Steamrolled

by Pauline Baird Jones

  She’s quite awful. The nanites seemed delighted, rather than the converse.

  The ambient temperature had not changed, but it felt as if his body temperature increased. His casual tee shirt tightened around his neck—a physical impossibility confirmed by a tug at the soft fabric.

  There is a physiological shift in progress, Wynken confirmed. Reason for shift unclear.

  It wasn’t need-to-know, so Robert ignored the semi-question, hoping the reason didn’t become clear to them anytime soon.

  Her features were symmetrical, the bone structure refined but strong. Her dark hair was short in the back, and landed along her chin in a neat line, except for bits of red, purple and blue spiking out around her face. They drew attention to themselves by resisting settling into the smooth fall of hair brushing her cheeks with each step. Had they been done with intent or missed by her hairbrush? Her ensemble gave clues both directions and no definitive answers.

  Her mouth was outlined in deep, dark red and her nails sported a dark color not identifiable without a closer inspection. Her eyes were dark, too, and the application of cosmetics intensified their contrast with her white skin, and the overall drama of her persona.

  Modified Goth mixed with Steampunk, the nanites deduced with what felt like a pleased wriggle at figuring it out. Very modified he concluded, after studying the data his nanites had found. A refusal to submit to neat slotting? Whatever the reason, the result was intriguing. Her easy, unselfconscious pleasure in the music and movement fascinated Robert and his nanites. She was dangerous in ways he dimly realized were new to someone who thought he knew all there was to know about crazy.

  It appeared he’d lacked critical data to make that assumption.

  The music changed and she changed with it, her movements bringing her around to face them as the light erased their shadows. Robert expected embarrassed, startled, and maybe angry. She didn’t exhibit any of those emotions. Not even on a minimal level. She looked curious. As curious as a child. Only she wasn’t a child. He tugged at his tee shirt again. She used the remote to lower the music volume, swept back the edges of the coat. One hand settled on a hip, making her aspect appear somewhat challenging and a bit sexy. The other turned the remote with slender fingers, like a magic trick about to happen.

  “Well.”

  Her gaze tracked from the general to the particular, landing on Fyn first. Robert felt an unfamiliar resentment about her thorough survey of the alien. Fyn was big, he reminded himself. Tall, too. It took time to assess him. Her expression concealed her conclusions, so it was odd that he had the impression that her face was expressive. Her attention shifted to Ric. She didn’t hurry with him, either, but spent less on Carey. What did that mean? He braced as her gaze tracked toward him. Would she sense his secret? See the missing chunks of his life? They hadn’t been surgically removed. The jagged edges, the fragmenting of his experience, weren’t neatly patched over, though Delilah and the nanites had tried. He wanted to rub the back of his neck, but didn’t. It’s a giveaway. The words, the knowledge came from—

  She found him, splintering his thoughts in a way that hadn’t happened since the psychotic break, though this splintering wasn’t painful. Wynken, Blynken and Nod still moved in to sweep up the pieces. His physiological response increased exponentially. No way to gather that up. What did she see, think, know when she looked at him? Her bright, curious gaze was too far outside his experience. What he did know was that he felt more not like himself than he had since Delilah took him back from them six months—and nine years—ago.

  “A curious quartet,” she said, her voice pitched to be heard over the music still pulsing in the background like a movie soundtrack. Her attention flicked back to Fyn.

  Did she sense his alien factor? It was interesting that all of the Project Enterprise alien contact had been humanoid, though that didn’t eliminate the alien factor from the contact. They were still from other galaxies, other planets. Did Robert find Fyn alien because he knew he was alien or because he was alien?

  Her attention shifted again, going from the particular to the general, and the red mouth edged up in a half smile, her tone informative, not hostile. “We’re closed.”

  “Door wasn’t locked,” Fyn spoke with his usual lethal lack of expression—at least Robert assumed it was usual. It was the tone and expression he’d used since they met up at Area 51 two days ago.

