Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  Deepening the scowl, the red-bearded man held out his hand. “Tim Hogan.”

  Brandon gave the offered appendage a quick shake and then rested his fingers in the stretched pockets of his wool vest. Finally he leaned back and cocked his head. “Hogan…So you're a corker, eh?”

  Tim cocked an eyebrow. “Whatcha gettin’ at?”

  “Irish. County Cork, a corker? You have not heard this before?”

  “Well, I'm not from Cork. I'm from Tyrone. Now if we can get down ta business.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were Irish…from the same place.”

  “We're only ‘all from the same place’ once we're living in this stinking city.” Tim stood up and put on his hat. “Listen, I've no time ta tell ya my life story, nor do I care ta. I was lookin’ for the Children of Eschaton and—”

  “No, no, no.” The ridiculous smile melted away from the round man's face as his voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper. “You've found them.” The mustache had drooped down over the front of his lips, and Brandon pulled at the strands to move them back into place. “If you want to get to the business, I think perhaps we should do it somewhere else….”

  The German squinted hard and stuck his face closer in, giving Tim a good look up and down. “With that hat…It is amazing. Patrick said you were a ringer for him, but I would not have believed it until I saw for myself.”

  “What are ya talkin’ about?”

  “You could be Mr. Murphy's brother.…”

  The red-bearded man pulled back, clearly annoyed. “Murphy?”

  “A dead ringer,” Brandon exclaimed, and nodded his head a few times as if he were convincing himself. “Don't worry. You may meet him sooner or later.”

  The waitress's arm slid between them, depositing a glass of beer on the table. The rough landing burst whatever slight mist of actual foam had been clinging to the surface of it. “The barman says it's time to pay up.”

  Tim shook his head. “And what if my friend here wants a drink?”

  She turned to Brandon and looked him up and down with obvious disapproval. “Then he can ask fer one.”

  The German smiled. “Now Shea…is there a need to be like that with me? We are old friends.”

  She took a step back to consider the man. “I won't say you don't look familiar, but there are plenty of fat Germans who walked through that door at one time or another, and I don't consider most of them my friends.” She tilted her head. “But ya can be a customer if ya like. That's always all right by me. Now, do ya want a drink or not?”

  “Sadly, I have not time to—”

  “Fine,” she said, and walked away.

  “You can have a sip of mine if ya want.” Tim nodded in the direction of the glass. “I've had enough today already.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mr. Hogan!” Placing the index finger and thumb of his left hand under each side of his mustache, Brandon pushed the hair up and away from his mouth, moving with a practiced swipe. The hatchway now freed from obstruction, he grabbed up the glass with a single sweep of his hand and poured the entire thing into his throat, swallowing it down with a single gulp. He completed his show by banging the glass down onto the table and letting out a roaring belch.

  “Well done,” Tim said in a flat tone. “Wouldn't want ta let any go ta waste.”

  “It may not look it, but I read the Bible, Mr. Hogan. It says to ‘waste not want not.’”

  “It does at that,” said Tim, taking a moment to slip the glass spheres into the safety of his left vest pocket. “Now where are we going ta go?”

  The German smiled and nodded toward the door. “You follow me, and I will take you to the man to answer all your questions about the Children.”

  Tim stood up, turned around, and slid a cane out from the booth behind him. It was a stiff branch of white birch, although it was yellow now—well seasoned and stained with some ominous rusty patches. Brandon eyed him closely once again. “You're older than you first look.”

  “Old enough,” he said, leaning down on his walking stick.

  “Old enough to be my grandfather.”

  “Old enough to beat ya like a child.”

  “Maybe, but I don't think so,” the German said with a shrug, and turned to the door.

  As they stepped outside, the cold breeze and bright daylight slammed into the red-whiskered man like a fist, causing him to hunch over. He coughed as his nose rebelled from the full force of the stink from the docks. Even though the rich odor was diminished by the biting cold, it was still an overpowering sensation. “I can only imagine what this place smells like in the summertime.”

