Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “Trouble,” Chance said. He donned his coat and checked to make sure his carrier was secure. “I need you to see this stuff makes its way back to Margarete’s. Can you do that?”

  “Why me? She’ll have my head if I show up there again.”

  Chance smirked. “I knew you’d made a visit last night. Just get this to my lab. Rhett will give you a hand.”

  He tossed Ponti his sack and inched closer to the edge of the train.

  “And where are you off to?”

  “To see what’s going on.”

  Chance waited until there was a clear patch of dirt before he kicked his legs over the side and leapt from the boxcar.

  He landed rougher than he’d meant to, losing his footing as he tumbled down the slope of the tracks. He stopped in a heap of dirt among some tufts of grass. Rising to his feet, he brushed himself off and checked his carrier to be sure nothing had broken, then hurried toward the crowds.

  It was clear the whole factory district was in distress. Chance raced down the streets, assessing the scene. Many of the buildings were ablaze on the adjacent streets, and he saw scuffles here and there between figures in the dark.

  On one street, he met with a dead end where a human barricade had formed. Constables held the line, repelling the crowds who jeered as they ran by.

  Chance seized the arm of a passing man.

  “What is going on?” he asked. The man stared at him as though he were daft.

  “Can’t you tell? Whole place is gone mad.”

  “Why?” Chance asked. “What happened?”

  “Factories have been shut down. Not enough work. When the workers tried to make a stand, they were fired upon. Whole place has lost their minds over it.”

  Chance let the man go and watched others run by. They were ducked low in the commotion, but it wasn’t fear he saw in their eyes. These people were angry.

  But they weren’t united. They were turning on each other. People were fighting in the streets, businesses were being looted. All the while, the constables’ lines stood their distance.

  Why weren’t they restoring the peace? Chance wondered. Then it dawned on him. They were waiting for the fight to go out of the crowd before they moved in.

  It was like the man said, everyone had lost their minds.

  Chance hurried in the direction of Liesel’s pub. It was possible she’d be dealing with some of the backlash, being nearer the factory district. Fortunately, the madness died down as he neared her place. Yet, the sound from the factories carried through the night, and Chance thought he heard the occasional report of gunfire.

  Chance banged a fist against Liesel’s front door.

  “Liesel?” he called out. “You there? Liesel, open up!”

  The door opened suddenly and Liesel stood with a rifle over her shoulder and Welch with a pistol at the ready.

  Chance stepped back in surprise. “Were you planning on shooting me?” he asked.

  They didn’t take time to answer before they pulled him inside.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Chance asked, but he fell silent as he saw the room. It was full to capacity with men and women. Most carried a gun, but a few gripped hammers and spades tightly in their hands. They looked at Chance with tense curiosity.

  “Never can be too careful, night like this,” Welch said, latching the door as he shut it again, only then lowering his pistol.

  “We didn’t know who was banging on the door so late,” Liesel explained. “Could have been a mob for all we knew. Or worse.”

  “Who is this?” A man Chance didn’t recognize had stepped forward, casting him an unpleasant look.

  “Don’t worry,” Liesel explained. “He’s a friend.”

  “I see no token,” the man said, his eyes wandering over Chance’s outfit.

  “He’s with me,” Liesel insisted, focusing on Chance again. “What are you doing here? This isn’t a good night to be out.”

  “I was coming back from the scrapyards on one of the rails when I saw the chaos. I was worried you might be dealing with trouble of your own, so I came to see if you were alright.”

  “Oh, we’re dealing with it alright,” Liesel said.

  The others in the room stared at Chance, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Who’re all these people?” he asked.

  “You really shouldn’t have come tonight,” Liesel frowned. “Welch, will you explain this to the others?”

  Welch nodded, and Liesel hurried through the room to the back, grasping her rifle tightly. Chance followed, feeling crowded out as he walked through the looks everyone was giving him.

  In the backroom, Liesel laid her rifle on the table and got herself a drink.

  “Liesel, what is going on here? Who are all those people?”

  “Resistance.”

  “What?”

  “They’re resistance fighters,” she explained. “We were preparing to step in and help the factory workers, but the whole thing has fallen apart. We were hoping for an opportunity to lend a hand, but there’s just no one to lend a hand to.”

  “You’re...” Chance blinked, dumbfounded. “You’re part of a resistance?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Welch too?”

  Liesel nodded.

  Chance felt like he’d been hit with the butt end of her rifle. He had a sudden flashback to the moment when Ashworth had first told him about developing the Aether spark and how out of the loop he’d felt then.

  This had much the same effect.

  “How did I not know about this?” he asked.

  “You’ve got your own worries,” Liesel explained. “We didn’t want to add to them. And we’re better off the fewer people who are aware a resistance is even organized, which is what’s going to give us grief tonight. There’s a room full of men and women through that door who aren’t too comfortable with the idea that you’ve seen them organized like this.”

  “You know I won’t say anything.”

  “I know that, but they don’t. Everyone is capable of crazy in moments like these,” she said. “It’s best if you stay here for a while, until we can settle any reservations they might have about you.”

