by Karen Garvin
Geiger did as instructed while she tied off the bandages. She gave the man a quick injection, then stood and ran down the hall without another word.
“God, what is wrong with—wait, Amelia!!” Geiger hollered, suddenly remembering her name. That was it, Amelia! They had done business together—he’d designed the saber she wore at her hip as well as the injection pistol she had just used on the poor magnate sitting against the wall. It used glass vial “bullets” that made it easier and quicker to inject the fluid without having to measure out whatever it was you were using beforehand. They were quite handy in the field when there was no time for such precise calculation. “Amelia!”
He ran after her, stumbling along half the time, but she’d given him the slip somewhere inside a large, dark boiler room packed with crisscrossing pieces of pipes and panels, giant gears and cranks. There was no light except for the dim red strobe flashing all throughout the ship, along with the incessant noise that echoed everywhere. It seemed to echo more in the boiler room, causing the pain in Geiger’s head to double. Puddles of standing water reflected the strobing light, blinding him. Booms from the outer hull echoed throughout the entire ship. Just when Geiger thought he had found a decent sense of balance, the ship tilted or turned in the opposite direction. His ears popped at least twice as he made his way through the maze, bumping into hot pipes or panels with too many buttons.
“Amelia!” he hissed into the dim darkness. As much as he tried to not touch the scalding pipes around him, he hissed more over that than he did for the woman he sought. He examined some of the panels as he moved by but was careful not to touch those, either. All of them were labeled in Russian, which he did not speak, let alone read; at least, not right then. He felt the burn at his arm where his tattoo was when he looked at the strange letters. He should know it because Tristan knew it, but with the iron cuff on his wrist, the letters were just squiggles and lines to him.
While he studied a panel, movement to his right caught his attention. He tried to peer into the darkness to see but even with the eye patch, the odd lighting made it impossible to determine what it was or where it had gone.
“Tristan?” he whispered into the dark. The response he received turned his marrow to ice. Glowing red and orange illuminated the room behind a ball of crackling blue electricity. Geiger only just had enough thought process to dive to the floor before the ball of energy tore through the enclosed space. Lightning grabbed hold of each copper pipe in a five foot square, crawling along their lengths until exploding in a spray of blue and white sparkles that rained down onto the floor beside Geiger, followed by a wave of boiling steam. The entire room was plunged into pitch black darkness, the red lights no longer offering their dizzying illumination. Geiger was not generally quick to frighten, but that had set every hair on edge. He could not possibly hope to combat that in any way; not when he neither heard it nor saw it until it was nearly too late.
“Get up, get up, get up!” he whispered harshly to himself, shoving up to his feet and darting away. He kept his head low and his hands out, the chain still attached to the iron cuff jingling slightly or clanking when it hit a low pipe.
“Hear the loud alarum bells...” came Tristan’s voice from the dark. “Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!”
Tristan recited a poem by Edgar Allen Poe, his voice echoing eerily through all the piping and metal walls. The tone of Tristan’s voice sent an icy chill racing through Geiger’s spine, for it dripped with insanity and malice.
“I hear you, baby brother...” Tristan cooed.
Geiger swallowed hard, hiding in a corner that seared his flesh. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness but he could not make out shape or shadow no matter how hard he tried. Tristan was a whole twelve minutes older, always mocking Geiger in jest for being the ‘baby’. Somewhere inside the depraved monster that walked about with Tristan’s face was Geiger’s brother: a kind soul, with boundless energy and imagination, a slightly unhealthy love of bourbon, and an ear for good music. Geiger just had to figure out a way to get to that person while dodging the creature chasing after him.
Another sound echoed to Geiger’s ears, footsteps splashing through the puddles of standing water. He shifted his gaze in that direction but still saw nothing—until Tristan lit up like a firecracker with phosphorescent liquid that splashed all over his shoulder and the side of his face. Tristan growled, turning toward the source of the dim light on his shoulder.
“Geiger, get out of here!”
