“I’ve seen that pretty much everywhere I’ve been,” Jenny replied, tinted with woe.
“Doesn’t make it right,” Evelyn said, looking at their surroundings. “Come on, though, there are better places to talk than this grimy place.”
Jenny nodded as Evelyn motioned her hand back toward the street and the two women began walking down Fisher, making another left turn a short way down.
“Thankfully I hear it’s not the case everywhere on Eaugen, but areas like Lagos and Barro are few and far between,” Evelyn continued. “What irritates me the most is that the only person who seems to be doing anything to help is Winthrope, though he is still mired in playing elite games and his scope seems broader. As far as the rest goes, inaction when you know for a fact something is amiss is just as bad as the action itself, at least in my humble opinion.”
That was the second time someone had mentioned how good of a person Winthrope was, making Jenny regret her decision to lump him amongst the worst of society. Now, she found herself intrigued, especially having seen him at the market earlier. Though the notion was downright silly, she held onto a small hope that she would be able to meet him one day.
“So where are you from?” Evelyn asked softly, not wishing to jolt Jenny from her thoughts.
Jenny answered with her name, then proceeded to tell Evelyn about her life on the farm outside of the Gulch, and about the horrific raider attack that came on them not two nights ago. Using the captive tale that Aftershock crafted, she omitted his part in her rescue entirely for reasons of trust.
“I had heard of that attack just this morning and can see how someone like you managed to escape their clutches,” Evelyn observed. “Poor souls, the rest of them. We’re living in frightful times if our own borders and the officials can’t keep chaos at bay. So, you’ve come to this city looking for work?”
“Yes,” Jenny answered hopefully, “and lodging.”
“I’ll be honest with you: times have been tough, more than I’ve seen in a long time. I’m not sure if that and the raider attacks getting worse are related in any way, but we’re still affected nonetheless.”
“Are you saying there isn’t any work here?”
“Oh, there is work in Diablo, further in. Good work. There’s nothing left like that in Comprass, the borough you came from, or here in Ganado,” Evelyn stated. “I’m sure you saw the wonders along Opportunity Way. Most of those people have given up with life and are but a whisper away from death. Others that can’t handle the work at the factory houses have turned to other, less honorable means of making money.”
The two entered a wide-open space with what looked like abandoned livestock pens. Deep in their filthy recesses pairs of legs were raised and swaying in tune to the sounds of grunts and low thumping.
“It’s not pretty is it?” Evelyn said. “But, it’s something to put food on the table, especially when the alternatives are so limited and grim.”
Jenny caught a glimpse of several bots, more advanced than the ones she’d seen performing manual labor, tending to some garish men at the back of one of the stalls. There were real women there too, all intermingled in disgusting and smelly glory.
It was off-putting and something Jenny could never see herself doing, but something about it managed to cause her soul to ache.
“Many of the girls here see themselves doing this for a few years, since it’s an easy way to build up finances for bigger and better things.”
“The conditions though,” Jenny said in disbelief. “They’re hardly clean. Surely diseases…”
“Manage to cut those plans short?” Evelyn finished for her. “A lot are. Quite a vicious little circle of hell Diablo is, especially since foul wards aren’t the best place for a young woman to be spotted if she wants any chance at normality after her few years in the game.”
Evelyn noted Jenny’s manner. The reality was hard to swallow and she knew that Jenny wouldn’t go down such a path just by the look on her face now.
“But that’s where people like me come in,” Evelyn continued. “You gave me your name but I’ve yet to give you my full one. Evelyn Richards, owner of Eeevee’s Brothel and Safe House. It’s not the best profession, but is one that gets girls out of places like this.”
Jenny was hesitant to shake her hand based on the discussion they just had, but sucked it up and did so out of goodwill. She imagined Evelyn’s place to match her attire: graceful, comforting, and clean despite the nature of her guests and their clients.
“Every little bit helps,” said Evelyn, escorting Jenny from the pens into another street and even though the passage was tighter, it didn’t feel as confining.
“I think so, too,” said Jenny. “I hope that I can see the day things change for the better, like back home before the fall. It would have been great to not worry about the land being seized just because no men survived.”
“Exactly,” Evelyn said. “We are still human, despite efforts to make us feel less. Hell, none of them would be around if we weren’t! It’s one of my deepest beliefs that all of us share common privileges granted by nature and yes, even other people. If I can convince any one of these forgotten souls of that, then I feel like my work is meaningful, even if not viewed as moral. Our society, the current one at least, values classes, and money, and power over all else, when at the end of the day we never purchased a thing – especially our freedom – when coming into the world, nor will we take anything with us when we leave it. We are all equal in that regard and that fact will always be. Who is then to say that one person is more deserving of a right than another, and if so, on what basis have they been granted such authority?”
Jenny didn’t have those answers, nor thought she ever would. She did have a question of her own, though, developing as they walked for some time with nothing new to see.
“You mentioned something earlier about factories?” Jenny asked at last, having had her fill of stale brick walls.
“Yes, the factories are in a borough called Sucio. It’s three away from here, to the south. Ah! Here we are.”
