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

by Andrew P. Mayer

  The blush rose even higher into his cheeks. “You weren't my intended target.” He made a noise that landed somewhere between a mumble and a chuckle. “But you'll do.”

  “You're drunk!”

  “What of it?”

  She crossed her arms and stared at him. “Again.”

  “And when everyone leaves me alone, I become sober again in the morning.”

  Sarah was staring down at the lit candle in a holder on the floor. “But will the house still be standing by then?”

  “I'm sure the tin toy will put out any fires I might start.”

  “Tom isn't your manservant, Nathaniel.” She took a step closer to the bed. “In fact, as I understand it, you were allowed to stay in this house with the understanding that you were to be the caretaker.”

  “Is that what your father told you, Sarah?”

  “Yes, it is. He said that Sir Dennis willed Tom the mansion.”

  He looked up at her and sneered. “And that's true, as far as it goes.”

  Sarah narrowed her gaze. “If you ever want to be the master of anything, then you should get off your drunken rear end and start acting like a gentleman.”

  “I thought you just said the Automaton is the master of the mansion?” He let out a wry chuckle. “And if, my dearest Sarah, Queen Victoria herself were to decree that the royal carriage were destined to become the true son and heir to the throne of England, it doesn't mean that the people would be willing to actually have the coronation for King Coach once she died.” He stepped up from the bed and pulled the bottle back out of Tom's hand.

  Sarah stepped forward. “What are you saying, Nathaniel?”

  He put the bottle up to his lips and drank the remains. “No matter what fantasies you, Darby, or that perverted old detective have in your heads, this machine is no more capable of being a ‘master’ of anything than a doorknob is the ‘master’ of a door.” He thrust the empty bottle back into the Automaton's hand. “It's just a device. Machines don't have servants, own houses, or care about people. And they definitely don't love Sarah Stanton, patron saint of contraptions.”

  She looked down at her shoes and shook her head. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “I'm trying to explain that stuffing a man-shaped dressmaker's dummy with wires and gears does not magically make it a human being. And that means I,” he said, sticking his thumb into his chest, “am the master of this mansion now, so I expect to be treated with respect.” He tugged his cravat off his neck and threw it at Tom so that it landed on the Automaton's shoulder. “And I expect you to ring the damn front bell before you come barging in.”

  Sarah pushed past Tom and stood at the side of the bed shaking a kid-gloved finger down at Nathaniel. “You really are a complete ass. If there's any of Sir Dennis left in this world, it lives inside Tom's heart. And I can only imagine how hurt Darby would be to see you tonight, drunk and sprawling in your own filth like a spoiled gutter rat.” She whipped her hand behind her to point at Tom. “He's more honest and human than you'll ever be.”

  “Then leave me alone, Sarah. You can't fix me, and I don't need a mother hen.”

  “What?” She sounded genuinely shocked.

  “Pardon me,” said Tom.

  “We're not children any longer,” Nathaniel continued. I don't need a mommy anymore—especially not one whose own mother is long dead. You won't save me with temperance and clucking.”

  “Nathaniel, I know you wish that you and I were…But we've known each other since we were children. That must mean something to you.”

  “Excuse me,” Tom repeated.

  “It means I can ask you to leave.” Nathaniel looked down at the floor and sighed. “I may have to live here with him, but I didn't invite you.” He put his hand up over his eyes. “I just need some peace and quiet so I can enjoy my state of inebriation.”

  Sarah took the bottle out of Tom's hand. “And I didn't come here to see you either, Nathaniel. I was supposed to meet Mr. Wickham.”

  “Why does everyone have a key to this place?” He slumped forward. “I suppose you're planning on trading late-night makeup tips with your lavender uncle.”

  Sarah crossed her arms in front of her. “If you want me out of your life so badly, then I'll do the best I can to grant you your wish.”

  “…Mr. Winthorp.”