  Don’t make assumptions.

  I’m working on it. It would reduce the periods of sometimes painful adjustment, which seem to be piling up, but was easier thought than done, if he was permitted the modified cliché. He was a scientist and scientists made assumptions based on observed data, but there was too much data in this place. It was as disconcerting as no data.

  She gave a shrug that could have meant anything. “Lanes won’t be ready until noon. Coffee isn’t ready either.”

  “We want to see the museum.” His calm tone surprised Robert, as it failed to reflect his inner turmoil.

  Her brows arched for a ten-count, then lowered into an almost scowl.

  “Eddie put you up to this.”

  Robert was unclear what she implied, but he knew the answer regardless. Eddie had no input into their presence here today. “No.”

  Ric stepped up next to him. “We really want to see the museum.” He looked around, like it would now pop up out of the floor.

  This time she stared at them for a twenty-count, then a smile broke across her face like a wave. “Cool.”

  “I take it,” Carey said, “you don’t get a lot of visitors to the museum?”

  “More like never,” she said, tone and expression cheerful.

  “Maybe if you had a sign outside,” Ric suggested.

  “Eddie said he’d put one up when I got one taker—oh!” She pulled out a cell phone and dialed it.

  Robert didn’t expect it to connect, but it did. Maybe they had special bars for Wyoming cell phones.

  “Ed. Listen to this.” She held out the phone, giving them an expectant look. When no one spoke, she added, “Tell him what you want.”

  Ric took point for them. “We want to see the museum?”

  She gave him a pleased smile and put the phone back to her ear. “That’s four, count ’em, four guests for the museum. I think you owe me a sign.” A pause, then she added, “No, I’m not going to take their picture. I’m going to take their money. I’ll take their picture in the museum. Proof positive.” She pocketed the phone without a goodbye.

  Beside him Fyn twitched. Ric didn’t look too happy either.

  Don’t leave tracks anyone can follow.

  Carey grinned. “This place is amazing.”

  “Thank you.” She radiated pleased.

  Robert felt an unexpected negative reaction to this, which prompted an even more out of character response. He moved between them, his hand out. “Robert Clementyne.”

  Only after it was out of his mouth—and Ric cleared his throat—did it occur to him, they were supposed to go in without names, if at all possible, and use fake names if it wasn’t possible.

  “Clementyne.” A pause that felt weighted with something, then she continued, “That’ll look great in the first spot of the guest book.” She moved forward to take his outstretched hand.

  He felt a high level of anticipation, well out of proportion to the event. With no sign she reciprocated the anticipation, her palm connected with his, her fingers curling around to brush against the back of his hand. A jolt of something rocked through him, a flicker of her lashes indicating she felt it, too. Or he was delusional. He was probably delusional. Delusional had been his normal for most of his life. Why would she feel anything? She didn’t retreat, which meant he couldn’t, instead taking a half step closer, so he looked straight down into her bright, dark gaze.

  “Emily Babcock.”

  His world tilted twelve point-eight degrees off center, though he knew it was not possible. He was still able to wonder, needed to wonder to stay anchored in realit
y, if her name was a nod to Emelius Twitchet. It had been easy to find the museum listing on Google, once someone thought to look. Robert had not known about Google, so felt no guilt for the oversight. Google had been a place to start, but it had taken Ancestry.com to unravel over one hundred years of family relationships. Emelius was the only son, the last of the male Twitchet’s, but he’d had four sisters—all of whom had married more than once. And given birth to daughters. Eventually one of them married a Babcock, the other a Wilcox. Not tight with the main family, but still people in the business of steam engines. Was this place genetics or coincidence? A mix of both?

