The Rise of Ransom City

by Felix Gilman

  She knocked again, so loudly and fiercely that I thought maybe it was the detectives, my old friends the Pig and the Mosquito— poor old Plug-Ears having passed on to the next world, in which I hope he will be a better sort of person. You would not think such a small woman could make such a racket.

  I sealed my letter to Lung and put it in my pocket and considered departing through the window.

  She called out my name. I ran to unlock the door.

  “Adela,” I said, “you look— well—I don’t know, my manners have deserted me, it’s the big city I blame for it— I don’t know how to say it right.”

  Truth is she looked tired.

  “Anyhow listen, Adela, listen to this, I want to tell you about Ransom City.”

  “Harry—”

  “A change of plans. Forget Juniper. Forget fighting. No more fighting. A new place— out on the edge. We’ll go together, you and me. Like back in the good old days with me and Carver.”

  “Harry, listen.”

  “Just let me read this letter to you. It’s to Mr. Lung. Let me tell you about Lung, he’s got ideas about public sanitation—”

  “Who cares about Mr. Lung? Who’s Mr. Lung? Harry, you have to help me—”

  “I have a plan. I’ve got it all worked out. It’s good you came, so you can hear it— I’m going to see Mr. Baxter again. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to make a deal with him?”

  “I’m going to make him an offer. I’ve given them something to think about I reckon— the old man hasn’t been spoken about in the news papers like that in sixty years I bet and his masters cannot be pleased with him. Do you know what my father once said to me— he said, ‘Harry, you’re more trouble than you’re worth.’ I believe Mr. Baxter knows that now.”

  “His men came to visit me last night again, Harry.”

  “What they want is the Process. They must know they can’t have it by now, and the harder they try the more trouble I’ll make, until the whole city’s one big riot— now see what they really want is to be sure that the other side doesn’t get it. So my offer is that Baxter gives me my apology and we square our accounts and I leave town— leave the Territory— head out West to the Rim and beyond the Rim— an undisclosed location— me and a few brave souls who want to build a new place. Lung’s in, and Langhorne’s in, so we shall not want for rain or soap.”

  She walked over to the bed and sat down on it. Adela weighed next to nothing but the thing was old and sagged anyhow, with a noise like a badly tuned organ.

  “My father’s in debt,” she said.

  “Isn’t he a rich man— a baron or something, I can never remember how things work down there—”

  “Richer men have bigger debts, Harry. Not all of that debt but a whole lot of it is held by one of Mr. Baxter’s companies now, and his men let me know last night that he may just call it in. I don’t think they were lying. They showed me the papers.”

  I sat down beside her, making the bed lurch like a ship at sea.

  “I said I’d talk to Baxter— I said I’d come work for him, if that’s what they want. I said I’ll make what ever they want, and they can call it his. They said he doesn’t have time to talk to me. They want you— they want your bomb.”

  “It’s not a bomb.”

  “They’ll talk to you.”

  “I guess they will.”

  I thought for a while.

  “I don’t know that I care much for your father from what you said about him, but I can plead his case too when I go see Mr. Baxter.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You don’t know what that place is like. It’s full of their machines— it feels like the Engines themselves are watching you.”

  “I’m coming with you and that’s that, Harry.”

  The next day we went together to Fenimore Island and Baxter’s Tower. I wore my finest white suit. Adela wore a long black dress with dull sequins and frilled sleeves, that looked like she had taken it from the Ormolu’s ridiculous wardrobes. She was silent and grim.

  It was hot and it rained. It had been raining for a few days. The sky was the color of a Vessel’s smoke-trail, with flashes of silver light behind.

  That is what Jasper City is like at the end of summer. The upper reaches of Baxter’s Tower were clouded and gray. You could make out what I guessed were two or three Heavier-Than-Air Vessels roosting on the distant roof, and there were bars on the window and more guards than ever at the gate— the whole thing had a kind of militarized quality. Whitewater rivers formed between cracks in the streets and trash rode the rapids. There were few people about. When I stood up on the steps across the street from Baxter’s Tower I did not get the kind of crowd I would have hoped for, for what might be my last speech. Anyhow I said, “You know who I am— I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.” A little group of office-workers watched me. Their umbrellas made them look like glistening black mushrooms.

