Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  Perhaps Chance himself?

  “How are you holding up?” Liesel asked Chance. “Sorry about the reception earlier.”

  “Makes sense,” Chance said. “I’m not exactly a frequent anymore.”

  “You alright?” she asked, picking up the tone in his voice. “You sound upset.”

  “It’s just...” Chance was having difficulty finding the words. “I’m away for a few months, trying to sort out Ashworth’s work, and I hardly recognize anyone anymore. Everyone seems to have changed on me.”

  “We’re still the same,” Liesel assured him.

  “No,” Chance said. “You’re not. No one is. Even Rhett is a different person than the boy I knew before I inherited this whole mess.” He watched Rhett across the room looking at some gizmo with Welch. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess I just don’t feel as at home here as I used to.”

  “Of course you’re at home,” Liesel insisted. “You’re always welcome.”

  “Just not here?” Chance gestured toward the back where the rest of the Resistance was hiding. “Gods above, I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “What’s the matter, Chance?” Liesel asked. “What’s wrong?”

  What was wrong? Chance didn’t know where to begin. He thought of telling her about the cipher. How he’d made no progress—absolutely no progress—in the past months. He thought of telling her about the pain he felt in his gut with every passing failure. About how difficult it was to rise out of bed knowing what awaited him.

  About how lonely he felt.

  “Nothing,” he insisted. “I probably don’t have any reason to be mad right now, but I am. Just... leave me alone.”

  He stood up and made for the door.

  “Chance!” Liesel tried to stop him, but Simon held her back as Chance pushed his way through the doors.

  “Let the boy go,” he heard Simon say. “It’s been a long night. He just needs a moment.”

  In the street, Chance wiped the edges of his eyes on his sleeve, realizing he still held the bottle in his hand. Liesel wouldn’t mind him taking it. He took a deep swig and kept walking.

  “I am alone,” he said aloud.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cruel Revelations

  Gradually, I watched an interest become an obsession—and soon there existed no diversion strong enough to pull me from it.

  — Excerpt from Mechanarcissism

  S toddard poured over the collection of documents that lay across his desk: the texts that Vanzeal had seized from Ashworth’s laboratory. Months had transpired, yet he always found himself coming back to them.

  No more were they organized into neat piles or webs of thought, as they had been when he’d begun. Instead, his study was filled with loose leaves which lay spread about the room. He’d combed through them again and again, looking for any clue as to what the alchemists had uncovered.

  All the search had turned up was a single name and an indecipherable notebook.

  He held the book, turning it over in his hand. He didn’t bother looking inside it anymore. He knew he’d find only gibberish. Yet, the notebook taunted him. Somewhere between its pages, hidden in all the nonsense, were the answers he so desperately sought.

  Then there was the mark which appeared on the corner. It appeared on each of Ashworth’s notebooks, and many of his documents. But it wasn’t Ashworth’s mark. It was the same mark beside the name that appeared on the deed to his laboratory—Chance.

  He’d confirmed the name of Ashworth’s apprentice when Skaggs had turned up his suspected whereabouts, but they’d botched their timing and found nothing but a makeshift lab.

  But it told Stoddard one thing, the apprentice was still working. Whether he was just setting up his own shop or continuing his mentor’s work, Stoddard couldn’t know. It was clear he’d been closest to Ashworth. If anyone knew anything about the Aether spark, it would have been him.

  But they’d lost him again.

  Stoddard muttered a curse to himself.

  Arden looked up from his chair in the corner where he’d been reading. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Stoddard assured him.

  “The notebook again?”

  “Just a problem to be solved, nothing more.” Stoddard placed the notebook back in the drawer. “And, as with all problems, time is an asset. How go your studies?”

  “I’m intrigued by your assertion that energy exists within the body—beyond that of a simple electrical pulse. If it’s as fine an energy as you suggest, I wonder how you’re able to detect it at all.”

  “It’s difficult, but not so imperceptible as you might think. You see evidence of it every day.”

  “Where?”

  “Let us say we were to take an ordinary rat and cut off that rat’s tail. Immediately we observe that the tail is no longer a part of the rat, yet it will twitch for a time even after being severed. Now, after the tail has ceased moving, what if we ran an electrical current through it? Could we expect the tail to twitch again?”

  “I would think so.”

  “But, only sporadically, and not in response to any intelligent command from the rat or ourselves.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So then, we can observe there is something more than electricity at work in our motor functions,” Stoddard concluded. “Perhaps it doesn’t hold up in this instance so well, but when Harper was able to manipulate a completely foreign mechanism it affirmed the true nature of intelligence to me. Unlike the application of electricity alone, intelligence yields not only power, but control.”

  “I suppose so... but electricity is energy. Energy that can be created and applied.”

  “And I believe intelligence is a similar energy,” Stoddard said.

  “But, by that claim, you would also have to assert that intelligence is governed by similar laws and principles.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But intelligence cannot be transferred from one object to another.”

  “Can’t it?” Stoddard asked. “Isn’t that what has been happening just now, as you’ve been studying my research? Between me and you as we’ve explored this particular question? Intelligence is transferred every day in our interactions, though in a subtler way.”

