The Falling Machine

by Andrew P. Mayer

  The Bomb Lance turned toward Sarah and pointed a harpoon straight at her chest. “As I told Sir Dennis, lovely girl, I'm going to let you live. But I need you to give the Paragons a message.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “They'll kill you for this.”

  “That's as may be, but it's not yer business, and it's not right now. I just need for you to tell them that the Eschaton is coming. Can you do that for me?”

  Sarah pressed her lips together.

  He poked her slightly with the tip of the harpoon. “You just say yes, and we're all done here.”

  “Wait.” She lifted up her left hand and bowed her head slightly.

  “Wait for what? Your Professor and his machine are dead. And yer boyfriend is going to bleed to death if you don't do something.”

  “Wait for that,” she said, as the Automaton's arm slammed into the side of the Bomb Lance's head. When he fell to the granite he was unconscious.

  She looked at Tom and gave him an order. “You must help Nathaniel.” He stepped forward, and she saw the crumpled form behind him.

  She ran toward Darby. “Professor!” The harpoon was still in him, hanging out of his chest. Tom had managed to catch him, interrupting his fall from the tower, but the jolt had made the wound far worse. He looked up at Sarah and tried to smile as she ran toward him, but the blood-flecked grimace he produced was terrifying.

  Tom kneeled down by Nathaniel's side, wrapped his hand gently around the shaft of the spear, and pulled slightly. Nathan screamed as it moved. “Stop it! Just stop!” he gasped out.

  “The…harpoon has penetrated your…leg and lodged into the…stone. It will need to be removed.” Tom made a fist with his right hand. The wrist bent all the way back until his fingers were flush against the top of his arm. With his left hand he reached under his shirt and into the clockworks of his stomach. When he pulled it out again he held a small saw-blade between his fingers.

  “What are you…?” Nathan tried to get up on his elbows. “Aaah. Haaaah!” The pain from the metal shaft rubbing against his bone dropped him back to the ground.

  Two small poles extended up from Tom's right wrist, and the blade snapped into the eyeholes at the top of them with a firm click. A gear rose up from underneath and engaged with another one on the side of the blade. It spun with a high-pitched whine. Nathan's eyes grew wide. “Stay the hell away from me!”

  “Lie back, please.” Gripping the harpoon with his left hand, Tom pressed the spinning saw into the iron shaft. A jet of steam blew out from the back of Tom's neck, and a shower of sparks arced out as metal touched metal.

  Sarah put the Professor's head on her lap and stroked his hair with her hands. His hat had been lost in the fall. “You're going to be okay, Sir Dennis. Tom will be here in a minute.”

  Darby's voice was faint. “He's not a surgeon, my dear. But even if he were, I think my wound is clearly fatal.”

  She moved her hands hesitantly toward the bloody gash, then pulled them away. “Don't say that!”

  He tried to smile. “It'll be all right, I think. But I'll need you to be strong for me.”

  “You can't die!” She bent down and gave his forehead a kiss. There were tears in her eyes. “I think I've been falling in love with you, Professor—perhaps for quite some time.”

  He looked up at her. “You have no idea how flattered I am to hear those words coming from those delightful lips of yours, my dear. But I'm also—” He coughed. There was blood on his mouth. “—three times your age. No matter what you might feel for me, that was never meant to be.”

  “No!” She looked upward, and tears continued to roll down her face. “You're going to live!”

  “Wishing won't make it so. But I need to speak to Tom before I go. And I need you to—” He coughed again. It sounded worse this time. “—help him, Sarah. If you do care for me, then you'll find the best parts of me are inside of him. It will take time for Tom to discover what he is capable of, and he'll need your assistance to find out. “

  When she opened her mouth to reply, she was cut off by a scream from behind them. She turned to see the Automaton lifting Nathan's leg free from the cut end of the harpoon. The young man's eye caught hers, and he called out her name. “Sarah!”

  She quickly stood up. “Tom, come here. We need you.”

  Nathaniel whimpered slightly as Tom pulled off his coat and wound it around the wound. “Please try to relax.” Having completed his crude bandaging, he walked over to Sir Dennis.