  “Yes, damn you. What is it?” he shouted. “What is it I can do for the steam shovel that walks and talks like a man?”

  “I wish to stay in…the mansion. I will do what I can to regain your…trust. I am sorry for whatever I've done to make you…angry at me and will do my best to convince you of my…good intentions.”

  Without looking at him Nathaniel flopped back onto his bed. “You can start by going: g-o-i-n-g. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tom turned and left the room.

  “I hope you're pleased with yourself, Nathaniel Winthorp.”

  “I'll be pleased once you're gone as well, Sarah Stanton. Feel free to see yourself out once you've finished your tryst with the sodomite.”

  Sarah pursed her lips tightly for a moment, holding in something that she dearly wanted to say but clearly thought she had better not.

  Spinning on her heels she shut the door behind her with a solid slam.

  She passed Tom still moving across the upper landing. He was walking with a hobble—perhaps slightly more smoothly than he had when she'd seen him in the laboratory underneath the Hall of Paragons, but still obviously damaged.

  Too angry to stop, she trotted past him and then clambered down the stairs as fast as her legs could go. Her shoes clacked across the marble of the entry hall as she stormed into the main corridor and turned right into the darkened parlor.

  The glass panes in the double doors rattled as she slammed them shut behind her. She shouted into the darkness, “Gaaaaraaah! You're a damnable, beastly, frustrating child!”

  And another voice answered her. It came from a chair in the darkest corner of the room. “Sir Dennis used to say that it was only worthwhile judging the character of a man in a crisis.”

  Sarah gasped. “Mr. Wickham!”

  “Indeed, my dear.” He unfolded slowly out of the chair and stood up. Sarah could almost feel the aches in his bones as he stretched with a series of audible cracks and pops. “Although I can't think why you should be surprised. This is where I told you we should meet, and at about this time.” He was wearing his full costume; although this time he was carrying a cane with him as well. The top end was a hollow sphere of brass with a magnifying glass mounted into the center of it. As he walked toward her he leaned on the cane heavily. He seemed frailer than the last time she had seen him. “Where else would I be?”

  “Nathaniel has me all wound up.” Sarah tried to force herself to smile, then gave up the effort. “But if you'll pardon me for saying so, sir, you don't look well.”

  The grin that the Englishman flashed back at her was less than convincing. “No…I suppose I don't.” He pulled off his long black coat and threw it on the settee. “So far it has been a grueling investigation, both physically and mentally.”

  “Sit down, then. I'm sure we can find you something to drink.”

  He swayed slightly as he leaned against the sofa. “No, no liquor my dear, thank you. I find that it dulls the mind, and at my age there are enough natural impairments to my reasoning that I would rather not pile on any artificial ones.” He pointed at the couch and Sarah took a seat.

  “I did some searching around my house.”

  His eyes grew wide. “I never told you to—”

  “I know you didn't, but I wanted to see if there was something there that could help you.”

  “You're a very silly girl. There was no need.”

  She pulled out the folded piece of paper and pressed it into his hand. “I don't know what it means, but I found it in my father's closet.”

  He unfolded it and read it out loud: “‘Section 106 removed and reordered as requested.’�
�

  “Does that mean anything to you?”

  He pondered it for a moment and then looked up at her. “Not particularly,” he said as he refolded the page and slipped it into his pocket. “But I'll look into it.

  “Now, Tom will be along any second, and there's something I must tell you before he arrives.”

  “Surely there's no need for us to keep any secrets from him?”

  Wickham stood hunched above her. “He has many admirable qualities, but his grasp of guile is a bit…unreliable. It might be better if we only told him what he needs to know.”

  The irregular clump of Tom's footsteps could be heard from the corridor outside.

  Wickham reached into his collar. Pulling out the necklace, he slipped the lead key over his head. “Take this,” he said, grabbing her hand and pressing it into her palm.