  All this ran through his brain alongside a mental path that was less clear, but more intense. This track noticed things like how smooth her skin looked in close proximity. This track noticed her red, red mouth and was fascinated by it. It looked soft. It looked kissable. He’d never thought about a girl this much before. He wished he could kiss her. He’d never kissed a girl. Shouldn’t want to change that now. He had a mission, the Delilah-infused part of him reminded with a mental tap of a foot. The nanites wanted the kiss. They liked new experiences. He felt inclined to go with the nanites. Maybe he liked new experiences more than he realized he did. Or maybe there was a small part of him that was a guy. Out of the range of scents hanging heavy in the air, he picked out one that must come from her, because it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. All of his education and IQ couldn’t give him the words to describe the sensation. It was.

  Emily, possibly on a different wavelength, looked past Robert, taking back her hand, her dark brows arching in a way he’d have called imperious, if anyone asked him. No one did, but his companions, reminded of their manners, responded with their names and then the two who also gave real ones looked politely horrified. This seemed to amuse her, though not in a way that felt unkind. Robert didn’t know if he was kind, but standing close to her, inhaling her scent into his lungs, he hoped he was.

  You let us stay.

  Robert didn’t remember having a choice about that, but they kept him out of crazy, so he was willing to take their thought for it.

  There was a pause, as she considered them and their request.

  “All of this is quite remarkable,” he said, in aid of her process. The slight British inflection he’d acquired from his mother upped the geek in his words and tone, and color burned across his cheekbones. He couldn’t blame it on the nanites or Delilah. It was all him.

  “My brother’s into steampunk.”

  Her lips pressed together on the p and he almost gave into the impulse to touch them. His fingers curled into fists instead. He might have the experience of a geeky sixteen-year-old, but he didn’t have to act like it.

  “And you? What are you into?” He blinked at the tone of his voice, at the pitch of it. Both were…provocative, something he’d never been, even before the break.

  She chuckled. “I like steam.”

  Since they were surrounded by engineered steam, that statement shouldn’t have upped the heat factor inside him quite so much.

  “Just steam?” He was steaming like a real guy. A little help here? With some reluctance the nanites brought his core temperature back down to almost normal. You missed a spot.

  We are not miracle workers.

  He could be wrong, but he thought they snickered.

  She shrugged, the movement not helping him with his spot.

  “I like engines, too. It’s in my blood. And I might be a bit fond of steampunk, too.” She hesitated. “So. The museum.”

  It wasn’t a question, but there were question marks in her eyes. Robert didn’t know women, but he did know question marks. What he didn’t know was how to explain their interest in a way that would erase those questions marks. They’d assumed they wouldn’t need to. Museums were open to the public, either for free or for a fee. One did what was required and went in, no explanations necessary. They’d thought wrong, but it was too late to produce a cover story now. He felt a sense of caution, about saying too much, or saying anything.

  Always better to let the other person do the talking.

  “A very curious quartet.” She turned, heading toward the service counter. “That’ll be six dollars.”

  Ric, who had started to follow her, stopped. “Six dollars?”

  “One-fifty each.” She bent and set a hand-written, cardboard sign on the countertop so they could read it. As museum signs went, it wasn’t great, but it had the basics: cost and hours, which were the same as the bowling alley. “I won’t make you wait, if you were worried about it.”

  None of his companions looked worried before or after her offer. Everyone but Fyn blinked.

  “We appreciate that.” Robert tried out a smile. Had he ever smiled at a girl? Smiled at anyone?

  She smiled back, so he must have managed it. Or hers was a pity smile. Didn’t look like a pity smile—like he knew. He wanted to believe it wasn’t a pity smile. Though on reflection, her smiles seemed to have two settings, like a car’s headlights. They alternated between low and high beam. This one was high and potent. The nanites had to adjust his temperature again.

  “There’s a guidebook, too. Those are two dollars each. I printed them up myself.” Hopeful got mixed into the smile, with just a touch of wistful.

  As one, Fyn, Carey and Robert looked to Ric. With an interesting lack of expression, their team leader produced fourteen dollars for her.

  “We’ll take four. And I’ll need a receipt.”