  “But...”

  Arden was perplexed, his face twisted in concentration, and Stoddard couldn’t help but smile. For all of Sinclair’s criticisms of his son’s lack of focus, Stoddard had never encountered a more determined and methodical pupil.

  “I see how intelligence can be shared,” Arden said as he pieced it together. “However, if intelligence were governed by laws of energy then it would follow that intelligence could be transferred completely between two beings? I’ve never heard of such a case before.”

  “The fact that something has not been done before by no means limits its possibility,” Stoddard assured him. “If one’s vision is great enough.”

  There was a knock at the door and Donovan entered.

  “Sir, there is a man here who says you are expecting him. A duelist by the name of Ringgold? I wasn’t aware you’d sent for him, so I thought I’d check with you first.”

  “I did send for him,” Stoddard said. “It’s a private matter. Send him in.”

  “Should I go then?” Arden asked.

  “Yes, it’s probably best you do. You’re welcome to take that volume with you if you’d like.”

  “I think I will,” Arden said, collecting his things and a few of the books he’d been referencing. “I’d like to talk to you more about this idea about transferring intelligence. I find the idea fascinating.”

  “Of course,” Stoddard nodded. He found he enjoyed the time working with Arden more than any of his interactions amongst the meritocracy. Master Arden was a youth after Stoddard’s own likeness—inquisitive, and an audacious visionary.

  Ringgold entered the room as Arden stepped out. They exchanged quick pleasantries, and Ringgold closed the door behind
him.

  “That was Sinclair’s boy, wasn’t it?” Ringgold asked.

  “It was.”

  “You’ve nestled up close to the elector these past few months. I have to give you credit, you’re managing better than I’d expected.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Stoddard said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No,” Ringgold declined. “But thank you.”

  “Sergeant, let me get straight to the point. What you said to me at the garden party... it has been distressing me a great deal these past few days.”

  “You have a persistent memory,” Ringgold said. “I’d all but forgotten.”

  Stoddard turned toward him directly. “Dispense with the intangible conversation, Sergeant. I implore you. It’s too much for me to manage at this moment. You were forward with me before—please, be so now.” He leaned up against the windowsill and sighed. “Why do you worry for me?”

  “Tell me,” Ringgold said, joining Stoddard by the window. “What do you know of Lieutenant Vanzeal?”

  “He’s a skilled duelist, in Sinclair’s service and confidence.”

  “And what do you think of him?” Ringgold asked. “Be honest.”

  “He’s a brazen snake, whose incompetence rivals only his pride. I’d consider myself fortunate if I never cross him again.”

  “He and Sinclair,” Ringgold said, “they’re men fashioned from the same cloth.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Stoddard frowned. “Sinclair is far more collected than Vanzeal could ever hope to be.”

  “Politics teach men to hide their true natures, or change them altogether. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Sinclair was once a duelist, like Vanzeal. He was lieutenant of the same company, in fact, before he entered the political arena. And, let me assure you, he’s more lethal as a politician than he ever was with a sword.”

  “But Sinclair has been nothing but supportive—”

  “To whom?” Ringgold asked. “You? And why do you think that is? What could he hope to gain from your enterprise?”

  Stoddard thought back on his first conversation with Sinclair. How he’d been less interested in Harper than he had been in the possibilities of Stoddard’s work. He’d wanted to know to what extent Stoddard had pushed his tests. Whether it was solely medical reconstruction... or more.

  The spark.

  The realization sent a shiver though Stoddard. Sinclair was hoping he could replicate the alchemist’s spark.

  “There’s little doubt there is value in your friendship,” Ringgold continued. “Something about your enterprise from which he hopes to benefit. What you should be asking yourself is just how long will what you have retain its value?”

  Stoddard’s stomach sank. He felt suddenly very small.

  “And here is where I approach you with my motive,” Ringgold said, growing very serious. “About six months ago my company was ordered to join with Vanzeal’s as part of a raid on an alchemist’s laboratory in the Basin District—a Mr. Charles Ashworth.”

  Stoddard looked up at Ringgold, unable to hide his recognition of the name.

  “During the raid a number of documents were seized by Vanzeal’s company and the alchemist was killed. Similar raids were conducted that night on other laboratories, with more documents seized and lives taken.

  “Another raid was conducted a fortnight ago in the same district on a suspected laboratory. No one was present during the time of the raid, but, once again, all documents were ordered seized.”

  Ringgold stepped closer to Stoddard.

  “What interests me about all of this is that for each of these raids the orders have been delivered at the request of Elector Sinclair. And in each order, your name has been mentioned as the recipient of those documents.”

  He glanced around the room at the strewn papers, and Stoddard swallowed hard. The evidence was against him.

  “Tell me, Doctor,” Ringgold said, his voice a growl. “What is your interest in the alchemists?”

  “Nothing,” Stoddard said weakly. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He didn’t want to think. His prospects were coming down around him.