  “Your element?” She wrapped her hand around it, pulled it to her chest for an instant, and then held it back out to him. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  He shook his head and used his hand to wrap hers back around it. “Keep it safe, of course.”

  “But…”

  “There's no time to argue. No one must know you have it.” Standing above her he looked her straight in the eyes with a serious expression. “Not even your father. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I mean, I don't understand why, but—”

  Tom came into view behind the glass. “And you must only ever use it if something should happen to me.”

  “Use it? How would I use it? And is something going to happen?”

  “Hush, now put it away!”

  Sarah stuffed it into a pocket just as the doorknob turned and the tall French doors to the room opened wide. Tom hobbled in.

  “Close the door behind you. And you may drop the act in front of Sarah, Tom.”

  “Yes…Mr. Wickham.” Tom straightened up as he pulled the doors closed, any trace of his hobbled gait vanishing as he glided toward them, as graceful as he had ever been.

  Sarah clapped her gloved hands together. “But you're fine!”

  “I have repaired myself, Miss…Stanton.”

  Wickham whispered to her conspiratorially. “But the others mustn't know, my dear. It was done quite without their permission.”

  She stood up and put her hand on his shoulder. “It's abominable the way you're being treated, Tom. This is your house, and you're one of the Paragons!” She stood up and looked him over. “They're selfish, foolish men.”

  “Foolishness, I've discovered, is an unavoidable human trait,” Wickham sighed. “But they're far worse than that, I'm afraid—they're weak and afraid.”

  Sarah let out a sardonic laugh. “All my life all I've ever heard them talk about is how powerful they are. What could they be afraid of?”

  Wickham looked her in the eye. “Progress, disease, old age—all the things that eventually rob every man of his power and glory.” He stood up, a touch of the old gleam back in his eye. “But only one of them is afraid that the Sleuth will uncover his secret.”

  Sarah rolled her head slightly to one side. “Please, Mr. Wickham, I'm in no mood for riddles. What do you mean? What secret?”

  “The seeds of my investigation have borne bitter fruit. I'm now sure that there is indeed a traitor amongst the Paragons.”

  “A spy perhaps, or a new villain, but—”

  “Only a Paragon could have removed Tom's replacement body from the hall the morning of Sir Dennis's death. Only the Paragons knew where Darby was going to be the morning that he was killed. He hadn't even told you where you were going before you left for the bridge.”

  “That's true.” Sarah sat back down. “But then who was it?” She thought of the paper she had given him, and of her father's ascension. She stared straight into the Englishman's eyes. “You think it's my father.”

  “What?” The Sleuth sat next to her. “No, I don't….I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't think about how that might affect you….” He took her hand. “I'm not sure who it is, not yet, although I have my suspicions. But I'm almost positive your father is innocent. Alexander Stanton is one of the founders of the Paragons, and if he has one great failing it's that he's too loyal to this group. He may care too much about costumes and not enough about actual people, but he's no turncoat.”

  “But if it did turn out to be him…you'd have to stop him, wouldn't you?”

  “Sarah, if the new leader of the Paragons turned out to be a traitor, I'm not sure what stopping him would even mean. I can only promise that I'll follow every clue wherever it goes.”

  “I understand, Mr. Wickham.”

  “And I'll tell you what I've discovered the very moment I have something worth telling. But right now I need you to be brave and to do what it is I ask of you, no matter what happens. I think that many lives may soon depend on that, not the least of them your own.”

  He stood. “But it seems to me that you've already been through more than enough for one night.” He pulled a silk rope by the door, and a bell rang in the distance. “My footman is in the pantry. He'll get you home. Tell him I'll be spending the night here.”

  He had her moving through the door before she could find a moment to object. “Now I have things I need to discuss with Tom, privately.”

  Sarah resisted Wickham's attempts to sweep her along, but it was almost as if he was dancing her out of the room. “But I can still help!”