  “You are not a longshoreman, then?”

  “I've done plenty of honest work, but not that.”

  The round man completed buttoning up his coat and flipped up his lapels. “You get used to it.”

  “It smells like God's own fart, but I suppose that ya can get used ta anything given time.”

  “Yes. Almost anything. Now we should walk.” The fat man began striding forward, making a surprising amount of speed on a pair of spindly legs that seemed like they would be unable to motivate the ungainly bulk that sat on top of them. But the overloaded appendages scissored back and forth with a speedy gait that reminded Tim of a two-legged centipede.

  Clamping a hand down on his cap and scrunching up his face as far as it would go, he leaned into the cold wind and began to follow him. “Is it far?”

  “Not far, no. But nothing is very far away in this city, I think.”

  “Just honesty and truth,” Tim grumbled.

  The big man laughed in response. “I look for that only in what's in front of me, or in my Bible.”

  Except for the occasional dilapidated old building, the neighborhood was mostly made up of featureless brick and cast-iron fronts. High windows were open in vain hope that the only thing that would enter them was sunlight and fresh air.

  Reaching the end of the block, the round man turned a sharp corner and entered into the shadows of an alley. Tim turned and followed him into the darkness. After a few steps the breeze disappeared, the roar of the wind replaced by an echoing howl that rang through the cold blue gloom that filled the alleyway.

  “Is this a shortcut?”

  “Oh no. This is the way.”

  At first it seemed like it must be a short path, but instead of finding its way out to another street the alley twisted and turned between tall buildings on either side. The red-bearded man dragged his hand along the wall and muttered to himself with each bend, clearly attempting to keep track of which way they were going, but after the six or seventh bend it would have been almost impossible for any man to remember the path they had taken.

  The German laughed. “I wish you luck, Mr. Hogan. It took me many months to remember the path.”

  “I'll take that as a challenge.”

  They walked a few yards down a straight lane before taking a sharp right that took them out of the maze and put them at the entrance to a small courtyard formed from the windowless backsides of the buildings that surrounded it. Any windows that looked into the space had been papered over, and the loading docks had long ago been bricked up.

  A trio of poorly constructed shacks leaned up against the walls. They were pieced together from mismatched scraps of wood and bricks, with each of them sporting a windowpane with impressively unbroken glass. Smoke rose up from their tin chimneys, floating toward the sky in dark columns until it reached the rooftops and was torn apart by the wind.

  In front of them sat three men all dressed in tweed coats and silk ties. They were clearly part of a gang of sorts, and the leader was a tall figure in a top hat. His jacket reached down past his knees and was a finely tailored piece of clothing, free of the patches the rest of them wore. It had been cut to be worn long and tight, and it made him appear like a bent reed about to snap.

  The leader leaned against a barrel, his long legs stretching out in front of him. In his hand he held an apple that he was peeling with a
shiny pocketknife. He threw a chunk of rind into the cheerfully burning brazier in front of him, and it hissed as it landed in the flames.

  He let out a quick whistle, and two more men came out from the shacks, one of them still young enough to be considered a boy.

  “You've been asking a lot of questions about the Brotherhood,” said the man on the barrel.

  Tim stopped short, letting his escort waddle his way to the rest of the group. Brandon slid into the group as smoothly as a tool being put back into its case—although he clearly was designed for a different use than the others.

  “Aye, and no one seemed ta know a damn thing.”

  “Not many people do. They're not supposed to.” His voice was dramatic, with his long “O”s revealing the broken remains of an English accent.

  “But I'm bettin’ ya know all about them,” Tim replied.

  The tall man dragged his feet along the ground and then rose up from the barrel like a spider. Even without his top hat and boots he would have stood well over six feet tall, but taken altogether he was closer to seven. “I know that you've been asking about things you shouldn't even know exist. That makes it my job to find out how much you do know, and how you come to know it.” It took a moment for the others to realize that they were expected to stand up behind their leader and act threatening.