  Tom stood above the Professor, Sarah by his side. “You are badly hurt…sir.” He held up the saw-blade. It was slightly scorched. “I should remove the…harpoon.”

  Darby shook his head. “Far too late for that. Now come down here so I can speak with you.”

  The Automaton folded his legs, collapsing down into a squat. “How can I save your life, Sir…Dennis?”

  “You can't, Tom.” He reached up and took his left hand. “But, I need you to retrieve the Alpha Element from that Irishman if you can. Second, I want you to find the new body I was building for you in the laboratory. It's not complete, but once you're in it you'll be able to finish the work yourself.” His grip tightened for a moment, and then his hand fell away. “Sarah will help you.”

  Tom reached down to grasp his fingers. “Sir…Dennis, I can…”

  “You have the potential to become much more than you already are, but it won't be easy.” He started coughing again. The blood on his skin was brighter now, and there was a wet rasp coming from his lungs as he fought to draw in another breath of air. “When dark times come it is men of honor who must lead us back to the light of reason.”

  “But, I am not a…man.”

  “No. But you can be…the light.” He looked up at the Automaton and smiled. Then Sir Dennis's eyes grew wide as he struggled to inhale again and couldn't draw a breath. “I…I…I…” The words vanished into tiny gurgles as blood replaced the remaining air in his lungs. He closed his eyes, shuddered, and then sagged as the life left his body.

  “Sir…Dennis?” Tom held him for a few moments, and then lowered his creator's lifeless body down onto the cold stone.

  Sarah heard a grunt rise up from the Bomb Lance's prone form as she walked toward him. When she got close, she pressed the tip of her black boot up against the Irishman's shoulder and pushed him. He shifted over, rolling back the moment she stopped. Sarah lifted up her skirts slightly, swung her boot back, and then gave a good solid kick to the man's ribs. He groaned loudly.

  Frowning, she put her heel against the brass frame he wore and gave it a hard shove. “Roll, damn you!” she yelled, and gave him another shove. He spun over onto his back while she stumbled in the other direction. “You're going off this tower!”

  Swimming back to consciousness, the Irishman used the harness to block her foot as she attempted another kick. “That'll be enough of that,” he said in a drowsy slur. He hooked her leg with his arm and pulled her down in a flurry of skirts and ruffles. “I'm not supposed to hurt you….”

  Down on the ground, Sarah's feet flailed until one of them connected with his chin. He batted back at her with his brass-clad arm, knocking her legs away before she could hit him again. He was clearly awake now. “But you do that again, lass, and I'll skewer you.”

  There was blood in his eyes from where he had been beaten down by the Automaton, and he tried to wipe it away. The polished iron barb at the end of his arm glittered as he brought his arm up to his face. He switched to his left.

  When he looked up, the Automaton was moving toward him, the sawn-off end of a harpoon in his hand. The Bomb Lance held up his right arm and fired. The metal tore cleanly through the right side of Tom's chest until the wooden peg at the end caught in the armature, spinning the machine-man around and throwing him down to the ground.

  The Irishman rose to his feet and took a moment to survey the scene. He nodded approvingly to himself. “Good enough for a day's work.” He ran toward the foot bridge and sprinted onto it, heading ba
ck toward the anchorage.

  Sarah knelt down next to the Automaton. “Tom, are you all right?”

  He tugged at the harpoon. “It appears to be stuck.” He wiggled it back and forth a few times and then pulled on it again. It came free, catching a steel spring and uncoiling a ribbon of metal as he pulled it out of him. “I am going to stop him. Please help…Nathaniel.”

  Rising up, harpoon still in his hand, Tom walked to the edge of the footbridge. The Bomb Lance was fifteen yards away, moving as quickly as he could back to the anchorage, but forced to flee from them in a straight line. Tom flung the man's weapon back at him.

  Out on the wooden path the Irishman slowed his run, then came to a stop as fast as he dared. As he was plucking out his handkerchief from his jacket pocket to try to wipe away the blood, there was a crashing sound. One of his harpoons had smashed through the slatted boards a few feet in front of him. He turned to see the metal man standing at the edge of the bridge tower. The Automaton dropped into a sprint and headed toward him.