  “If that is the case,” Ringgold persisted, “then I demand to know why my company is being employed for nothing.” He took another step forward until Stoddard was backed against the windowpane. “Why men are dying for nothing. I’m sworn to serve the city and the meritocracy that governs it, but that does not mean that against my conscience must I follow orders from men seeking after their own gain—not at the expense of the citizens of Hatteras. So, I ask you again, what is your interest in the alchemists?”

  “They’re...” Stoddard fumbled.

  He’d been disarmed by Ringgold’s forwardness, and his guard had been stripped. He was cornered, with nowhere to flee. Could he trust him? Could he be as honest as Ringgold appeared to be?

  “I’m...” he began. His brow dripped with perspiration. “I’m a fraud.”

  He surprised even himself saying it, but it was the truth. Ringgold too was obviously stunned by his declaration.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “The miracle. It wasn’t me. I never revived Harper. Oh, gods above,” Stoddard cried. “You’re the only one I’ve confided this to. The most I was able to accomplish was reconstructing the mechanism. I never thought to revive someone after death. If it were left to my work alone, he’d have remained nothing more than a corpse.”

  Now that he’d said it, he couldn’t hold back the words.

  “But, if it wasn’t your mechanism that brought him back to life, then what was it?” Ringgold asked.

  “I’m not certain. I believe that the alchemists know—that they were involved somehow. If I’m correct, then I need to find it out at all costs before Sinclair and the others realize...”

  He swallowed hard.

  Ringgold turned and paced the floor. “And for this you’re willing to kill,” he whispered.

  “No,” Stoddard said, standing up from the windowsill. “I never meant to kill. I never—”

  He clenched his jaw and fists. He had meant to kill. Once. In desperation he’d ordered the life of the man he’d been credited for saving.

  “You’ve blood on your hands I don’t think you can wash off,” Ringgold said coldly. “And you’re still out for blood? Forgive me, but I’ve misread you all along, Doctor.”

  Ringgold turned and strode toward the door. Stoddard leapt in front of him, barring his way.

  “Let me pass,” Ringgold warned. “I don’t associate myself with murderers.”

  “What has happened has happened. I know that,” Stoddard pleaded. “I regret what I’ve done and what it’s caused. I do. Every part of me feels the weight of it. But if I’m going to fix it—”

  “You mean if you’re going to save your own skin,” Ringgold corrected.

  “Can you fault a man his final throes for survival?”

  “I can’t help you,” Ringgold said, pushing past Stoddard. “My loyalty is to the welfare of the city and her citizens, not to those who seek to abuse their powers.”

  “I’m not the only one who knows about the alchemists,” Stoddard called after him, and Ringgold hesitated in the doorway. “You said it yourself: Vanzeal was there during the raids. He was ordered to secure the documents, to arrest Ashworth so I could question him about his work. That was the arrangement through Sinclair. I swear. It was never my desire to have Ashworth killed.”

  “Can I honestly believe what you’re telling me is the truth?”

  “There’s one thing I know for sure,” Stoddard said. “If I’m found out, and Sinclair discovers me a fraud, he’ll have Vanzeal pick up where I’ve left off. He’ll track down the alchemists in his own way. I’m no saint; I know this. But you and I both know Vanzeal. I ask you to gauge which is worse.”

  Ringgold stood rigid, weighing Stoddard’s words.

  “Help me find them,” Stoddard pleaded. “Help me discover the truth of the captain’s
miracle. Perhaps then we can fix all of this. Perhaps we’ll save more lives than my own.”

  “Some things cannot be fixed,” Ringgold said.

  “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, right?”

  Ringgold paused in the doorway for a moment, weighing Stoddard’s words in his mind. “I can’t help you,” he sighed, and closed the door behind him.

  Stoddard strength ebbed out of his limbs, and he slumped to the floor. He would need more than a miracle to recover from this.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A Friendly Gesture

  Had I not been so blind, I might have seen the toll it was taking on me. Or the effects it would have on those near me.

  — Excerpt from Mechanarcissism

  I t was late afternoon when Chance finally made it home—if Margarete’s loft could be considered home. He’d taken the long way along the bay to try and walk off his sour mood, but he couldn’t shake it.

  Everyone had a secret. Ashworth. Liesel. Welch. Rhett. All of them! Should he have expected anything else? After all, he had his own. Perhaps that was what was getting to him; he’d never thought to suspect any of them. Somehow, he’d convinced himself that among his circle of friends all things were open.

  How wrong he’d been.

  He was tired. Tired of everyone and their half-truths. He’d been apprenticed to Ashworth for seven years and hadn’t the slightest clue he’d been developing the Aether spark. And how long had he known Liesel, Simon, or Kwame? Had they been a part of their Resistance the whole time?

  He didn’t feel like he knew any of his friends anymore.

  Chance was about to scramble up the gutter again when the door opened and Margarete stepped outside. She’d obviously been watching for him, and the look she gave him made it clear why.

  He wasn’t about to avoid this conversation.

  “You know there are perfectly functional stairs you’re welcome to use,” she smiled, though Chance didn’t feel the warmth he usually did. “Why don’t you come on in? We have some catching up to do.”