The Falling Machine

by Andrew P. Mayer

  When Darby had found out that his home had been vandalized he was furious, especially considering that Alexander Stanton had gained a growing reputation for not giving credit where it was due.

  Ultimately Darby had been “convinced” to join forces with her father only after being given a considerable sum of money to help with his research, along with a promise that any future profits they made in their fight against crime would be given to a foundation dedicated to sharing those inventions with all mankind. In the years since, not a single dollar had been given to charity. According to her father's accountants the operating costs of the Paragons were far greater than any money made by their inventions.

  That funeral had also been the last time she had seen Tom. On the outside he appeared to be back to normal, as if the damage he had taken from the battle at the bridge had been completely repaired. His mask had been replaced with a freshly painted one, and he had been given a new suit and gloves. But when he moved it was obvious that it was all a façade. He had a profound limp, as if something deep inside of him was broken, and his right arm swung free. His part in the incident had been removed entirely from the official story, and he was not allowed to speak at the funeral, although a great cheer went up when he was introduced to the crowd by her father as “Darby's greatest creation.”

  Ahead of her the massive doors leading to the conference chamber were wide open. She slowed her pace and crept along the wall on the same side of the corridor as the entrance.

  She could make out her father's words clearly now: “…will read to you Sir Dennis Darby's final wishes,” he said. “But before I do, I must emphasize that no matter what words this document contains, the Paragons will move forward in a manner that we decide is best.

  “As our leader, Sir Dennis acted as our visionary, his incorruptible heart providing us with determination and direction. But if we are to follow his dream and move humanity forward toward a greater tomorrow, we cannot blindly follow his wishes from beyond the grave. No matter how great a thinker the man may have been during his life, the world is constantly changing. While his demise is a tragedy, it is the cycle of life and death that powers the engine of progress.”

  “Pish,” Sarah said, realizing that she had said the phrase out loud only when the sound of it reached her ears. Sarah pressed a hand to her lips and leaned her back against the wall outside the door. She slowly let herself slide to the floor as she listened to her father's words, the same way that she had done so many times as a little girl.

  “Now,” her father continued, “these are the final words of our fallen leader, Sir Dennis Darby.”

  “‘Dear friends,’” he began, “‘if you are hearing these words then I have passed on from this world and into the next.’” Stanton paused for a moment to cough slightly. “‘Do not mourn me too greatly. Those of you who knew me well will be comforted by the fact that even as I write this document I have already lived a life so full of discovery and accomplishment that it would satisfy any ten men. And so I can ask for no more, although I am hopeful that I still have a great deal more of life left to live. I do not wish to die. Nor, do I imagine, would anyone who cares as deeply about the future as I do.

  “‘I still spend each and every day in a state of constant amazement at the new things that we are discovering, and go to sleep each night with greatest anticipation of what we will learn tomorrow.

  “‘But our days on this world are numbered from the moment we are born, and the most that any of us can hope for is that when they have ended, we will have left this world nobly, and with our good name intact.

  “‘I have spent my time on this planet in pursuit of a dream of a better life for all mankind, helping humanity find dominion over that which would bring men misery or harm. I have used the power and possibilities of science to fight back against the petty desires that cause conflict and death. I have done all this so that we may strive to use our intelligence to become so much more than the simple, dangerous creatures we are now.

  “‘Some claim that we have already reached the zenith of human ingenuity, but I believe that we have only just begun to see the marvels that—’”

  Her Father's voice was cut short by two words: “Yah, yah.” The new speaker had a clearly recognizable German accent. “It is obvious zat Darby had everybody's best vishes in mind. Aber, I have had been lectured by der ghost of zis man too much already over zis last week.” Sarah shuffled herself closer to the door. The entrance was cut through a wall of granite four feet thick, and she was able to peer directly into the room through the crack between the open door and its frame. She saw the portly form of Helmut Grüsser, the Submersible. He was wearing his dress costume to the table, an outfit intended to evoke the Paragon's grandeur without the ungainly complexity that came with the armor and devices that they lugged into action with them.

  In the Submersible's case it was a cloth jacket. The baggy fabric was gathered at his elbows and knees, and was supposed to suggest the diving suit he wore when commanding his amphibious vehicle. On each of his shoulders was an oversized brass epaulet with tassels made from golden thread. Nathan had once described them as “Grüsser's broken broom heads from his days as a janitor in the navy.” It wasn't the kind of joke you would ever make to the man's face.

  The Prussian had once been a high-ranking naval officer, clearly on track to become an admiral. But rumors swirled about an incident with a young officer's wife that had ended his military career in scandal and disgrace. And if the stories had followed him all the way to New York it was hard to imagine that there wasn't at least some truth to them. But he was also a well-respected member of the Paragons, and seemed to have avoided repeating whatever mistakes it was that he had made on the other side of the Atlantic. “Perhaps ve can hear vat Darby's vishes are mitout having to zit through ze whole thing.” The heavy accent was spit out with a staccato bluster from underneath his waxed mustache. “Und zose who still vish to can read every magical verd of vat he had to say for zemselves.” It would have been comical if not for his casual disrespect of Darby's final words.