  Adela stood beside me, and urged me in a whisper to keep quiet and say nothing foolish.

  “If you don’t recognize me from the newspapers, my name is Harry Ransom, inventor of the Ransom Light-Bringing Process, et cetera et cetera. I’ve told you I will give my Process to Jasper City and that is not a lie.”

  Somebody shouted, “The bomb!” I did not like that but I kept talking. “Now you’ll have heard that Mr. Baxter and I have our disagreements. That is no lie either. There are questions about ownership and money and patents— you know how they say it’s better not to learn how sausage is made— well, it’s better not to know how the future is made, either. Suffice it to say that Mr. Baxter and I may be about to come to an agreement.”

  A few more umbrellas converged through the rain and joined my audience.

  The guards at Baxter’s gate wore caps and raincoats. They watched me with interest. I shouted so that they could hear me over the rain. “Mr. Baxter is a reasonable man— I don’t care what you’ve heard about him. He is not a tyrant. You may have heard some people allege that Mr. Baxter is just a front-man for the forces of the Line, a traitor to the city that has made him great all these years, that he wants the Process for his masters— well, maybe— who knows?— not me. I have no evidence to prove that. He is a free and independent business-man—his Autobiography says so and why would he lie? All we want is the best interest of the city and the future. That is why we are meeting today. If Mr. Baxter were in league with the enemies of this city, would he let me, the inventor of the Ransom— ah, Bomb— would he let me just come and go? Of course not. Anyhow I expect to return to you in one hour with news— you can wait for me— you can tell the newspapers if you like— one hour!”

  I jumped down from the stairs and walked up to the gate, smiling at the guards.

  “Well then,” I said. “It’s me. I know he’ll talk to me. And she’s coming too. Take us to him.”

  Scowling, one of the guards reached out for my arm and I stepped back— and in the same instant a shot rang out behind me and a ragged hole appeared in the bronze-like metal of the gate, right where my head had been. I turned to look at the street behind but I could not tell who had fired— every single man and woman in the crowd looked just about equally sinister at that moment. The gate-guards ran to surround me and Adela while I was still reeling and numb and they took us inside in much the same way ants might carry a leaf.

  The elevator took a very long time to reach the upper floors. The machinery ticked like a clock, creaked like an old house in a storm. I have taken riverboat-rides that did not seem to last so long. There were two private detectives in there with us, one at Adela’s side and one at mine, so we were not free to speak. She looked afraid and unsure. I tried to buck up her spirits, through signals of my eyebrows and fingers and significant glances. The detectives were well trained and discreet and they said nothing. Adela stared ahead. After a while she took my hand and squeezed it, maybe for comfort and maybe just to shut me up. I recall that her hand felt cold.

  The detec
tives searched us twice, at the beginning and the end of the elevator-ride. I blustered and cracked jokes to show I was not intimidated.

  Mr. Baxter’s room was the same as it was before, except for the addition of a second telegraph device and a few more assistants. The curtains were drawn. Cold electric-light came from white tubes that hung from brackets from the ceiling— that was different too. The lawyer Mr. Shelby was present, looking disheveled, his hair all gray and wild, like a man who has been woken in the middle of the night or a Vampire who has been woken in the middle of the day. The representative of the Line Mr. Watt was not present. The detective Mr. Gates appeared behind us without warning, closing the door. He was a consummate professional.

  Baxter did not rise from his chair. He looked even smaller than last time, and I was not sure that under his blanket he had any legs at all. He cleared his throat for a while before he could speak.

  “Ransom,” he said. “And who’s this?”

  “Listen Baxter,” I said, “I’m here to—”

  “You’re here to come work for us. I know it even if you don’t. Are you tired of being played with yet, Professor Ransom?”