  “You betcha.” She keyed the purchase into a cash register, which opened with a puff of steam, stowed the money and waited while it spat out a receipt, with yet another steam puff. It seemed she meant it when she said she loved steam. She handed it to Ric, along with four guidebooks, then nodded toward the back of the building. “The museum is this way.”

  As they turned to follow, Ric handed each of them a guidebook. Robert wanted to read it, but watching Emily walk away trumped that with surprising force. She walked away almost as well as she walked toward—though the coat hid a lot. Caught on a mental leash by the female sway of her body, Robert shelved his expectations, which turned out to be a good choice—or perhaps it was his only choice.

  Instead of stairs, they entered an elevator. Calling it vintage was being kind. It was a cage, with scrollwork, an inner and outer door, and a view of the brick through the bars.

  “Got it on eBay,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  Before Robert could inquire about this eBay, it shifted as they boarded and gave an ominous—and extended—creak. Fyn’s brows arched, the only sign of emotion he’d shown so far, and braced his feet. The rest of them grabbed at spots on the bars with varying levels of nonchalant mixed with sheepish.

  “It’ll hold,” Emily said, then ruined her assurance with, “Beside, it’s not that far down.”

  No one spoke. What could they say?

  Emily closed both doors, and then eased past them to a round metal disc that folded down. Next to it was a lever that looked to be straight out of a horror movie. She sat, causing the cage to shift from side to side again, and pulled on the lever. Steam hissed around them and, with a massive groan, the cage made its way down, assisted by gravity as much as the pulley system, Robert suspected. They stopped with a thump and she reversed the entry process, gesturing for them to exit first.

  “Is that the only way to the museum?” Ric looked back up the shaft.

  Robert felt to his core that single exit spaces were not good in a firefight. Not that any of them were expecting a firefight. Expect the unexpected. He was starting to understand what Delilah meant by that, but he still wasn’t sure how to do it in a place like this.

  “There’s a fire exit that leads directly out into the parking lot through the museum’s storage closet.”

  Robert suspected he wasn’t the only one relieved that they wouldn’t have to go up in that elevator again. Even Fyn allowed a small flicker of relief to pass over his face.

  The air was mo
re humid down here, more metallic close to the steam plant, with a hint of old wood and old…something else. Emily led them down a narrow hall, stopping at an anachronistic—in both time and place—set of double doors. She turned, her back against the place where the two sides met, and spread out her arms, the back of one hand brushing the wood. Her coat looked whiter against the wood. So did her skin. She made the door look good, too.

  “These are the original doors, the lock,” she produced an antique key from a pocket, “and one of the keys. The lock and doors were removed from great-great,” she hesitated as if counting, then continued in a lecturing tone of voice, “great uncle Emelius’ workshop in Gotham City—the nickname for New York in his time. It and the contents of the workshop have been preserved and handed down, mother to daughter, since his disappearance in 1894.”

  “Mother to daughter?” Fyn asked.

  Emily shrugged. “There weren’t any sons until Ed and I can’t get him to make me a sign, let alone walk through the door. And let’s be honest, women are way more susceptible to guilt curating.”

  Robert knew about the dearth of males from his research, though not from her viewpoint.

  “When he disappeared, his sisters secured the contents of his workshop and his personal effects from his house.” She gestured again, her tone once again in lecture mode. “There were originally three keys. This key was placed in my mother’s mother’s mother’s care. Uncle Emelius had one and he gave one to his assistant, Olivia Carstairs.”

  Carey twitched at this and Ric hurried into speech.

  “What—” He stopped, but Robert knew what he was trying to ask.

  So did Emily. She grinned. “It’s my spiel. The tour is included in the price of your ticket.”

  And they were her first visitors ever. None of them wanted a spiel or a tour, but Robert was unsurprised when no one said so. It fell into the “kicking puppies” column of bad acts.

  “My grandma used to wear period clothes, but it’s kind of pointless dressing up for a tour that never happens. I can change if you want to wait. Your admission fee entitles you to the full package.”