Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  Donovan remained quiet where he stood.

  “It’s not a subject I expect many wish to dwell on for long,” Stoddard said. “Better to simply ignore the fact altogether and let it stalk us silently from the shadows. But that our infinite intelligence would be cursed with such an imperfect form—” He relaxed his fist. “Nature goads reason.”

  “It is a conundrum,” Donovan agreed.

  “But, there are moments... fleeting moments when I nearly believe I’ve figured it out? There’s a solution there. Here,” he said, tapping the papers before him. “I might have had more of the answer now had the good captain bought me a few minutes more.”

  A thunderclap sounded outside, shaking the room with a faint rumbling.

  “Was it storming as you came in?” Stoddard asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s enough for tonight, I think.” Stoddard collected some of his papers and placed them in his briefcase, latching it closed. He left the rest strewn across the table. “Keep me informed of any new developments. Tomorrow we’ll do what we can to put our best foot forward with the meritocracy. Perhaps, we’ll come out favored in this after all.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like me to fetch you a coach?”

  “Quickly.” Stoddard switched off the lamp and locked the room as they left. In the hall, he paused at the reception desk while Donovan stepped outside.

  “Is that everything for today, Doctor?” the young receptionist asked.

  “For tonight,” Stoddard said. “Leave the office locked for me. I’m leaving my things here. I’ll be back for them tomorrow evening.”

  “Certainly, doctor. Don’t get caught in the storm on your way out,” she said as he donned his coat and followed Donovan into the rain.

  Chapter Four

  The Spark

  Had I known then where that first step would take us, I might have reconsidered how I let it fall.

  — Excerpt from Mechanarcissism

  A shworth walked with a labored gait—his hands buried deep in his pockets and his shoulders pulled tight into his body. He wandered through familiar streets with only a vague sense of direction, his mind trailing somewhere a few steps behind.

  His hand clutched the cold cylinder in his pocket. Its presence left no room to doubt the intention that had set him on his way. Yet, he questioned his resolve. The thought which had entered his mind had been so abrupt, and at the same time strangely premeditated. He feared if he dwelt on it too long he might abandon it altogether.

  With great effort, he relaxed his grip and directed his mind to other things.

  Ashworth pulled his coat tighter around him. The chill which numbed his hands and bit at his cheeks seemed disregarded by those he passed. A disadvantage of his age, he knew. The great clock was winding down.

  How much time did he have left? A few more years, perhaps? Days? With Harper’s passing, it was all the more apparent how time worked against him, and how soon he too would make his way down to Septigonee’s Well.

  He expelled a forceful cough and kept walking.

  There were still quite a few people out on the streets—mostly simple, uninteresting folk from the Basin. They drifted by like wisps of fog from the bay, their faces sullen and private. Occasionally, he’d greet a passerby with a courteous nod, and they’d return it in kind. Or with a grunt. Or even occasionally a mumbled greeting. It was routine, those brief unspoken exchanges. In the Basin, they served to take the temperature, so to speak, of the city—assessing moods and gauging intentions.

  If one was listening, danger could typically be sensed well before it was encountered.

  Tonight, the city felt groggy. Lethargic. People shuffled around facelessly, and Ashworth took comfort in it. Soon, however, as he climbed the long serpentine path of the main road, he was exchanging greetings with cleaner, more established folk.

  And then no one exchanged greetings at all.

  It was odd to him, that such distinct cultures as the Basin and the Spire could exist so near each other. He could even name the street which separated the two worlds. As he crossed it, he abandoned his attempts at cordiality altogether.

  It was getting late. Ashworth’s progress was slowed by the rests he was forced to take. His feet ached and his throat was raspy from his heavy breathing. The thought of taking one of the rails which ran through the city crossed his mind, yet every time he neared a station he would pass it by, caught up in the rhythm of his footsteps and the memories playing in his mind.

  “Do you really have to go?”

  The words echoed in his mind, so hauntingly real that Ashworth turned about half-expecting to see someone standing there. But he was alone, and he kept on.

  “Who else will go it if I won’t?”

  “There are thousands of others who will fight. Let them go.”

  “It’ll be alright. I’m proud to serve Hatteras. She’s been good to us. It’d be bad grace not to honor her.”

  Ashworth turned up the street, pulling his trench coat up against his neck to shield himself from the steady wind.

  “You think you’re better than I am?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You never had to. It’s dripping from your lips with every word. What is it about my choice that makes you so bitter? If you had any loyalties at all you’d be standing with me.”

  “It’s my loyalty that compels me!”

  “No! It’s your fear that keeps you from staying.”

  There was a deafening boom as a bolt of lightning struck a building somewhere nearby. Ashworth jerked to a halt. His heart beat fast and heavy. A steady rain began, growing in ferocity until it came down with a vengeance.

  “I’m no coward.”

  “But you’re no hero.”

  Ashworth had spat those last words with such venom that he could taste their rancor as he recalled them. How they haunted him after so many years.