  “So, what's your name, old man?”

  The fat German took a step forward and broke in breathlessly. “His name is Tim Ho—” His words were cut off by the wet smack of a half-peeled apple as it exploded in his face. Brandon's look of surprise was punctuated by a trickle of blood that rolled out from his nose.

  “I didn't ask you, you fat idiot,” the leader sighed.

  The German wiped his face, taking a moment to stare at the crimson streak on his hand before replying. “Very sorry.”

  “Don't apologize! I should say thanks to you for managing to bring him back here without getting lost, or alerting the police.”

  Brandon pulled out a handkerchief so gray and tattered it was impossible to tell where the stains ended and the clean parts began. He pressed it up against his nose. “You're welcome, sir.”

  “I'm not a sir.”

  “Sorry, Jack.”

  The red-whiskered man raised up his cane. “My name is Tim Hogan, if ya still care ta know.” With his left hand he reached down through a hole on the inside of his coat and slipped his hand, unseen, into his vest pocket, using his fingertips to grasp one of the glass spheres. “I figured that the Children of Eschaton was just a name, but I guess the ‘children’ part was right.”

  Jack turned in his direction and smiled. “Clever, Mr. Hogan.” He took a single step toward him, but with his long legs it moved him a great deal closer. “But then, you would have to be, in order to uncover the name of a secret organization that only recruits members from men it chooses to invite.” He began unbuttoning his black coat, flicking the buttons open one at a time with a snap of his fingers. The cloth draped heavily as it peeled apart, pulled downward by a row of small but nasty looking steel knives that had been sewn into the jacket lining on either side.

  “I'm not that smart,” Tim continued. “I simply heard two men talking about yer crew. It sounded interestin', so I thought I'd go ahead and ask around.”

  “Unlikely story.” Ignoring the blades he had just revealed, Jack reached into the outside pocket and pulled out the knife he had been using to peel the apple. With a smooth snap of his wrist, he flicked it open.

  “You say that, but now that I've met a few of yer men, I'm thinkin’ they're not the sharpest tools in the box.”

  Jack chuckled. “Are you listening, boys? This man says he doesn't think you're very bright.”

  Somewhere under his walrus mustache Brandon smiled. “I may not be smart, but I am useful, aren't I, Jack?”

  “You are indeed.” The tall man smiled back as he spoke to Brandon. His grin managed to be warm and predatory at the same time. “You should know, Mr. Hogan, that Mr. Kurtz here is a medical marvel. He is not only twice as strong as he is stupid, but he was born entirely without a conscience. There is no act on God's green earth too despicable or debased for him to carry out if I order him to do it. If you want kittens drowned, of any size or species, then Brandon Kurtz is the man to do the job. It makes him tremendously useful for extracting information or inflicting punishment.”

  The German nodded and stammered, “Th-thanks, Jack.”

  Jack patted the German on the shoulder. “Now, hopefully Tim, you'll give me the answers I'm looking for, so I won't find it necessary to unleash him on you.”

  Tim put his cane on the ground and swayed forward slightly. “You know my name, and I already met Mr. Kurtz, back at the bar. But we still haven't been formally introduced.”

  Jack snapped shut the knife in his hand and opened his arms wide, letting the polished blades that lined his jacket glitter in the murky light. “The boys around here call me Jack Knife.”

  “Then I guess I'm pleased ta meet ya, Jack.” Shoving his cane up under his left arm, Tim took a step forward, his hand outstretched. The other men immediately jumped up, thrusting their hands into their pockets.

  “That's all right, boys. He's just an old man. He isn't going to do any harm.” But instead of returning the gesture, he flicked the knife in his hand open again. “Now that you've found us, Mr. Hogan, what would you like to know? Ask me anything you like, anything at all.”

  “I heard you boys are working on a job. Something big.”

  “And you think you can help?”

  “I may be old, but my hands are still good. There's not a safe built that I can't open up.”