Amelia. Tristan snarled at her, launching another ball of energy right in the direction of her voice.
“Get thee to a nunnery, wench!” Tristan hollered, giving chase. He was completely mad!
Geiger caught sight of the glowing bits of his twin as another set of pipes and panels exploded, three more times, each time an attempt to hit Amelia as she ran from the madman that had become of his twin. Amelia squealed when an arch of electricity just barely missed her, singing the cap right off her head as she darted away into the darkness directly opposite of where Geiger hid, but two levels down. He had to help her.
He shuffled out of his cramped hiding spot and eased toward the center bulkhead where giant steam pipes that fed the balloons stood as tall as skyscrapers to his dizzying vision. The steam still rose, now filling the open sky with white tufts rather than the torn balloon. They’d been hit. It hurt his eyes to look at the brightness of the blue sky, but he caught a momentary glimpse of swooping dots and lines flying through the air. They needed to get off the Darrow before it was too late.
“Tristan, stop!” Geiger hollered as he continued onward. His voice echoed back at him just as the airship pitched again, this time hard enough to send Geiger flying down a set of metal stairs.
The pounding in Geiger’s head increased tenfold when it impacted against the stair railing. His vision tunneled for too long, leaving him sprawled on the rail. When he pulled himself to his feet, his stomach revolted against him. Despite not having eaten anything in what must have been several days based on the stubble on his face, he retched almost violently over the edge of the staircase, watching it fall down an expanse of height that made him dizzier than ever. His knees felt wobbly and unsteady, causing him to stumble and fall down the next flight of stairs, clutching the steel pipes at his side like a vice. His life truly depended on the iron grip he held or he would tumble over the edge and plummet to his death. Several fumbling steps later, Geiger finally made it to the level where he last saw Amelia and Tristan. The small bit of light from above helped and there were phosphorescent trails all over the piping now that made it easier to follow.
“Tristan!” Geiger called again, though there was considerably less volume to his voice than there had been previously.
“Gray matter turned black Too late to turn back The weapon is pulled All emotion gone cold No remorse or fear Regretful feelings stop here You know the killer within,” Tristan said, reciting yet another disturbing poem made famous by someone Geiger could not recall, his voice echoing nearby. Geiger moved deeper into the maze of piping, cautiously stepping over low-lying gears or puddles of water. His eyes scanned the deeper darkness for any sign of his twin or Amelia but came up with nothing but lines and angles from the maze of pipes. The explosions from above grew louder and the distinct scent of smoke wafted to his nose. He heard the lapping water of the ocean and noticed the angle at which everything stood, swallowing back a new lump of fear—they were going down into the Atlantic.
“Amelia?” Geiger hissed again, taking each step slowly even though every fiber in his being wanted to bolt as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him.
“Loves this life of sin...” Tristan purred, suddenly popping up behind Geiger.
“God, Tristan!” Geiger said, startled. Tristan had his arm outstretched towards Geiger’s face, the jewels on the gauntlet attached to his flesh lighting up again. Why was it working without an invocation?
“Who cares on the edge No way d
own from the ledge...” Tristan continued.
“Tristan, listen to me. I can help you,” Geiger pleaded, stepping back slowly from his twin with hands raised. Tristan ignored him.
A violent stream of steam hissed out from a dripping pipe right above their heads, separating the two so that Geiger had enough of a reprieve to dart away into a far corner. It did little good in the long run, blocking him in with no escape.
Shit, he thought as he heard Tristan again.
“Steady hands hold a gun Blackness here now I’m done!” Tristan shouted, easily giving chase. He ducked beneath the labyrinth around them, moving whenever Geiger tried to move or dart away again so that Geiger’s path was always blocked.
“Where’s Amelia, Tristan?” Geiger asked, trying to divert his attention to something else. That didn’t work, either. The rubies lit up again, casting an eerie reddish orange shadow, like a fire in the summer night, across Tristan’s face.
