“He'd probably say the same about you, you know?”
“Hmph...I couldn’t tell you. The stubborn fool.”
“Who, him or you?”
“Shut up, Alan.”
After a long, tense drive through the outskirts that hug up against New London proper, Gren and I found ourselves nearing the monumental city line. Gren wisely kept us off the main streets for the most part, but the closer we got to the city, the tougher it became to remain in the shadows.
“Damn,” Gren said, slowing the Prospero to a quiet stop.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Look.”
A thick cluster of helmets, rifles, and red crown insignias had set up watch just ahead where our path met the horizon.
“Magnates,” I frowned. “Wonderful.”
“What did you expect, Pocket? We're—”
“Here's a thought, Gren. How about we save the noisy lectures for a time when we're not in earshot of the men with guns?”
“Oh, they can't hear us from here.”
“Let's not take the chance, what do you say?”
“Fine. So now what?”
“Backtrack? Try another route?”
“This is the most secluded entrance to the main city I know,” Gren glumly admitted. “I really doubt we'd have better luck elsewhere.”
“All right...uh...let me think.”
“No time!” Gren spouted, leaping out of the driver's seat.
“Whoa! What are you doing?”
“We have no choice,” he muttered, fiddling with the satchel he had brought along.
“Yes, we do! We have plenty of choice! Don't act like a maniac, that's a choice!”
“Who said anything about being a maniac?” Gren responded.
And then he brought out the gun.
“What the hell is that?!?” I exclaimed as he wielded the thing.
“It's a scattergun, what do you think?”
“I think I've seen one before, and it doesn't look like that.”
Gren grinned like a proud father holding his firstborn. “Yeah. This one's special.”
Allow me to pause for a moment and share a little insight I have picked up concerning Mister Gren Spader, insight gained from my various travels, collected gossip, and direct observations of, well, Gren being Gren. For instance, the man loves his toys, much like the Priest or Jack or Kitt or the Marins or practically anyone living in this age of shiny baubles. Now, this may come as some surprise to many among you, dear audience—
“Again, I'm the only one here.”
“Quiet.”
It may come as a surprise, as Gren has not exhibited such behavior thus far in my telling. But remember, dear audience, that in this narrative, Gren has yet to come in contact with any of his prized possessions.
“The point, Pocket?”
The point being, dear, patient, silent audience, is that Gren takes great pride in the tools at his disposal, even if all logic says that he shouldn't.
Such was the case with this gun.
Gren's scattergun began its life as a typical, double-barreled slug-spitter, just a dingy secondhand firearm the gambler acquired for means of protection around the time of his first bullet wound. Then, as Gren explained to me, the Red Priest got his hands on it and implemented a series of, let's say “bold,” alterations, the most notable of which was the hardwired installation of two Tesla coils that, when heated, supply a short electrical spark behind a chambered slug, increasing its speed and chances of penetration. The Priest even connected a pair of glass bulbs that would light up when the coils were fully charged, so that the shotgun's wielder would be cued to fire. Sounds impressive, I know, but there is a “however” attached, as there always seems to be. However, potent as these adjustments were, the end result was highly unpredictable. The Priest, skilled as he is, warned Gren that the flow of electricity to the twin barrels was something not completely regulated by his design and should be considered unpredictable and dangerous.
Gren chose to ignore this warning, slapped a scope on the thing, and carved the shapes of card suits down the side.
“I thought you hated the card puns on your last name,” I said to him.
“Don't get off topic,” he retorted. “The point is that this little piece of craftsmanship is going to get us into the city. I call it the Half-Luck, my personal Tesla scattergun.”
He put the grin back on, expecting compliments, I'm sure.
“Half-Luck,” I dryly said. “Because it'll blow up half the time?”
“Hmph, lotta fun you are, Pocket. Just get in the driver seat.”
I slid over in the Prospero. “Okay,” I said, then stopped and added. “Why?”
“Because I can't drive, aim, and shoot, that's why!”
“I don't think I'm following your plan, Gren.”
“Look, it's simple. You just keep your head down and get this thing to as high a speed as possible. I'll fire a few shots, get them to scatter, and we'll just roll on through.”
I crossed my arms at him. “No.”
“We have to.”
“No.”
Gren put on a very sour look, thought things over, and pointed his gun to the sky. The weapon made a loud whine and, moments later, the attached bulbs filled with a glowing light. Gren pulled the trigger and a loud round shot into the air followed by smoke and sparks that emptied out of the barrel. The soldiers in the distance immediately turned their attention to us and lifted their weapons.
“Aw, gee,” Gren said, “looks like they've spotted us. Guess we'd better go ahead with my plan before they shoot us dead.”
“I hate you,” I muttered, starting up the steam car.
Gren jumped back into the vehicle and down the way we went, barreling furiously upon the opposing force, dodging our heads around their flying buckshot. Bullets smacked with a tinging rhythm against Gren’s plating as he stood up in his seat.
“The bastards are ruining this shirt,” he said, aiming the Half-Luck.
“Gunfire will do that!” I said, terrified.
A low whine came from Gren’s weapon as the coils charged up. We continued to speed directly into the ammunition, and as we ventured closer, our left propeller was shot out of position.
“Gren!” I yelled.
“Almost,” he promised, lining up a shot. Then, the twin light bulbs filled with that wildly electric white-blue glow. The whole damned contraption seemed to jump and shake in Gren’s hands, and I couldn’t determine if that reaction came from the unstable nature of the firearm or the fear and excitement of its wielder. Either way, I was less than relaxed.
