by Quinn Loftis
“Exactly,” said the larger woman. “Infuse the walker’s legs with this metal, they become stronger. The legs don’t break, giving us time to send in a team to free the machine if it can’t extricate itself. That’s just the first of many applications. I can’t wait to show the new formula to Tesla. I’m sure to be promo— Hey, you got a problem, pal?” The woman stopped midsentence and barked at Foster, apparently noticing him eavesdropping.
“I … uh … no, just interested, that’s all,” Foster stammered “Very … fascinating work.”
“Mind your own business,” said the pink-haired woman and they both stood up, turned their back on Foster, and moved across the room to find a new table.
Lovely birds. He looked around the room, beginning to grow impatient waiting on Zacharias. The assistant inspector waited alone for a few more moments, wondering what could be keeping his old friend. Just as Foster was about to give up and go home, already dreading having to give Inspector Hill a negative report in the morning, Zacharias came shuffling out of the revolving door. It didn’t take long for the little mechanic to spot Foster sitting by himself against the wall. Foster stood out in the Smoking Dragon like a water spot on a Rembrandt. Zacharias hurried over to where Foster was waiting and sat down in the seat opposite the large man.
“Couldn’t you have dressed a little less inconspicuous, you bipedal hippopotamus?” squeaked Zacharias, his two tufts of white hair bobbing furiously. “Didn’t you know that this was a mechanics’ pub?”
Foster was nonplussed. “Aye, but I guess I plum forgot that you lot were so touchy. I thought the guild was secretive, I didn’t think they’d stand around and watch me dehydrate.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about the guild then. Probably for the best, though. You wouldn’t have been able to pass as one of us anyway. You’re too … simple looking.”
“Hey, watch it, pal. I didn’t come here to be insulted.” Perhaps being so much bigger than everyone else, Foster was used to being compared to large mammals, but he apparently drew the line when someone ridiculed his intelligence. “I thought you had some information for me. Why’d you invite me here if it was going to be such a big deal?” asked John, scrutinizing the little mechanic.
“I don’t know. You caught me off guard, just showing up like that. It was the first place that came to me.”
Just then a skinny waitress wearing a tight corset and six-inch platform boots arrived at the table with a glass of bright yellow liquid, the surface of which was spitting green flames into the air. “Your usual, Zachy,” she said putting the drink on the table and ruffling one of Zacharias’ tufts of hair with her hand. “Anything for your … friend?” she asked, curling her lip and turning a withering stare to Foster.
“Ah, yes, thanks much, Matilda,” he said, yanking his head out from under the lady’s hand. “Drinks are on John tonight. He’s an old mate from the war. He’ll have a dirty sprocket, please, easy on the hydrogen.
“Whatever you say, doll,” she said, sauntering away.
“Drinks are on me, huh? This better be good, Zachy,” said John. “What do you know about the heart?”
Keep your voice down.” Zach hissed. “I’m already going to get the third degree from the higher ups just for talking to you. These piss ants in here are going to be crawling all over themselves trying to be the first one to report me. Suck ups, every one, they are.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the rest of the room.
“What, ya can’t even talk to folk that ain’t mechanics?” asked Foster incredulously.
“Not really, no. Don’t you know what happens to mechanics who go spilling guild secrets?
“I don’t know, chucked out, I reckon,” responded Foster.
“Ha, I wish. Tell me, Foster, do you know any retired mechanics?” Zacharias picked up his drink and blew on it, extinguishing the green flames. He took a long draught and squeezed his eyes shut. “Tasty.”
Foster didn’t have to think very long to answer Zacharias’ question. “You’re the only mechanic I know,” said John. “So, I guess not.”
“Well, it wouldn’t matter if you knew a thousand mechanics. There ain’t no retired ones. And do you know why there are no retired mechanics?”
“Just spit it out, little man.” Foster growled, beginning to wonder if his old friend had indeed lost his marbles somewhere along the way.