“Too many wires crossed,” Tristan said. His face, Geiger noted with growing alarm, glistened with a steady stream of tears. He was aware of what he should not be doing; knew it was entirely unlike him.
“Tristan, you have got to fight this, please!”
“Brain cells under attack,” Tristan continued in a croaking whisper that was both tormented and joyful. Energy crackled in his open palm, Geiger’s eyes going wide as the energy grew. He had nowhere to go this time, no way to dodge something this close. “Gray matter turns black.”
“TRISTAN!!”
Geiger’s heart stopped, ears deafened and eyes wide. It took a moment to register the sound that echoed through the ringing in his ears, to take in a breath and see the mixed shock and relief on his twin’s face. Tristan’s mouth opened to speak, but no words emerged this time, only a whimpering croak as he fell forward at Geiger’s feet.
“No,” Geiger said, seeing Amelia where Tristan had just been standing, smoking gun still in hand. “No, no, Tristan? What did you do?”
Tristan trembled on hands and knees, forehead to the grated floor. Geiger could not tell where he had been shot in such wretched lighting, but the blood was flowing quite freely.
“Why did you do that?” Geiger demanded, leaning over his brother protectively. The woman still held the gun, tears welling in her eyes.
“Because,” Tristan grunted slowly. “I told her to.”
Searing agony ripped through Geiger’s side, shooting him back against a panel with multiple levers. He felt them slam into his spine at different points before falling face first onto the grate. Air refused to fill Geiger’s lungs, limbs going numb and useless in an instant. His vision darkened to a narrow beam of shadowy light until the last thing he heard was Amelia’s terrified scream.
* * *
There was nothing at all remarkable about the surgically white ceiling above Geiger’s head, yet he found it impossible to remove his eyes from it. Icy cold intravenous fluids pumped through his veins, keeping him immobile with barely perceptible shivers. His mind, however, raced in a million different directions. What had happened? Where was he, exactly? A hospital, for sure, but no one would answer any of his questions, just smile sweetly and dab at his sweaty brow. Despite the chill he felt, he burned with a fever that might sear off his skin were it not for the fluids rushing through the length and breadth of him. A steady blip marked the beats of his heart, reminding him when he became too agitated. A large, flat-screen mounted in the corner projected the daily world news, this time on break for an advert that blared out of a small set of bell speakers to either side of the screen, ringing over the blips with the grating voice of a petite woman describing the wonders of a brand new copper pot and all that it could accomplish in his life. It was a copper pot—they were good for boiling water and little else in that particular shape. Maybe if it was an autonomous pot that cooked for you...
A gentle knock on the door pulled Geiger’s eyes in that direction. The man that walked in through the door made Geiger turn his head entirely and frown with curiosity. Cassiel Raanan looked different in person than Geiger expected. He had never met the man, only idolized him from afar. Cassiel wore his military uniform, neat and pressed, with his hair in wild disarray as if he’d just been flying. Perhaps he had been given the beautiful wings at his back. Geiger always wondered if they were fully functional. They appeared a bit small for full functionality but he had seen it work before on other things; hell, he’d made it work for himself if on a much smaller scale. The thought of his little mechanical friends pulled his mind toward his workshop and the enlisted men and women he had under his command. None had been in the warehouse the awful day Tristan had come through but what had become of them? Beaumont? George? His other little friends?
For five whole days, all Geiger had was the surgically white ceiling and the daily news cast with its obnoxious adverts. The first day had been excruciatingly awful, filled with a great deal of pain and hazy confusion. The fever had nearly taken him into the wild pits of madness. Nurses in white dresses had covered him in ice or injected his IV with drugs that made him hallucinate and holler out. The sedatives had come quick that day and the next when his madness had melted to fury. Afterwards, doctors and nurses came to poke and prod, ask about his well-being, but it only served to enrage Geiger further. When he had been able, Geiger had asked for the only thing that mattered: Tristan. Three days after his wild fever fits, he still had no answers to that line of questioning, no matter how he tried to ask it. Now he had the legendary Captain Cassiel standing in his room.