  Chance shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

  “Good, then why don’t you help me with dinner? We’re going to have quite a few mouths to feed.”

  “How long are you planning on them staying?”

  “We don’t want anyone to suspect there was a gathering here, so we’ll filter them out one at a time over the next day or so. Why don’t you go upstairs and call Rhett down so he can give us a hand?”

  “Wait, Rhett’s here?” Chance’s brow creased, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. “Rhett’s in on it?”

  “Chance,” Liesel said, setting down the bowl she’d taken from the cupboard. “Don’t take it personally. You know Rhett’s been spending more time with Welch. He figured it out on his own. And it’s done him good, I think, having something to be a part of.”

  “He’s helping me,” Chance insisted. “He’s my apprentice.”

  “Yes, but how often do you have him do more than the grocery shopping? Actually have him work with you?”

  Chance couldn’t answer.

  “Trust me, he needs this.” She fetched some fresh vegetables and laid them out on the table.

  Chance stepped back and leaned against the counter. He’d missed everything ever since he’d inherited Ashworth’s work. He’d been so preoccupied with figuring out Keller’s cipher he hadn’t noticed what was happening right under his nose.

  There was a knock on the front door and a commotion from the front room. Liesel seized her rifle, and Chance stepped back from the doorway as two figures came through, carrying a third.

  “What happened?” Liesel asked.

  “Shot,” one of the men said. “They collapsed on us. Just like that. All hell broke loose.”

  “Serge!” Chance cried, recognizing who they carried. He stepped forward. “Serge, are you alright
?”

  Serge didn’t respond. His head lolled back and forth as he cringed with pain. He was muttering nonsense and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

  “He’s in shock,” the man said. “We tried to take him back to a safe house, but he wasn’t gonna make it. We thought you might—”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Liesel said. “Clear the table. Someone get me a basin of warm water. Chance, grab some cloths from the cupboard there.”

  Everyone scrambled to their tasks as they laid Serge out on the table, the vegetables dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Chance collected what clean cloths he could find from the cupboards and brought them to Liesel. Carefully she lifted Serge’s shirt and removed a makeshift bandage.

  Fresh blood spilled onto the table from a bullet wound just below his hip. Chance watched, horrified, as it dripped from the table onto the floor.

  “Can you help him?” one of the men asked.

  “There’s no exit wound,” Liesel said. “Hopefully means he hasn’t bled out too much. We’ll need to find the bullet and stop the bleeding before he loses too much more. Welch!”

  Welch ran into the room.

  “Welch, get your tools. See if you can sterilize them. We’re going to have to retrieve the bullet.” She looked up at Chance. “Do you have anything we could use to stop infection? Or numb the pain?”

  “I’ve got a few things. They weren’t meant for this, but they might help. If you give me some time I may be able to prepare something better.”

  “We may not have much time to spare, but do what you can.”

  Chance pulled his carrier from his coat and flipped it open. He selected one of the vials and handed it to the man holding Serge’s head. “If he gets difficult,” he explained.

  Welch returned from the other room with his tools and knelt by the oven. Swinging the door open, he heated each before handing them off to Liesel.

  “Thank you,” she said, laying out the instruments and selecting one she could use. Chance watched in horror as she turned Serge onto his side and began her search.

  Shaking his head, Chance focused on his task. He cleared a space by the wash bin and laid open his carrier, rummaging through its contents.

  “Can I help?” Welch asked over his shoulder.

  Chance hesitated, scrunching his eyes in reluctance. But Liesel’s words surfaced in his mind. She was right; he didn’t have to do everything on his own. And Serge needed whatever help he could get.

  “Help me find something to heat this compound?”

  Welch nodded, turning over the kitchen in search of a suitable vessel. Chance glanced over his shoulder at his friend. Serge seized up in pain as Liesel dug for the bullet. One of the men was trying to feed him the tonic while the other held him steady, but Serge was giving them trouble.

  Just hold on, Chance prayed.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Unwelcomed Truth

  Fortune comes to those bold enough to seek it. And, then again, sometimes she doesn’t.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  C hance stepped through the doorway, tired and aching. The front room was still crowded. People had been slipping out slowly throughout the night, but now it was morning. The rest would have to be more discrete.

  He took a seat on one of the stools at the bar and reached behind it to grab himself a drink. The bottle came up half-full, so he decided to forgo a glass.

  “Is Serge alright?” Simon asked, joining Chance at the bar. He’d arrived sometime in the night, along with Kwame and a few others. Apparently, everyone had ties in one way or another to the Resistance.

  Everyone, except Chance.

  “Liesel did what she could for him. The bullet nicked the bone in his hip,” Chance explained. “She managed to retrieve it and some of the fragments, but we’ll have to wait and see how he recovers. Right now, infection is what we’re most worried about.”

  “He should be to a doctor,” Kwame suggested.

  “Yeah, well it would be a little suspicious if he showed up at a hospital after tonight with a gun wound, wouldn’t it? They’d arrest him the moment they were done with him.”

  “But it could kill him,” Kwame said adamantly.