“There are no retired mechanics because once you sign on with the guild, you sign on for life. You live in the service of the guild. You die in the service of the guild. Granted, most mechanics are going to get themselves killed way before retirement age anyway, just because of the nature of the work. Accidents are bound to happen, especially when working with the crystals. But one sure way of having an ‘accident’ is to piss off the Master. And nothing pisses off the Master more than talking to outsiders.”
“Master?” Foster asked, a puzzled look on his face.
“Tesla—the man himself. Archimedes Tesla, the founder of the guild. Most of the mechanics call him the Master because … well … that’s what he is. He’s brilliant and ruthless, and he doesn’t tolerate any divided loyalty in the guild.”
“So why are you talking to me then?” asked Foster. “Isn’t it dangerous fer ya?”
“Damn right, but my reasons are my own. It’s enough for you to know that I’m tired of the guild, and I’m tired of their damn rules. Now, do you want to know about that heart, or don’t you?” asked Zach.
“Absolutely,” said Foster, not entirely sure he believed a word Zacharias was saying at the moment. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve his worn notebook.
“Get your hand outta your pocket,” hissed Zacharias. “You can’t write this stuff down. Are you crazy?”
The petite mechanic’s eyes zoomed around the room, praying no one was paying them too much attention.
“Should we go somewhere else?” Foster suggested, growing increasingly uneasy.
“No,” barked Zach. “It would look even more suspicious if we left together now. No, you just sit over there, listen to what I’m about to say, and try to keep a look of shock off that horse’s rear you call a face. Got me?”
For a reply, Foster simply made a grunting noise in his throat and stared at the little man.
“And try to smile every once in a while,” said Zacharias. “We’re supposed to be old friends from the war, having a reunion. I saved your life once, or at least that’s what I’m going to tell everyone when they come asking why you were here. I didn’t have much time on account of all the important guild work I’m doing to meet you anywhere else, but you were so persistent about catching up with an old friend and buying me a drink that I agreed to meet you here. People should buy that story. If they don’t … well … I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.”
“Okay, okay,” said Foster, plastering a most convincing grin on his face. “Tell me, old buddy, about the heart.”
Zacharias took one final glance around to ensure no one was paying too close attention to them and then began. “That heart sculpture you saw in the foyer is a replica of a real device—an amazing device that the guild is currently trying to find a use for.”
“Why make a statute of it?” asked John. “That seems a bit … off.”
“We’re all a bit off, you dolt. I don’t know why we do it. Mechanics have humongous egos, especially the higher ups. Any time one of them invents something they think is going to be revolutionary, they commission a sculpture to sit out front. It’s sort of a friendly competition between the bigwigs. When a mechanic gets a statute out front, she gets bragging rights, something she can hold over her peers.
“That device was made by one of the biggest wigs of them all—George Watt.” A look of disgust passed over Zacharias face when he said the man’s name. “Watt is practically Tesla’s right hand man,” he continued. “And if he’s working on a project, then you know it’s top priority.”
“Okay, so Watt m
ade this heart thingy. So how did it end up in the chests of two dead girls?”
“I can’t say for sure,” said Zacharias. “Above my pay grade. But I have a guess.”
“And?”
“Before we go any further, I should probably tell you how the flux crystals work.”
“What’s to know?” asked Foster. “You cut them up and they go boom. Use the boom to power your machines. I remember from the war.”
“Well, that’s a pretty crude explanation, but basically correct. It takes a tesla laser to do the cuts, and those things are for sure rare.”
“I assume Archimedes Tesla was the first to do this, which is why he is the ‘Master?’” asked John, using his fingers to make air quotes around the word Master.
“Exactly. But the thing that makes the crystals really special is that they can power anything. Not just dirigibles, not just walkers, not just lamps—anything.”
“Yeah, so?” said John.