  Stopping under an awning, he wiped his mouth on a dampened sleeve and surveyed the street. Apart from a single coach, it was deserted. The rest of the world was taking shelter to wait out the storm.

  Then, as sudden as the storm’s appearance, Ashworth realized where he stood. With stubborn eyes, he peered through the heavy sheets of rain at his destination—the morgue.

  The light from a single window spilled out into the night, peering back at Ashworth through the dark. Despite being in a wealthier part of the city, the building was old and worn. Likely, it had been converted from some vacant structure at one time or another. The crumbling brick was set back away from the street, wedged between two neighboring buildings, neatly obscured in their shadows.

  If one wasn’t looking, they’d have missed it entirely.

  Mustering his courage and weary limbs, Ashworth hurried across the street. He was just beginning to climb the stairs when the doors opened and two men exited the building. Ashworth turned away as they passed and tried to look uninteresting, waiting while one of the men helped the other into a carriage. Only once the driver urged on the horses did Ashworth finish his climb.

  Rapping his knuckles against the heavy doors, he shook what water he could from his coat. He heard the latch raise and a sliver of light appeared as the door cracked open.

  “Ashworth?” the young woman said in a surprised tone. “What are you doing out in this rain? You’ll catch your death on a night like this.”

  “Good evening, Ambre,” Ashworth said, removing his hat. “I thought... or rather I’d hoped you might be here tonight. I was wondering if you might help me with something. A favor, if you would.”

  “I didn’t realize you were coming by tonight.” She peeked out around the door, glancing up and down the street. “What do you need?”

  “I’m here to see Captain Harper.”

  Ambre’s eyes grew wide.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I can’t let you. They’ve scheduled a postmortem. They’ll know you were here! It was risky enough the last time you came by.” She spoke fast, he
r voice panicked as she withdrew back into the building.

  “Ambre,” Ashworth said, trying to calm her.

  “It didn’t work. You know that. It didn’t work!”

  “Ambre,” Ashworth said louder, interrupting her rambling. “I’m not here for a test. I’m here as a friend.”

  “I can’t,” she said. The door began to close and Ashworth put a hand out to stop her.

  “Ambre, he was my friend,” he repeated. “I haven’t seen him for years because of a disagreement we had. I’ve held onto it all of my life and it’s eating away at me. It’s all I can do not to tear my hair out thinking about it since he died. Please, let me see him. For mercy’s sake, it would ease an old man’s spirit.”

  “But...” she started.

  “He would have wanted me to come,” Ashworth lied.

  Ambre hesitated. Ashworth saw the fear in her eyes. He’d been fortunate in obtaining her help before, but even he knew how much more of a risk he was asking her to undertake.

  “Please.”

  Finally, with a sigh, she let the door open wide enough to allow him to slip in. She closed it on his heels, nearly catching the tail of his coat, and latched it behind him.

  “Hurry,” she urged.

  “Where is the body?” he asked. He pooled water with each step, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Over here.” She guided him past the reception area and down a corridor. “You can’t stay long. Someone could come by.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you’d get many visitors to a morgue this late at night.”

  “I got you,” Ambre pointed out as she slid a heavy door open and ushered Ashworth inside.

  The room was larger than the reception area, with two slab tables erected in the center. Each had a small channel along the edge that led to a center drain and a light suspended above it. Beside them stood tables full of the tools and instruments of a mortician’s trade.

  It was in a setting very much like this one when Ashworth had last seen his friend, opened like a book and struggling for life. The thought struck him with an uncharacteristic queasiness, and he stepped away from the slabs.

  Heavy steel doors lined two of the walls, like a series of vaults. Each had a large latch which hooked across the front to seal it. Ambre lifted one and swung the door open wide. The sound of metal scraping against metal cut through the silence of the room as she rolled the body out.

  “Is everything alright?” she asked, noticing Ashworth’s hesitation.

  “I’m fine. It’s just...” He stumbled, trying to make sense of his feelings. He saw the outline of the captain’s body through the thin sheet and the asymmetry of his shoulder. “I just haven’t seen him for some time.”

  Ambre nodded and carefully folded back the sheet so that Harper’s head lay uncovered.

  Ashworth stepped forward and looked upon the face of his old friend. He’d almost convinced himself he would see the same man he’d known before. Yet, the face before him was aged—devoid of any emotion which might have betrayed the feelings he’d died with.

  It dawned on Ashworth just how much his friend had changed over the years. His skin was tough, like that of a veteran, but it had also grown loose and wrinkled so his frailty was all the more apparent. Neither of them were young men anymore.

  “How long since he was brought in?” Ashworth inquired.

  “About seven hours. You were close?”

  “Once upon a time.”

  The two of them stood in silence, gazing upon the captain. Ashworth cleared his throat.

  “Would it be possible to have a moment? Alone, please?”

  Ambre’s lips pursed.

  “To say my goodbyes,” Ashworth added. “It won’t take but a moment. I just have some personal things I’d like to get off my chest.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But only to say your goodbyes. Let me know when you’re finished.” She stepped toward the doorway. “And please hurry,” she added. “You aren’t supposed to be here, remember?”

