was sure, his mother was waiting. Waiting for him to find her.

  “Thank you,” he said. “But I’ve got some things I need to take care of first.”

  “Well, good luck to ya then,” Doc said, walking them to the door.

  As John followed Crankshaft and the Enforcer back aboard the Desert Rose, the image of the dead airship pirate came unbidden to his mind. If he was going to find his mother’s crystal, he was going to see more death, more faces to haunt his dreams. Surely Sira and the people for whom she stole it wouldn’t give up the crystal without a fight. How many more people would have to die before he would be reunited with his birthright?

  He hoped the number would be small.

  That crystal was the only link to his past, to a family he never knew. He couldn’t imagine giving it up. But what would it cost in lives, in blood, or in pieces of his immortal soul? Could he grind whatever grist the mill required?

  John resolved then and there that he would.

  Chapter 16

  Wrath of the Vengeance

  The thrum of the giant engines of the airship Vengeance reached up from the decks below and pulsed rhythmically through the leather soles of Raphael Kest’s boots. As big as the airship was, one could not escape the constant drumbeat of the engines as they drove the hundreds of outboard propellers that moved the huge vessel across the sky.

  “All stop,” Captain Raff called from the forward rail of the observation platform, and the thrumming under Kest’s feet slowed to a more sedate pace. The captain pressed his eyes to the hole in the underscope and surveyed the ground below, then he straightened and dismounted the platform by means of a steep metal staircase with brass rails.

  “Have the lookouts report all contacts,” he said to the officer of the deck. The young-looking officer saluted and passed the order in an even younger sounding voice.

  “Well,” Captain Wesley Raff said as he joined Kest by a long bank of windows. “We’re here. Smack in the middle of the biggest mass of nothing in the Colonial Alliance.”

  Kest chuckled.

  “You obviously haven’t been to the New Azteka Territory,” he said. Compared to the blasted wastelands of sand and rock down by the Grand River, the rolling, grassy plains of the Dakota Territory were positively inviting.