“So, use that canned ham on top of your shoulders and think. What’s the one piece of machinery that always runs out of power in the end, no matter what? And once that machine runs out of power, it’s over. It can never be restarted or repaired. It doesn’t run on steam, coal, or even that godforsaken electricity. No one knows what makes this machine tick. Nobody.”
“You’re talking about people, human beings?” asked Foster.
“Bingo,” said Zach. “Human beings, the one machine that can’t be repaired or replaced. Now, what would happen if there was a way to make the engine of that machine run forever?”
Chapter Six
Wednesday, 4th May 1887
Sometime around 9:00 a.m.
Inspector Hill winced as the bell over Coventry Street station rang and his assistant walked in, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Hill groaned and took a long sip of black coffee, a drink he didn’t care for much but would consume on occasion when he was trying to vanquish the effects of a particularly wicked bender. The previous night’s bender was all that and more, and the vanquishing wasn’t going well.
“Hello, Inspector. Top of the morning to ya,’” Foster practically sang at the top of his lungs as he entered his shared office with Thomas, removing his coat and hanging it on a hook behind the door. He plopped into his chair and propped his feet on the desk with a noise that both sounded and felt like thunderclaps booming inside Hill’s head. A grunt was all he received in reply.
“Blimey, you look like stepped in horse manure.”
“Thank you, Foster. You are most helpful,” Thomas mumbled.
“Late night, eh?” John smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Musta been a good ’un.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Inspector Hill grunted and placed his head in his hands.
“Another way ta put it is that you went out and got yerself trolleyed.”
Foster drummed his hands on the desk, his grin growing even wider. Foster, notorious among the force for being able to drink anyone under the table, had rarely seen the inspector take so much as a sip. Now the man was looked as if he had the plague, cholera, and scarlet fever all rolled into one. “How in tha’ hell did this happen? And how in tha’ hell did I miss it? I been tryin’ to get you to loosen up fer years.”
“A friend was in a bad way last night.” Hill groaned, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, hoping he could somehow will the pounding in his head to stop. “He needed someone to commiserate with. We might have gone a tad overboard.”
“I’ll say,” replied Foster. “You know you coulda taken the morning off. People sometimes do that.”
“With a killer on the streets?” Hill asked, seeming to gain a little strength at the mention of their current case. “I think not.”
“Well, you’ll be glad you’re here then, even if you are operating at less-than-full capacity,” said John. “You won’t believe what Zacharias told me.”
Thomas’ eyes became fully clear and he sat up, forcing the crashing cymbals in his head to a back corner of his mind while he focused completely on his assistant.
“Do tell.” He pushed the words out past a scratchy throat.
“Zach thinks the hearts are part of a plan to make Archimedes Tesla immortal.”
Hill dropped his face back into his hands. “Mr. Foster, are you pulling my leg?” He groaned from behind his fingers.
“I know it sounds a bit daft, but hear me out.”
“A bit daft?” cried Thomas, raising his head, the light from their office window bringing the cymbals painfully back into the forefront of his head. “A bit daft? I can just hear my report now. Uh, yes, Chief Inspector, of course we solved the murders. Turns out it was Archimedes Tesla the whole time. He was playing Frankenstein with a couple of whores! Have you lost your mind, Foster?”
John chuckled. He was still imagining the kind of night the Inspector must have had to put the incorrigible man in such a state.
“Listen, Thom, I’m not saying that’s what’s going on. It’s a crazy theory, even for Zacharias. But I am saying those mechanics are a weird lot. I told ya before—off their rockers. They’re the ones missing a few marbles, not me.”
“Well, did you friend Zacharias have any proof of this outlandish theory?” asked Thomas.
“Ah course not. Somethin’ like that only the uppity-ups would know about. Like I said, it was a theory. But he’s on to somethin’, you mark my words.”
“How, Foster? How on god’s green earth could you believe something like this?”
“Have you ever been to the Smoking Dragon?” asked John.
“Of course not,” said Hill, with a look of incredulity on his face. “It’s mechanic’s only.”