  Sarah watched Tom go and then turned back to Nathaniel. He was grimacing as he tried to use the arms of his jacket to stanch the wound. “It's not a mop,” she said sternly. Sitting down next to him she grabbed the coat from his hand and tore a long strip from the sleeve.

  “Finally, you notice I'm in trouble,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  She stopped what she was doing and stared at him. “Look at me.” He refused to make eye contact. “Look at me, Nathaniel! ”

  Responding to the urgency in her voice he turned to see that there were fresh tears in her eyes. “What is it?”

  Her face was a mask of anger. She pointed at the body a few yards away. “He's dead, Nathaniel. That's Sir Dennis Darby's dead body lying not ten feet away from us, and you want to cry to me about the fact you were ignored while he died.” She roughly pulled up his leg, and began winding the cloth strip around it. “I won't have it!”

  “Ow! Sarah, I…” She stopped, and he stared into her eyes for a moment.

  Then he turned away, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out his flask. Sarah frowned, but said nothing as she continued to work on his leg.

  The Automaton and the Bomb Lance were both at a full run when the Irishman reached the end of the footbridge. Tom was twenty yards away, but closing at a good pace. The Irishman lifted his arms into the air. The harness responded and reloaded both arms. He aimed them at his opponent and leaned back into the supports on the back of his harness. “Where there's a will, there's a way,” he muttered out loud.

  “Platitudes won't save you, Murphy.” The voice came from behind him, wrapped in a Western drawl and a blast of tobacco smoke. The Bomb Lance turned to see a man in a ten-gallon hat and oiled duster standing behind him. “But Doc Dynamite is here to rescue your Catholic ass anyway.” The man lit the stick of explosive in his hand from the cigar in his mouth and then threw it out onto the footbridge.

  “So you finally decide to arrive,” said the Bomb Lance. “You were supposed to—” The Texan grabbed the edge of the Bomb Lance's brass frame and used it to fling him down the stairs. He jumped after him as the dynamite exploded with a deafening bang. A rush of air and smoke blew over their heads. The Bomb Lance rolled over to look at him. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.” He stood up and checked that his frame was still in working order.

  Doc Dynamite's features were so rugged and leathery that it seemed impossible to tell whether he appeared to look old for thirty or was a young-looking man twice that age. But he had an easy smile and blue eyes that would have seemed almost friendly if not for the scar that traveled across his face from the left side of his forehead to the right of his chin. He wore a plain striped shirt, a worsted cloth jacket, and a bandana around his neck, with a faded yellow duster over everything. His denim jeans were tucked into a pair of red cowboy boots with two large yellow letter “D”s stitched onto each one. “Tell it to the frog. He could barely get that contraption of his up into the air.” He pointed behind him, where the balloon sat parked on the roadway thirty yards behind them, belching black smoke from large engines on either side. “The decrepit Frenchy kept bitching about how the cold made everything impossible to do.”

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed the Irishman a bandana. “Look atcha. You're a mess.” He winked at him. “Even for a Mick.”

  “It's good to see you, too, Jay, now the job's almost done.” He wiped away some of the blood. “‘Almost’ being the main word in that sentence there.”

  He stood up. “Now let's see if my little friend solved your problem, because someone shot up a rocket, and the rest a’ the Paragons are on their way.”

  They walked up the steps in time to watch the severed end of the footbridge slide away from the bridge frame and land with a distant crash into the construction yard below. The other end was still attached to the tower above them, and the remains dangled straight down toward the river.

  The Bomb Lance wiped his eyes again and then peered down over the edge of the anchorage. “Looks like we destroyed the damn thing.”

  “I don't think so, partner,” the Texan replied. He had pulled out another stick of dynamite from inside his duster and was using it to point over to the left side of the bridge. The Automaton balanced on top of the suspension wire.