  “Of course,” Ashworth agreed.

  “If anyone comes, pretend that you’re family,” she suggested. Ashworth nodded, and she retreated down the corridor to give him his privacy.

  Ashworth sighed as he leaned over the cold body. So many years had passed since he’d seen his friend. Nearly a lifetime. And yet he still felt a closeness despite the passing of time.

  “It’s been a while,” he said. His voice sounded strange as it echoed in the sterile room. “Remember me? I wonder if you would, if we were meeting in better circumstances than this.”

  Harper’s body lay unresponsive, and Ashworth nodded. With slow reverence, he pulled the sheet back, exposing the captain’s torso.

  “Remarkable work,” he whispered, admiring the new prosthetic. His memory wasn’t as good as it once was, but he saw plainly the improvements of the new mechanism. The bulk alone was remarkably less, and the merging of the machine and flesh cleaner. He saw the fresh scars of surgery mixed with those of Harper’s aged war wounds.

  Lightly he touched the casing which surrounded Harper’s shoulder, fingering the pressure gauge set into it. It read zero.

  It amazed him how the engineers had merged their metallic craft with the organic tissue of the body so perfectly. He imagined the many gears and levers under the surface of that casing, still and silent in their metal cage.

  But, perhaps not for long.

  “I know I’m probably the last man you would want to be here right now,” Ashworth began. “I hope you’ll find it in your new heart to forgive me for this.”

  Ashworth ran his fingers over the metal plates which anchored the captain’s heart in place while his other hand fumbled in his coat. With a shaking hand, he produced a double-chambered syringe. The separate glass barrels contained a thin, rust-orange serum and a translucent, watery one.

  With a firm twist of the plunger, Ashworth cracked the barrier separating the two and the liquids merged. The resulting reaction crackled with energy, tickling his fingertips and giving off a vibrant blue light.

  He only had a moment.

  Tapping the chamber a few times with his finger, Ashworth removed the protective cap from the needle end.

  “I’m not sure if this will work or not, but it’s the best I can do for you. If you’re fortunate, you’ll have many more years to resent your old friend for it.”

  Ashworth pressed the needle into the captain’s chest, leaning his weight into it and driving it deep into the heart. With a deliberate squeeze, he pressed the plunger down, the contacts in the plunger producing a spark which shot through the chamber as it released the mixture. The serum seeped out of the barrel with some resistance, but after a few seconds the chamber was empty.

  “So don’t you die on me, you old cog!” Ashworth said, drawing out the needle again.

  The glow of the serum shone through the captain’s skin, concentrated around Harper’s heart. Ashworth waited for something to happen, for some evidence the serum had worked. But the captain’s body gave no indication of any change. Soon the light faded and all returned to as it was before.

  Ashworth let out a sigh.

  Stuffing the syringe back into his coat pocket, he covered the body with the sheet. It had been a long shot to try the serum again. He’d known that. Yet, disappointment hung heavy over him. If there was ever a moment he’d wished fortune would favor him, it was then.

  Dejectedly, he pushed the metal slab back into the dark compartment. He was about to close the door when he noticed light was still shining through the thin sheet, ever so faintly in the darkened chamber.

  Ashworth peered inside the compartment, perplexed. The reaction usually dispersed by then. Reaching inside, he lifted the sheet away from the body. Sure enough, light shone through the cracks and seams of Harper’s new arm. It pulsed, swelling in intensity before flickering until it was nearly out.

  Ashworth watched, mesmerized by what he was witnessing, when the captain’s prosthetic hand thrust forth and se
ized his arm in a fierce grip. Ashworth jumped and let out a cry as the body under the sheet shook and twisted, flailing against the chamber walls. Ashworth grasped the handle of the door to keep from being pulled in. The captain’s grip was vice-like, and Ashworth feared his arm might be torn away completely.

  And then, as suddenly as the throes began, they ended, and the body lay still once again.

  Ashworth breathed in quick, shuddering breaths, his heart racing in his chest and pounding in his head. Carefully, he reached in and pried the captain’s hand from his arm.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall as Ambre came running. She burst into the room and shrieked when she saw Ashworth. “What happened?” she asked, running to Ashworth and crouching down beside him. “Oh, my goodness! Your arm!”

  Ashworth cradled his arm. His sleeve was torn and wet with blood where his skin had broken under the grip of Harper’s mechanical hand. But, Ashworth paid it no mind. He was focused on the body inside the chamber, watching the steady rise and fall of the captain’s chest under the sheet.

  “It worked,” Ashworth whispered, and for the first time in his life he felt a very real fear.

  Chapter Five

  Deliveries

  Determination is an admirable trait when blended with ambition, but a poor substitute for conscience.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  N o,” Chance said, pointing again. “The poultice goes in that bag. The repellent goes with the corrosives.”

  His finger guided Rhett to the respective parcels as the boy corrected his error. The sun was just coming up as they sat on the steps sorting out the deliveries for the day. They were both a little groggy, but the cold morning air helped to startle their bodies awake.