  “A cracksman? Well that would be most useful to us, except for one small problem.”

  “And what would that be?” He let one of the balls drop down his pant leg. It rolled softly off his shoe and dropped to the pavement.

  Jack lifted up his knife. “Your beard, it's peeling off. And honestly, that's the sort of thing can make you doubt a man's veracity.”

  Tim's hand reached up toward his face, stopping a foot away from his cheek. He looked into Jack's eyes, but they were giving nothing away.

  “Now then, boys,” Jack said, his grin widening. “What you see here is what the educated folks call a ‘conundrum.’” He flipped his knife up in the air and caught it without a thought. “Because Mr. Hogan here is either sure that his beard is real, and stopped because the very idea of it peeling off his face is utterly ridiculous, or he is wearing a false beard, and he's afraid if it isn't peeling off he'll give the game away for sure if he checks it. Either way, we know something he doesn't.”

  Brandon opened his mouth to speak, and Jack jabbed his elbow into his chest. The German gasped as he doubled over, sputtering. “So don't give away the game, Brandon. I'd be very angry if you ruined my fun.”

  The red-whiskered man stood frozen and then slowly lowered his arm. “It's as real as the hair on your head.”

  “Unless, of course, it is peeling, in which case I know you're a liar.”

  “And why would I be wearing a pair of false whiskers?” He lifted his cane a few inches off the ground.

  “I can think of a few, actually, but how about we try this one on for size?” Jack's smile grew. “Because you're actually Peter Wickham, the Sleuth, and you've come to try to find out who it was that killed Dennis Darby.”

  “Damn,” he said in a most perfect and proper English accent, and smashed the tip of the cane down onto the glass sphere at his feet. It exploded violently, ripping the cane out of his hand and sending up a cloud of white smoke that enveloped him completely.

  Wickham used the momentum of the explosion to throw himself backward, hoping the commotion and confusion could allow him to appear to vanish. It would have been no small feat to pull off the trick successfully at the best of times, and Jack was clearly a man to be reckoned with.

  Two small steel blades ripped through the cloud. The first passed through empty air, traveling throug
h the space that had been occupied by Wickham's head only a moment before.

  The second blade struck directly into his chest.

  “Damn and damn,” he repeated as he fell.

  As a young girl Sarah had enjoyed sneaking around inside the Stanton mansion, imagining herself fighting bad people in faraway places. Grown-ups would not only play the role of whatever imaginary evil it was that she had dreamed up, but they were, more often than not, genuine foes of grand adventures and interesting secrets. And now, years later, she was fully grown, and still skulking around the halls of her house, hoping to avoid any other adults.

  At least the servants were far less capable than Mr. Wickham. Yesterday, when one of the maids had caught Sarah riffling through the papers in the basement, it had been easy to convince the woman that Sarah was simply looking for something of her mother's, and the maid had let her be.

  The only one of the house staff that she was genuinely afraid of was O'Rourke. The gray-haired butler had informed her father of every infraction she committed in the house, no matter how small, and he had done it for longer than she could remember. Any new bits of strange behavior by “the young miss” were simply fresh suspicion to be added to the mountain.

  Not that his opinion actually mattered much. She had been given the free run of most of the mansion after her mother died, although there were still two places where her presence might arouse more than just a few casual questions. The first was the library, simply because it was somewhere that women weren't ever invited or welcomed.

  She had been caught in there once, years ago, after having spent a most enjoyable hour unrolling the cigars in her father's humidor one after another in a naïve attempt to discover what it was at the center of the strange brown cylinders that made them able to produce so much smoke.

  But eleven years later she wouldn't be able to get away with simply claiming ignorance and shedding a few tears, although she was sure that she could come up with some suitably convincing story that would keep the help from telling her father.

  The other room was another matter entirely. The prohibition against being in her father's office was absolute, and had been enforced with the promise of a spanking (or worse) from the time Sarah had been old enough to know what the term “off-limits” truly meant. Not that it had been enough to keep her out the last time….