  “Damn right I am. The first thing I want is an apology. The second thing I want is—”

  “I don’t mean by me, Professor— I am not a sporting man and I don’t play games. I mean them.”

  I was kind of bewildered by this line of conversation, and looked to

  Adela to see what she made of it, but she just stood with her hands folded into her sleeves and her head down like a Silver City Nun at evening prayer.

  “Not the whore up on the hill— not that buffoon Jim Dark, either— and by the by Professor Ransom I heard you got shot at down below. It was Mr. Dark, of course. I don’t have a lot of fellow-feeling with Mr.

  Dark but I understand the temptation— though in this case I imagine he wanted to stop you talking to me. My detectives can do only so much to police and protect you. That’s why you won’t be leaving here again,

  Mr. Ransom. You won’t be making any more of your damn speeches—”

  “Now wait— now just wait— the whole city will soon know I’m here, Mr. Baxter—”

  Adela said something but I did not stop to listen— I said, “You can’t—”

  “No, I’m not talking about the Adversary at all. I’m talking about the others. The Folk, as the vulgar call ’em. Dragged kicking and screaming, they should be. I’m going to be straight with you now Professor

  Ransom because there’s not much time left. Trouble-makers at Juniper

  City. Gone too far. Listen. Last chance before the Engines take matters into their own, what’s the word— last chance to deal with the human face, Professor Ransom. Don’t look at me like that, Gates— I know my own business. Ransom, I know what the Process is. I know even if you don’t. I know where you found it. You think it was an accident, Ransom— you think they don’t have plans? You think they weren’t watching— you want that? You like being used? Them or the Adversary or the

  Engines. , Ransom, this is your last chance and your best offer. You’ve played a good game and you’ve made things hard for us here in Jasper— you’ve shown me I have to make a deal. Well, this is the deal. I’ll tell you the truth. This is as good a deal as you’ll get. You’re at the top now— well done. I’ll tell you things even the Adversary doesn’t know. I’ll tell you how to take your destiny in your own two hands like a man and—” There was a sound of metal scraping. Mr. Baxter and Mr. Gates both turned to look at the telegraph devices— I guess they thought it was a message coming in. I knew better. The sound was familiar, happily so, and for a fraction of an instant it made me feel like I was back home backstage at the Ormolu, and I smiled.

  It was the sound of a certain spring-powered device that Adela and I had developed for the use of the Amazing Amaryllis and Wise Master

  Lobsang and Mr. Bosko and the other players of the Ormolu Theater. It could be hidden under a long sleeve— like the ones Adela was wearing— and when triggered it could project a variety of items rapidly into the hand, including watches, cards, rings, flowers, and in this case a tiny silvery pistol, hardly bigger than a finger. The pistol must have been her work alone— it was not mine.

  Onstage the device had seemed almost silent. In Baxter’s big tiled room it echoed like an Engine accelerating, or maybe that was just my imagination.

  Anyhow Adela had the gun in her hand in an instant and she fired.

  She got Baxter in his chest, cutting short his speech— his head fell back and his shirt turned red.

  Then one of the telegraph machines did begin speaking— I do not know what it was saying but it was very fast and high and ugly. Adela said that she was sorry, so very sorry, then she lifted the silvery little weapon to her own chin. She pulled the trigger and the silvery little cylinder rotated and there was a crack and a puff of smoke and a red hole opened in her left cheek. Her eyes rolled back and she moaned but did not drop the gun. The cylinder rotated again.

  I jumped for her and grabbed her arm. So did Mr. Gates. I guess we had different reasons for trying to keep her alive, and I do not think he had her best interests at heart. We got her arm down and then I did not like the look on Mr. Gates’s face, so I took a swing at it. Gates grunted, spat, and hit me back. I fell over.

  “He’s dead,” Mr. Shelby said. “He’s dead. I don’t believe it. He’s— he’s dead.”