  When the Submersible had first joined the Paragons her father had taken a shine to the rotund Prussian, and for a short while they had been best of friends. Her father had often brought Grüsser over to the house, and after dinner they would spend hours discussing military strategies, historical and imaginary.

  But Sarah, still a girl at the time, had disliked Grüsser from the first moment she met him. Something about the man reminded her of a troll, and there was no proof that he wouldn't actually eat a child given the chance.

  And then, just about the time the rumors began to circulate among the staff, his visits to the mansion ceased completely. Nothing was said, but Grüsser was no longer mentioned by her father, except that a few times her father warned her that “the German” wasn't the kind of man that it was safe for her to be around alone.

  During those few occasions where she had been forced to interact with him socially, she had found Grüsser's leering smiles and forced compliments most unpleasant. His eyes would rove up, down, and across her figure as they spoke, and it sent shivers down her spine. There was clearly something not right about the man. “Vat I am more conzerned viz is Darby's requests fur der future of der Paragons,” he said.

  “Excuse me,” said another voice, breaking into the conversation. She couldn't see him, but the Sleuth's English accent was easily recognizable, even if she had never heard his polished tones being used in such a commanding and penetrating manner as they were right now. “But these are the final words to us from the man who was responsible for the founding of this organization.” There was also an undercurrent of reprimand and condescension, and in her head Sarah applauded him for it. “I think that the Industrialist deserves our full attention, as does the memory of Sir Dennis. I doubt that simply reading off his wishes like a grocery list would give us the full benefit of his wisdom, even if we do decide to go against his final requests.”

  To Sarah,
Peter Wickham seemed to be the opposite of the rotund German in every way. He was trim instead of fat, honestly standoffish instead of falsely close, prim and proper instead of ostentatious and gross. He had also always been kind to her, even if he didn't seem to pay her much attention. As a game she would sometimes stare directly at him, seeing how long it would take him to realize that someone was watching him with the same degree of intensity he usually gave everyone else. Sarah had never managed to count to ten before his gaze caught hers.

  From her hidden vantage point she could see Helmut Grüsser nodding primly at the Englishman. “Of course, my dear Vickham. I have nozink but der greatest respect for our departed leader.…”

  The Industrialist cut him off. “Then you'll allow me to continue.” There was a moment of strained silence, and then the Submersible relented. “Ja, of course.” He gave a prim salute. “I apologize.”

  Stanton cleared his throat and then continued to read. “‘I believe that we have only begun to see the possibilities of a future that will forever improve the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet.

  There are new inventions that will, one day soon, allow even the most wretched man to live like a king, and for no child to go to bed hungry at night.’”

  Her father stopped reading for a moment, his long pause clearly meant to offer an opportunity for anyone to dare to speak up.

  When there were no more outbursts or interruptions he continued. “‘In my mind this is the true purpose of the Society of Paragons. We are the protectors and stewards of that future; parents of a tomorrow that we will never see. It is a world that will be beyond our ability to imagine it, even if it is built from our dreams.’”

  Sarah smiled to herself as she listened, and then suddenly shook her head. She had already risked too much by sitting there listening to Darby's last words.

  She shimmied herself away from the door. Now all she needed was some way to get past the doors without being noticed. There was no other way to get to where she wanted to go, and she knew from firsthand experience that all the men in that room were experts at ignoring women when they were discussing Paragon business.

  Dragging herself across the corridor, she did her best to try to squeeze herself into the shadows that hugged the bottom of the wall.

  As she moved past the door she could see her father standing directly in front of her behind the massive granite table, his eyes fixed on the document he was reading. If he even so much as glanced up he would discover his daughter squirming across the floor like a salamander. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and every breath she took sounded like thunder.

  Next to Alexander, Nathaniel was absentmindedly staring at his nails, clearly deciding which one would be the best for chewing. His eyes flicked up, and Sarah froze. He was staring straight at her, and for a moment she thought that it was all over. There was no way he could have not seen her. A numb feeling clutched at her heart, and her skin went cold.

  She would be in such terrible trouble. When would she ever learn?

  And then his eyes turned back to her father and settled back to his nails.

  Sarah quickly pulled herself out of the view of the open door with no obvious shouts of alarm or other signs of detection.

  What if Nathaniel had seen her and decided to let her escape? But he never would do any such a thing. His loyalty to the Paragons was far greater than any amorous feelings he might have for her.

  Safely out of sight, she took a few moments to gather her composure and then stood up. But she had just managed to tempt fate and win, and she wasn't going to try it again. Soon the sound of her father's voice once again returned to a confused muddle in the distance.

  Sarah had managed to sneak past the world-famous Paragons, and she couldn't help feeling very pleased about it.

  She turned right, stepping from the main corridor into a smaller side hall. The polished granite walls were gone, replaced with a combination of rough plaster walls and white stone. The ceilings here were lower as well, and the gas lamps were stationed fewer and farther between. The light was murky here, like an endless twilight in a smoke-filled sky.