“Glad to see you alert once more, Sergeant,” Cassiel said. He took a seat beside the hospital bed on a metal stool that had been tucked beneath the rolling table, which held a myriad of medications Geiger was forced to take, or the tools he did not quite understand that were used when a sheet was pulled up over his head so he could not see. “You had us all concerned for a while.”
Geiger had woken with needles and tubes in place to help him breathe or to keep his heart pumping or any number of things after a surprising three weeks abed in intensive care. The hospital was unfamiliar to him, though generals and soldiers walked by regularly so he surmised that it was under military control. It would almost have to be, of course, as most hospitals were under military control now. Geiger’s heart, according to the bespectacled surgeon in charge of his overall care and recovery, had stopped twice in the time he was under, and once more while he hallucinated with mad fever dreams.
“Where’s my brother?” Geiger croaked. He was not yet allowed solid foods and only given ice chips sparingly. He was parched, frustrated, and at the end of his patience with everyone.
Cassiel sighed. “I’m here to tell you, Sergeant, that you are being promoted to Army Captain and honorably discharged for your service and assistance in taking down the Darrow. There are talks of a ceasefi re being called to end the war as a result.”
Geiger blinked. Promoted? Ceasefi re? That was a bit unexpected and the honor bestowed, while appreciated for its new liberties, was ill deserved. He hadn’t done anything to deserve it and still had no answer to his question.
“Captain,” Geiger said as firmly as he could manage. “Where is Tristan?”
Despite holding the same title now, Cassiel still outranked Geiger and respect needed to be shown if he hoped to get anywhere. He could see on the good winged captain’s face that an answer needed to be given, though it would not be what Geiger wanted to hear.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Cassiel said, rising to his feet once more. “We lost him.”
Cassiel looked sadly at Geiger for a moment, offering sympathy and more apology in his clear blue eyes, before leaving the room just as quickly as he had entered. Geiger stared at the door, angry tears stinging the back of his eyes, jaw tightening
while the blips on the machine increased dramatically. Lost? That was it? No explanation, just 'lost'?
It would be another full week of recovery before Geiger was allowed to sit up in bed, let alone leave. By then, he’d thrown
one of the sharper tools to his left at the fl at screen, cracking the glass so that it ceased to function, and run off four nurses and two orderlies with his foul temper. At the end of it all, it was Cassiel who came to collect him when his release orders had finally been given. Geiger was led down into the bowels of the hospital building to an underground lot packed with vehicles or excess equipment. It was there that a vehicle waited that gave Geiger pause. The beautifully restored military jeep was painted a deep gray with a magic-cell engine, similar to what powered George or Charlotte, sticking up out of the open hood. It made no noise, even idling, with lines of magically produced light racing along the sides and over the roof so that the energy could be delivered to all parts of the vehicle. Anything mechanical or metallic was a shining chrome or titanium, well oiled and perfectly balanced. It was stunning. Geiger had to remember to shut his jaw before climbing in.
“I hope that you’re feeling better, Captain,” Cassiel stated as they began their journey. Heavy velvet curtains on the inside offered privacy while blocking the sun from fading the plush interior. Cassiel sat across from Geiger, handing him the folder that held his promotional title and discharge papers. Geiger took them in silence, swallowing back a bite of anger that welled up, and simply nodded.
“Surprisingly, yeah,” he begrudged. “I don’t think I’ll even be left with much of a scar.”
“We have you to thank for that, actually,” Cassiel smiled. “Me?”
“Your worker bees, I believe is what Magnate Commander Fallon called them. Automatons programed to fix the fine minutea on other machines that you cannot see or reach? Our medical professionals managed to adapt that design to work with biologics rather than mechs. They’re a little creepy to look at but they are entirely composed of biologic materials and just... do their thing with little intervention needed by a surgeon. They had to stabilize you first, but it seems to have worked.”