“Ask yourself, Inspector, why would the mechanics need their own pub? Why can’t they just drink with the rest of us?”
“I don’t know. They keep to themselves, don’t they?”
“That they do,” responded Foster. “But it’s more than that. You should have seen the stink eye they were givin’ me when I walked in last night. Wouldn’t even serve me ‘til Zach got there. Plus, they was talkin’ about their inventions and such, but real secret-like. And did you know they call Tesla the Master?”
“Can’t say I did,” said Hill.
“And they kept turning their back on me, like I was some sorta leper.”
“Your point?” responded Thomas.
“Why would they be that secretive if they wasn’t up to no good?”
“I don’t know, Foster. Perhaps they just don’t want anyone to steal their ideas.”
“Like who? Do you know any inventors that aren’t in the mechanic’s guild?”
“Well, I guess not,” admitted Hill.
“Zach also said that those mechanics that go spillin’ guild secrets, well, they end up disappearin’ under mysterious circumstances.”
“What mysterious circumstances?” asked Hill, now growing impatient.
“Could be anything, couldn’t it? Maybe a crystal blows up in his face or a crawler slips out of gear and rolls over him. Who knows?
“All sorts of things could go wrong with the machinery they work with. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“What better way to cover it up if ya want someone eliminated?” Foster pressed.
“Be that as it may, that still leaves the question of proof. And I’m not nearly as concerned with missing mechanics as I am with the two dead women in our morgue.”
“I thought ya might be a bit skeptical, so I asked him to meet with us both. When you talk to him face to face, you’ll realize somethin’s going on. I looked into the man’s eyes, Thomas. There was real fear there. Somethin’s happenin’ at that guild that’s got ’im spooked.”
“Certainly wouldn’t hurt to meet him, I suppose. When is he coming in?
“Oh, he’d never set foot in a police station. I told ya he don’t have the best relationship wit’ the Yard. We have to meet him somewhere. I suggested the Lady of the Lake in Chelsea tomorrow night. It’s across town from Islington, much less chance o
f him being recognized.
“Good thinking, John. Your intimate knowledge of our city’s drinking establishments comes in handy once again. By the way, why aren’t you knackered this morning? If you were out late at the Smoking Dragon, I assume you partook of your own libations.”
“Ha,” barked Foster. “Nothin’ in that place was fit for an alley cat to drink. The stuff was boilin’ and bubblin’. Looked more like witches’ brew than alcohol. Some of it was actually ’ah fire. No, I let my drink fizzle out and get cold on the table, then I went home stone sober. Good thing, now that I’ve seen you. Someone’s gotta do the policin’ around here.”
Inspector Hill’s retort was interrupted as the bell above the door to the police station rang. Thomas winced but was relieved to notice the cymbals in his head had now reduced themselves to only discordant piano keys. He poked his head out into the hall and saw the impeccably dressed form of Dr. Jackson Elliot stooping to enter the station.
“Look, it’s my partner in crime from last night’s enjoyable evening,” said Hill as he rose and went into the foyer. “John Foster, meet my friend Dr. Jackson Elliot. Elliot, my assistant, Mr. John Foster.”
“Pleased,” said Jackson extending a hand. “I’ve heard much about you. I’m terribly sorry I’m just now meeting you.”
“Likewise,” said Foster shaking the offered hand. Foster, used to being the tallest person in the room, was actually eye level with Jackson. Though both men were well-muscled, Jackson was built like a lean gazelle, in sharp contrast to Foster, who looked as if he might be fashioned after a silverback gorilla. In the single word spoken by John Foster, Elliot recognized a West London accent. Instantly, Jackson knew that Foster was a man with whom he would have much in common, including, most likely, a shared childhood experience, fighting for survival in the city’s poorest district. Men with those kinds of backgrounds recognize the look in other men, a kind of unconscious hardness that cannot be softened, no matter how far removed from the past one gets.