  Taking another step, she came to the top of a twisting stairwell that descended into darkness. Without stopping she grabbed the railing and headed down.

  By the time she reached the bottom it was pitch black, and while the end of the railing told her that she had reached flat ground, Sarah still tapped her foot out on the floor in front of her to make absolutely sure that no more stairs were hiding in wait.

  Finding none, she put her hand flat against the wall and stepped blindly forward. After a few feet her trailing hand crossed the bump of an igniter switch. For a moment she considered the idea of pressing it and banishing the darkness. It was a comforting thought—she had no idea what hidden dangers lurked in the darkness, real or imagined. But it had been ages since she had been down here alone, and Sarah couldn't remember which lamps were controlled by what switch. While she was sure it would light up the hallway ahead of her, it was equally likely it might illuminate the stairwell behind her as well. She didn't need a curious staff member investigating the lower levels—especially now, when she was so close.

  Groping through the blackness, she reached the end of the hall and turned to the right. Sarah gasped as her left foot found empty air, then landed heavily on a step. She had forgotten about this second descent, and her slipper lived up to its name as it shot out from underneath her, sending her pitching backward.

  Her left hand found the railing by instinct, painfully yanking on her shoulder as she simultaneously fell and tried to pull herself up. Meanwhile her right foot had managed to find some purchase on the next step, saving her from a fall. She felt a sharp heat rise up from the bones of her ankle as it smacked into the stone.

  Managing to regain her balance, Sarah whispered a prayer to herself as she stood upright. Lifting up her right foot she swiveled it around. The pain quickly subsided, and it seemed as if none of the damage was permanent.

  Ten feet beyond the bottom of the steps her hand found the cold, flat iron of what she knew was the door she had been looking for.

  She reached into her bag and pulled out another key. This one was much smaller than the one that she had used to unlock the entrance, but no less mysterious and ornate. Although she couldn't see them, her fingers felt the ridges of strange metals that had been inlaid into the teeth at one end, and the wire that had been tightly wrapped around the flat head of the key at the other.

  Starting near the top, Sarah slowly swiped her hand back and forth across the door's smooth surface until she found the keyhole. She slipped the key into place, and the door began to vibrate with an audible hum, the metal in her hand becoming instantly warmer.

  She twisted the key around in a full circle, and from somewhere inside the frame a mechanism shifted, letting out a heavy clunk. There was a slow scraping sound from inside as bolts released themselves from the frame.

  When the process was complete, the door swung open in an easy arc. It wasn't until she exhaled loudly into the darkness that Sarah realized she had been holding her breath the entire time.

  Putting the key back into her bag, she stepped through and groped along the wall with her hand until she found the familiar round shape of one of Darby's gas igniter switches.

  When she twisted it, what came to life was not the flickering yellow light she expected, but a white, almost glaring illumination. Unlike the gas lamps, which mostly spread their light upward, the incandescent globes illuminated cleanly in all directions, revealing a low-ceilinged chamber carved into granite rock, over a room filled with a series of small worktables.

  She let out a small laugh as her eyes adjusted. The glowing spheres were cut into the walls, with a filament glowing so brightly inside of each one that they left marks in her vision when she looked away.

  While Thomas Edison, over in Princeton, had been loudly proclaiming for years that he was on the verge of discovering a practical electr
ic bulb, Sir Dennis had completed the same invention under the streets of Manhattan, and bothered to tell no one.

  The laboratory was thirty feet wide, and stretched out in front of her for twice that distance until it reached a massive door at the far end. It looked like something out of medieval history—a gateway fit for a fortress.

  It was made from massive wooden planks strapped together with bands of iron, and in front of it a series of thick brass bars rose up from the floor and disappeared into the ceiling. There was even an open slot in the floor a few feet in front of it, as if someone had attempted to construct a miniature moat.

  Although Sarah had been in this part of the laboratory a number of times before, she had never gone beyond that door, or even seen it open.

  Her eyes went wide when she realized that on the left wall, laid out flat on a steel slab, was the Automaton. A set of six of the electric lights had been placed all around him, and he seemed like a mechanical angel bathed in their brilliant glow.

  The mechanical man had been completely stripped. The plates that usually covered his body were removed and neatly stacked on a nearby table, leaving his insides clearly visible. Rows of meshed cogs slowly rotated, glinting as the lights reflected against the serrated edges of the turning gears.

  As she walked up to him, Sarah could see that Tom's arms and legs had been shackled to the surface of a steel slab. Close up it was clear that no one had bothered to make any real attempt to repair him beyond his new face. His right arm was still damaged, with the rods scorched and bent from the dynamite.

  Almost without thinking Sarah pulled out her handkerchief and gently began to try to polish the soot off of his damaged arm, but it was tattooed into the metal.

  In the quiet of the laboratory she could hear the rhythmic ticking that came from his heart, a brass sphere in the center of his chest. It was suspended inside a metal cage in the middle of his body. Gear-tipped rods sprang out from it in every direction, their teeth resting against a series of larger cogs in his chest. Those, in turn, moved the other cylinders, gears, and rods spreading out across his body.