  The security men were holding Adela now, and they held her with blank expressions on their faces as she struggled, making noises that were not at all like words, and as Mr. Shelby began to berate them mercilessly for their incompetence. Gates strode over to the telegraph machine and tore off the paper, cursing at Mr. Baxter’s assistants, who all stood around looking like puppets. My nose bled.

  “Somebody get Watt,” Gates said.

  “Don’t,” Shelby said.

  “Do it— they got to know. They got to know now.”

  “How did this happen? What do we do now? What will they do?” I could not think very clearly or very well down there on the floor. I got up and made a play for Mr. Gates’s gun— that was not my worst idea ever but it was a long way from my best and pretty soon I was back on the floor again.

  “You stay there, Ransom. You think it’s over now? This was your plan, Professor? The old man was telling the truth— he was the last chance at the human face. What’ll happen now— shit, I don’t even know what’ll happen now.”

  I guess the rest is history.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE BATTLE OF JASPER CITY

  Even while Mr. Gates’s security men dragged me out by my arms, the late Mr. Baxter’s office was already filling up with anxious assistants— with ambitious young schemers— with elderly executives crestfallen and hunched under the burden of the secret they now had to bear— with Officers of the Line, blank and professional. The telegraphs had both started to speak, like the Engines already knew what happened. I kicked as they dragged me down the hallway, the security men I mean, not the Engines, while meanwhile secretaries’ made-up faces peered out of half-open doors, watching me go. They just about hurled me into the elevator, the security men, and then that whole rattling brass contraption dropped like a man being hanged. My breakfast got away from me.

  I won’t record for posterity the sub-basement cell in which they held me, except to say that in Ransom City there will be no jail-cells, not ever. I was there four days before Mr. Gates came to visit me.

  “Where’s Adela?”

  “Not a social call, Professor.”

  “Where is she?”

  “You don’t know how much trouble you’ve caused, Ransom. You and that bloody woman. What were you thinking?”

  I protested—“I didn’t know!” As the words came out of my mouth they struck me as un-gallant and so I said—“But I don’t regret what she did.”

  “No? You will, Professor, you will.”

  “This is kidnap, Mr. Gates. Let me go. Let her go.”


  “Don’t be childish, Ransom. Now sign this.”

  What he put in front of me was a letter to the Jasper City Evening Post, announcing that I had taken employment with Mr. Baxter. Not a word about the man’s death.

  “Sign it.”

  “I will not.”

  “Sign it and get ready to speak to your admirers— there’s a crowd of ’em outside the tower— sign it or we’ll have to take other measures to get rid of ’em.”

  “Let me see Adela.”

  “Sign it and we’ll see.”

  For five days after the death of Mr. Baxter, a crowd waited at the foot of the Tower. The last of my true believers— an odd bunch of people, by all accounts. They endured the late summer rain and occasional lightning with the calm patience of obsessives. Some of them were die-hard Jasper City patriots who were still sure I would deliver the Bomb that would ensure Jasper’s freedom and preeminence once and for all. Some of them were paranoids with various kinds of delusions. Some of them were my friends my fellow inventors. I know that Mr. Lung was there— the soap-inventor, with whom I’d corresponded— and Mr. Bekman, another correspondent, the inventor of financial instruments— and Mr. Angel Langhorne, the rain-maker. Lung is short and round and round-faced while Bekman is tall and thin and stooped. Mr. Langhorne is of average height and build and in every other respect he is of average appearance, except that he shakes and he stutters and his red-black hair stands up on end like he is being electrified. The Amazing Amaryllis was there too, it touches me to say, in full stage finery and eager to talk to reporters. Together they must have made an odd picture!

  Mr. Gates summoned his detectives from far and wide to scare them off but the crowd only grew. Mr. Carson wrote about them— he made a lot of comic business out of Mr. Lung’s roundness of body and baldness of head and poor Mr. Angel Langhorne, who as Mr. Carson observed “can no more easily look you in the eye than I”—that is, Mr. Carson— “can stare at the sun.”