  “I gave him an antiseptic, and I trust Liesel’s skill. I don’t know what more a hospital could do for him.”

  Kwame was obviously unsatisfied, but he said no more about it. Instead, he stepped behind the counter and retrieved a glass from the bar. He tipped it to Chance, and Chance begrudgingly filled it from his bottle.

  Simon fetched another glass. “An odd night,” he said.

  “Yes, it was,” Chance agreed. “Who would have thought things would have escalated like that?”

  “All for none and none,” Kwame said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Simon said. “It proved there is still some fight in the factory workers, if nothing else. That’ll make the meritocracy hesitate the next time they try something like last night.”

  “What good it do?” Kwame asked, his accent coming out thick. “Workers tear ‘emselves in two before a real fight start? You fed up as my people in Pendambu? Ready and to fight? Nee! You do no more and kick under a ground.”

  “It’s too big,” Simon pointed out. “You can’t fight something this big. Not with force.”

  “What to do then?” Kwame asked. “Roll over and let a meritocracy trample me and you?”

  “The only thing to do is confront them face-to-face. Meet them on their ground—in politics.”

  “But my people got no voice in politics!”

  “Which is exactly why their rebellion will fail,” Simon said so matter-of-factly that Kwame stared, dumbfounded. The rest of the company felt the sting of Simon’s words too, and the atmosphere shifted uncomfortably.

  “What do you know?” Kwame said. “You a mercenary. You fight men like me, many and many for a few wages. What do you know of my home? You are not one of us!”

  “He didn’t mean it,” Chance said, trying to cover for Simon and ease Kwame’s growing temper.

  “I meant every word,” Simon said, immovable. “If it bothers you, then I invite you to prove me wrong. What I’ve said is the closest I can discern to the truth. You’re right. I’ve seen conflicts before. Dozens of them. Rebellions. Wars. Massacres. All of it. I’ve been on the side of the institution, felt the surge of power behind me as I held ground against revolutionaries like us. I’m telling you, we can’t beat them.”

  “Nee! How do you say that? You know nothing!” Kwame’s voice shook and he overturned his stool. “Pendambu readies now to fight Hatteras. They ready and sacrifice everything!”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said, “but they very well might. You organize yourselves together and tell yourself these things will bring about some great change, but nothing new will come of it—even if you succeed. Nothing changes through force, only the faces of your tyrants and the hands which bear the blood.”

  “No one as cruel as meritocracy!”

  “If you stick around long enough,” Simon said, “you may just see how wrong you are.”

  The little band shuffled uncomfortably. Simon’s words cut deep, and Chance could see their resolve injured. Kwame held his tongue with obvious difficulty. Finally, he turned away and pushed his way into the back room.

  “For a member of the Resistance, you sure do talk some unpopular ideas,” Chance whispered as he gazed around the room. The atmosphere had grown grave, and many of the men were looking at Simon with evident distaste.

  “They know my loyalties,” Simon said. “And they know my views. Everyone resists in their own way. No man can fault me for wanting to resist where I think it will do the most good.”

  “Still. You shouldn’t say that type of thing around desperate men. It’s likely we’ll find you in a gutter after this.”

  “They’ll do no such thing. Look at them,” he said, pointing to the present company. “They’re not soldiers. And they’re not murderers. They’re just a band of hopefuls caug
ht in a current. The only one here I’d fear is Serge.”

  Chance looked surprised.

  “Why do you say that? I thought you and Serge were close.”

  “Out of all the men I’ve encountered since joining this little Resistance, Serge is the only one I’ve seen who has the look of conversion—true conversion—in his eyes. I saw it a few times, quelling foreign revolutionaries. Those kinds of men hold the passion,” Simon said. “There’s no telling to what end they’ll go for their cause.”

  “But you think they’ll fail?”

  “I think there’s a chance they’ll start something. Perhaps they will change things someday. But, the way they’re going about it, I’m worried what they will sacrifice in the process.”

  Simon bowed his head and sighed.

  “Things like this are never so clean as we like to hope. They’ll set a precedence with how they go about it, and I worry they won’t be able to stop what they begin.”

  “What if there is no other way?”

  “There is always another way. If we’re not so blind we’ll see it. I’ve tried to open Serge’s eyes to alternatives he could take. Men like Serge are dangerous if left out of check,” Simon explained. “I’m his check.”

  Chance shook his head. He felt like a toddler discovering the world for the first time again.

  Liesel came out of the back and had a quick, whispered conversation with one of the men. At a signal, he and most of the others departed, perhaps to hide out in the storeroom as she opened the pub for the day.

  She caught Chance’s eye and joined him at the bar.

  “It’ll be a few weeks before he’s standing again, but I think Serge will recover.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Simon said.

  Are you? Chance wondered, in light of their conversation.

  “At least we know our division is quick to assemble,” Liesel smiled. “Less than thirty minutes and we had most everyone here. I didn’t see Faulkin though. We may want to check and see what kept him away.”

  “I’ll check in on him this afternoon,” Simon offered.

  Who else was Simon assigned to keep in check? If Serge, then maybe Kwame? Liesel? The other alchemists?