Evelyn lead Jenny down another alleyway and after much winding, it opened into a brighter and more populous area. Filled mainly with women, they were all dressed well in similar fashion and topped with lively faces. Straight ahead, a handsome building of dark brick and wood rose above the dull cobblestones. Pretty drapes hung in the windows and between them more young girls stared out into the square. The front door was also open, teasing at a warm and inviting interior as the youngest of them swept the foyer.
“It’s getting on a little,” Evelyn said, pointing up to the sky. Some of the women had gathered around, more interested in Jenny’s new face than anything else. “You are more than welcome to stay here with us for the night. Sucio is not far as the birds fly, but by the time you navigate the all the streets to get there, it will close to dark. There are no inns around the factories, either. Only shantytowns, though Winthrope does keep his workers well, unlike Frost, or any of the other proprietors.”
Jenny looked once more at the building then all the congregated faces with respect. They were gemstones amongst the miserable surroundings and she felt genuinely welcome. That alone made her want to stay.
“Jenny, I know you can handle yourself, but please join us,” Evelyn urged. “I can then accompany you in the early morning if you like.”
“Did you say Winthrope?” she asked.
“Yes, he is probably the best person to work for in all of Diablo, not only from the lodging and wages standpoint, since he’s also not that bad to look at.”
Laughter filled the square and Jenny recalled Jesse’s face from the market… there was something about it that sent her heart fluttering…
“Frost is one to avoid,” she continued. “He’s just a self-interested bastard out for himself. It would be a win on both counts if there were an opening at Winthrope Limited, but realize that factory work is not easy work at all. There are long hours without many breaks, and the foreman is o
ne piece of work.”
“What about him?”
Evelyn lifted her shoe, which had collected a thin layer of wet grime on the sole, and pointed at it.
“That’s a pretty good description of the man.”
Jenny didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe, but either way the pros did outweigh the cons in the situation.
“Lovely,” she said, requiring no more to persuading to stay, much to the excitement of the girls. “Evelyn, words don’t seem enough thank or repay you for this hospitality.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she replied casually. “Just remember everything we talked about today as you grow, as I know you will. That’s all that I can ask for. Well, that and if you could please assist Martha with tonight’s dinner. Poor thing; it’s her turn and she can’t cook worth a damn. It might be the anniversary of the Burning, but I don’t think that it’s meant to apply to the food.”
* * *
1 When work was plentiful, workhands and other laborers could make up to five Spurs (half a Gear) per day while craftsman and fine artisans up to triple that amount. Educated workers could earn up to five Gears per day while trappers and hunters made the most of the ‘low classes’ since they also had some of the most dangerous duties. Depending on the beast, earnings could be up to ten Gears per day. The pay scale for elites and government officials far exceeded that of the other classes, ranking at hundreds to even thousands of Gears per day independent of workload.
FROST WAS HUNCHED over a cherry wood desk, elbows firmly planted on the surface. His eyes were struggling to stay open in the dark and windowless room while his arms strained against the tight fabric of his black dress shirt, unbuttoned nearly halfway until he needed to put on a tie for the evening’s celebrations at Grand Hall.
A lamp comprised of a single bulb of orange glass was screwed into a series of interconnected bronze armatures, bent at angles like pipes to illuminate an array of parchment splayed across the work surface. Some of the errant light caught in the hairs that peeked through the top of his chest. Upon the paper were schematics for several devices, the largest yet simplest of which was a cylinder one half meter in length and half that again in circumference. Per the plans, the other devices on the page were to be placed within it, along with a material referenced only as Soil.
Frost mumbled incoherently as a peaceful sleep took over, until a loud buzzer woke him with a start, snatching away a dream where he had been victorious in his plight against Winthrope. Jumping at the noise, he struck a knee on a sharply decorated panel.
“Damnit!” Frost yelled, pain shooting up his leg while his fist came down, rattling a half glass of liquor and sending a pair of magnifying lenses dancing across the parchment. “What is it now?”
Kicking back from the desk, Frost tugged at the bottom of his shirt before marching toward a faint glow on the other side of the room.
Aero happened to be there, unconscious as he laid in two halves on a metal table. A dim, blue light emanated from beneath him (the table itself was glowing) and tubes had been attached to open compartments across his forehead. His legs were separated and unmoving, while both of his chest plates had been cracked open like a parcel, exposing a radiant canister in the middle. Made of silver, it pulsed erratically, red light mixing with the blue hues to cast a purple glow on the monitors that beeped and gauges that joggled above.
“Aaron, why are you being so difficult,” Lucas whispered gently, rubbing Aero’s soft hair while his eyes darted between the displays and incessant flashes of red. It wasn’t long before he found the cause of the alarm.
“The new alloys failed to keep the temperatures moderated,” he spat, noting several indicators were pointed at zero while others were pegged on the maximums.
With an annoyed grunt, Frost grabbed hold of the cylinder and yanked it out. The slick lubricant covering it was flung everywhere, even more of it splashing when he slammed the whole array on the table beside Aero.