  “Well I'll be damned.” The Bomb Lance held up his left arm, aimed his harpoon, and fired. Tom moved a few steps down the cable toward them and the harpoon sailed harmlessly past him.

  The Irishman grimaced as he watched his attack miss.

  “I'm going to reckon that there is the famous Automaton,” the Texan said as he grabbed the Bomb Lance's right arm. Pulling out a roll of gauze from his coat pocket, he used it to bind a stick of dynamite to the harpoon, tying it in place with surprising grace. “Too bad we're going to have to blow him to hell. I've always wanted to see what that thing looked like up close.”

  “That must be a damn shame for you, cowboy, missing out like that.” The Bomb Lance pumped his arm again, and then held it up to fire.

  “Just try and get it somewhere near him,” Doc Dynamite instructed, drawing deeply on his cigar and making the ember glow bright red. “And it's a short fuse,” he said as he touched it to the paper, “so fire fast.”

  The harpoon wobbled as it flew, and the Automaton was clearly going to dodge it easily. When it exploded, the Texan let out a war whoop followed by a “Kaboom!”

  The concussion shredded Tom's clothes and threw him off the cable. As he fell, his arm snapped out to snag one of the vertical supporting wires that dangled down, waiting to be connected to the roadbed that had yet to be built. The leather glove covering his hand shredded and burned as his momentum was violently redirected. For a moment he almost seemed to be floating in the air; then he swung his other arm around and grabbed the wire with both hands. He swung slowly back and forth as he climbed back up.

  The Bomb Lance shook his head. “I don't believe it. Nothing kills that thing.”

  “That's because it ain't alive. Now stop flapping those Irish lips and get another spear ready.” He held up the dynamite. “We'll blow him up for sure this time.”

  The Automaton clamped one hand over the other until he reached the main cable. He hefted himself up onto the main cable as the second dynamite-tipped harpoon flew toward him.

  This time he ran down the cable, letting it explode behind him. The force of the blast ripped away the remains of his jacket and shirt, revealing the rows of clockwork cogs underneath. He rose up into the air slightly, and for a moment Tom seemed to be almost skating down the thick wire, the energy of the blast propelling him forward.

  As he reached the end of the cable and was about to step onto the anchorage, a harpoon slammed directly into his torso, halting his movement. An instant later a second spear found a weaker spot and tore straight through him, pulling out some of the gears and wires from his body as it exited through his back. As he began to slide off the wire, the Automaton threw h
imself into the air. His graceful landing was interrupted by a stick of dynamite that exploded underneath him, throwing him back into the air. He landed flat on his back, his brass frame smacking into the stone of the anchorage with a clang.

  Doc Dynamite and the Bomb Lance were standing only ten feet away. “I think we broke the bronco, Murphy.” The Texan said it with a note of triumph in his voice.

  “Why don't you toss one more of those bombs of yours at him to make sure, if you don't mind.”

  “It's called dynamite, and we're too close.” The cowboy pulled out another stick, lit it, and casually chucked it. “We'd best run.”

  They headed down the road toward the balloon, and the Automaton jerked up behind them. His porcelain faceplate had been shattered and blackened by the blast, and it was clear by the way he twitched as he tried to move that the explosions had done something unpleasant to his mechanisms. His arm reached out and grabbed the dynamite stick, then hurled it back toward the other two men. It exploded in midair as it sailed toward them. The force of the blast knocked both men to the ground, smacking the air out of their lungs, leaving them gasping and coughing.

  The Automaton stepped out of the smoke, standing only a few feet away from the Bomb Lance. “You will give me the…key.”

  The Irishman got up to his knees and pointed his right arm at Tom. The Automaton grabbed the spear and twisted, then yanked the harpoon completely out of the frame. There was a popping sound as the metal wires tore free from tension, then a plink as they snapped. He threw the harpoon and a chunk of the frame over the edge of the anchorage.

  “No more of that.” He stepped on the Irishman's chest and leaned forward, letting his considerable weight keep the air from coming back into his lungs. “I want the key.”

  The Irishman fumbled for his pockets, but couldn't get more than his fingertips into them. “I can't reach…”