  “Of course you can, my dear. But the best help you can be right now is to not be here.” He leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead. It seemed like his ability to send women on their way was a move that had been well practiced. “You're a brave, beautiful girl, Sarah Stanton. It's obvious to me why Dennis held you in such high regard.”

  Sarah kissed him on the cheek. “You'll take care of yourself?”

  His eyes turned to Tom and then glanced back at her. “Of course I will.”

  “And we'll talk soon?”

  “Yes, my dear. But it's getting late, and your father will be worried, I'm sure.”

  She pursed her lips together for a moment, deciding just how obstinate she wanted to be. Then she stuck out her hand. “Good night, Mr. Wickham.”

  He put out his own, and they shook. “Good night, Sarah.”

  She walked down the hallway toward the entrance, leather soles clicking as they struck the marble floor. When she reached the main entrance she turned and looked back. Reflected in the lamplight she saw the Automaton's hand as it…as he, closed the door to the study.

  The silence inside the warehouse was only broken by an occasional tapping as the howling wind outside knocked the door against its frame. Each rattle was followed by a long, strained tone as the air was sucked out through the cracks, moaning like a demented oboe.

  The back-and-forth of rattle and moan had been going on uninterrupted for hours when the calm was broken by a violent thump against the door that made it shudder, sending small crumbs of dust and brick raining down.

  The second attack quickly followed, even more violent than the first. The third thundering blow was more than the lock could take, and the thick bolts snapped free, followed, an instant later, by a series of pings as pieces of broken metal landed on the floor.

  A gust of wind blew the door open wide, slamming it up against the side wall. Behind it came a blast of light and snow from the street, revealing—had anyone actually been there to see it—a shadowed figure standing ominously in the doorway.

  Snow had stopped falling from the sky hours before, but the temperature had dropped precipitously as the clouds were blown away. In this crisp and gusty winter's night, the cold had tempered the snow that had already fallen, and the north wind was now blowing the brittle flakes around the streets in swirling drifts.

  The Automaton stepped into the building. He attempted to shut the door behind him, but without the lock there was nothing to hold it in place, and it began to fly back toward him the moment he relaxed his grip.

  Tom removed his right glove, revealing a
palm sliced from a bronze cylinder, a squared section along the bottom acting as his wrist. He wedged his hand against the edge of the heavy iron door and pushed hard against it until the frame bent inward slightly, forming a small pucker in the metal. He grabbed the edge of the door and heaved it closed. The wood ground into the iron with a rough squeal, wedging it tight. The wind could no longer make it rattle at all.

  With the winter wind sealed away, the moist warmth of the warehouse's interior settled around him, dew instantly forming on his exposed metal surfaces. The snow that clung to his clothes melted to liquid, then vanished into the fibers of his jacket and pants.

  The interior of the building seemed oddly immune to the weather outside. The concrete floors still held enough heat from whatever had gone on here during the day to keep the temperature inside tolerable, if not actually warm.

  Except for a two-story office that had been built along the far wall, the building was a single open space. Every window on the floor level had been blacked out with brown butcher paper covered over with a thick coating of pitch, and the whole space was dark and quiet. Whoever had decided to seal the room off clearly had no desire for anything from the outside to peer in, nor any need to see out.

  The thick gloom was broken only by the glow coming from the pilot lights in the gas lamps, as well as pinpricks of light leaking in though the wooden slats that made up the front of the building where the walls no longer fit together tightly.

  Tom lifted up his faceplate. It slid up on little rails that lifted it up and back over the top of his head until it clicked into place. Locked into the front of his brass skull was a large lens set in a brass tube.

  He held up his right hand and wrapped the fingers of his left around his steel wrist and pushed downward. A collar slid free and revealed a circular frame that held a small piece of quartz crystal surrounded by wires. He reached up and pulled back his thumb until it almost touched the back of his hand. There was a popping sound, and a bright spark appeared in the middle of the quartz. In the light the shape of the entire room was revealed. At the same instant the lens in his head clicked open, taking a photograph.