“Fuck you!” he shouted. “FUCK!”
Pressing a small button just below the steel table, a long drawer slid out without a sound. Inside, there was an identical silver cylinder resting on a bed of silken fabric. Frost took it, then jammed the unit into the slot left in Aero’s chest. Once far enough, there was a subtle click followed by a low, building whine. A faint blue glow appeared a moment later, pulsing with a steady rhythm like a heartbeat.
“That’s how the other one should be!” he shouted, his mechanical eye whirring madly in its socket. “I need these damn modifications to work!”
Pushing back from the table with such force that Aero’s body shook violently, Frost marched over to a large device about three meters to the left. There, a heavy glass screen was suspended above an array of buttons, knobs, and levers. An inviting leather chair was placed front and center.
Opting to stay standing, Frost rested both hands on the soft, padded edge and squeezed hard. It wasn’t doing much to calm him, though pretending it was Jesse’s neck helped tremendously.
You are leaving me with very little choice, Frost thought, placing blame for his failures on the enterprising Winthrope instead of his own inept staff. I WILL get my hands on your secrets and my plans WILL succeed, even if it means getting you out of my way.
Frost was working to improve his bot designs and accessories, like those illustrated in the collection of plans on his desk, for mass production with better alloys that were independent of Winthrope and his affiliated mining operations. So far, attempts to do so had gotten close but ultimately met with failure, his teams unable to replicate or even steal the formulations Jesse was using to perfect his proprietary steam capsules.
“I’ll have to find out what he’s paying those damnable technicians and triple it. And more if necessary,” Frost murmured darkly, scratching himself a note with a fountain pen on a scrap of paper. It simply said ‘field bonuses’. “I’m sure that Mr. Butler would not mind a receiving one of those to help me discover that information.”
As if to add insult to injury, another chime shrieked, slicing through Frost’s focus like a whetted dagger. Ahead of him, an amber light flickered to life on the console, drawing his threadbare attention as it grew in brightness.
“Your timing is impeccable as always,” Frost groused, a hand perched just over the light, ready to press down. “Once I am done with Winthrope I guarantee my full attention will be on taking care of you.”
Dipping a finger, the button clicked and another light above it came on and was green. Frost cleared his throat and spoke clearly toward the screen, “President Archer, to what do I owe this great honor?”
The glass display burst to life, a jittery field of mossy static filling the holotube from edge to curved edge. After a few seconds, it dwindled, replaced by a deep-toned warble that remained until the distorted, almost three-dimensional image of a man appeared. He was obviously tall and quite broad chested, the tinted display making his black suit look a shade of forest green. A subtle damask pattern was noticeable in the fabric, along with a neat line of four buttons on his each of the lapels. Lengthy, peppered hair dangled gracefully in front of his eyes while his beard was comparable to Frost’s own.
“Let’s not start adding formalities while pretending to be enthusiastic about my calls,” President Alistair Michael Archer said bitterly. “I know you despise them half as much as I do.”
Frost couldn’t disagree, choosing to remain silent instead; his sour expression answered on his behalf.
“So tell me, how are things advancing with the new power source?” Archer asked forcefully, chin raised high in anticipation though his low-slung eyes predicted disappointment.
“Well enough,” Frost said quietly but clearly, “but we have encountered a slight… hindrance to mass producing the unit.”
“A slight hindrance?” Archer barked, followed by a tremendous sigh. “A major problem is what you mean to say.”
“Not at all…”
“Then explain to me these delays!” Arche
r bellowed, his hair shaking wildly as his head quaked with wrath. “Frost, I am growing weary. No, correction: I AM weary! You have already spent far too much time working this matter with no further, measurable progress. How is it you can build a single unit in a comparable fraction of the time and have enough gall to place it in that disgusting plaything of yours, yet you cannot seem to find the aptitude to develop another one after a few more years?”
“A3R0 has nothing to do with this!” Frost retorted hotly; obviously, a nerve had been struck. “I built that prototype cell at great personal cost! Do you have any idea the finances required to produce such a complex thing AND keep the entirety of its production hidden from the officials?”
On the other side of the room, Aero stirred at the mention of his call-sign, opening his blue eyes. Readying to piece himself back together so he could join them, Archer’s words booming through room at the top of his voice kept Aero quiet and motionless. Shutting his eyes again, he listened covertly.
“I do know the cost of such things!” Archer snarled, his face flushed with red although the screen remained a steady shade of green. “I am sure you would not want to find out yourself how deep my pockets actually go.”
“No,” Frost submitted, plunging his head in a reverent bow.
In the span of a blink, Frost envisioned Archer burning in flames so intense that his screams echoed all the way from Angelus, across three-thousand kilometers of wasteland until they could be heard resoundingly in Diablo. Frost struggled to make sure a smile did not appear, gazing back at Archer with an expressionless face.
“Then we both agree that mass production of these self-contained arrays must be completed as soon as possible?” queried Archer.
“Yes, but the President does understand that perfection takes time…”
The Steam Tycoon Page 16