“Hey there!” Gren shouted to the now-very-enraged troops. “You boys want to see something great?”
He squeezed the trigger, and in a loud, volatile, and searing blast of active, animated, fiery technological ingenuity…the gun misfired, and in a nasty bit of black smoke, Gren was thrown backward out of the Prospero.
“Gren!” I stupidly yelled, momentarily angry at him for ending up in the dirt. Larger problems, however, soon commanded my attention. I was still speeding toward the mob, and panicking, I turned the wheel sharply to the left. Magnates swore and dove out of the way as the Prospero spun. One gunman got a shot into the back right wheel and the whole steam car bucked wildly. I was losing control. Fighting with the wheel, I somehow managed to steer the Prospero off of the road and towards the patch of forest at its side. Quickly glancing back as I rode into the woods, I saw a flock of Magnates swarming on Gren as others began to chase after me on foot.
I rode blindly through the trees for the next few minutes, eventually losing each soldier who had given chase after me. When at last I felt that I was free of them, I made one more bad decision, taking the Prospero over a small hill that I thought might serve as decent cover while I gathered my very shaken and unsteady nerve. Why was this a bad decision? Because the small hill wasn’t small. I yelped, fingers desperately clutching the wheel, as the steam car rolled and romped dangerously d
own the slope at breakneck speed. I remember thinking in those terrible moments that I was disappointed not to see the envisioned chapters of my life pass before me. I had always hoped that, as a living man of flesh fated someday to die, I would have at least one final bit of entertainment before it all went black. Perhaps, the depressing thought struck me, my life lacked any scene interesting enough to appear before me. That seemed to me the greatest tragedy a man could endure, to go to death without truly knowing life. Was such to be my fate?
Of course not, I told myself. My life as a whole may have been thus far underwhelming, admittedly, but the events of the last few weeks had more than made up for that. I had raced through the shadows of New London, flown with sky pirates, fought my way through lucid nightmares brought on by the steam of a mystic tea, met and loved a woman composed of clock parts, and this, this was how it was all to end? Slapped against a tree down a steep hill, without so much as a few memories appearing?
Maybe then this wasn’t my moment to die. Or if it was, hell, I wasn’t satisfied with it, so I rejected it. Holding my breath, I leapt from the falling Prospero, landing hard on the sloped land with my arms tucked. I bruised my torso, as the thick glass bottle I still wore on my side bounced against the ground and into my ribcage. My tumbling body finally came to rest on the slope, and a loud crash in the distance informed me of the Prospero’s fate.
I felt ill.
Minutes passed, maybe hours. I don’t know. I just sat and thought for awhile, thoroughly frustrated and lonely. After avoiding the moment for far too long, I followed the Prospero’s trail until I was rejoined with what was left of the steam car.
The front of the carriage was completely wrecked, smashed into a pair of gnarled, thick-bottomed trees. Shiny parts littered the ground, and with a sigh, I placed a finger against one of the propellers, its pole now hanging completely bent at the side, and spun its small blades. The back of the Prospero was sitting slightly lifted, its rear wheels floating above the ground.
Then a thought struck me and I jumped onto the rear of the broken carriage, feverishly clawing at the backseat. I returned to the earth disheartened, clutching a beaten box and wand.
The Watchmaker’s Doll’s toy, the quaint little bubblemaker made out of her own insides, was now noticeably bent and knotted. I dropped to my knees, feeling like I would weep yet completely unable to do so. I ran my hand along the device. Even in such a small way, I thought, I couldn’t keep the girl I love safe. I offered a silent apology to the toy, and turned the crank. Incredibly, a single, pink, soap bubble appeared and floated over my head into the sky.
I smirked. Then I smiled. Then I laughed. Perhaps the Doll was of tougher stuff that I had given her credit for. As if serving to reawaken my resolve, a ringing of church bells flowed to me from the distance.
I was near the city, I remembered.
And just maybe, it wasn’t too late to act.
Tucking the toy under my arm, I left the Prospero and hurried through the brush, lifting my feet toward the city lights. I hoped to God that Gren knew where he had been driving us.
Gren.
My thoughts shot back to that flash of an image I had seen in my escape, of the swarm of soldiers descending upon my fallen friend. He was surely in their custody now, if they hadn’t shot him on sight.
I’m sorry, Gren.
Anger swelled up within me. Damn it, Spader! Why couldn’t you have just stayed behind on the Lucidia like I told you to?!? Damn him! And damn Kitt for sending us out on this stupid chase in the first place! Damn them both! And damn myself for that matter, standing foolishly by and letting all of this come to pass! Damn this whole, filthy, ugly…
I stopped myself and tried to calm down. Losing my temper would do nothing but hinder me now. I had to keep progressing forward. It was all I could do.
Eventually I came to a stretch of cobblestone that led into the back of a pork processing factory. I traced the length of the building and crossed over to an adjacent alleyway squeezed between a strip of shops. The rise of familiar, urban chatter told me I was back into the city.
Welcome home, Mister Pocket.
“Surprisingly easy, eh Pocket? After all of that madness and gunfire, no barricade, no patrol around the pork plant? Seems odd.”
“Maybe the Magnates are bred with noses too tender and sophisticated for such ‘earthly’ smells. Maybe, unlike me, they cared whether or not their clothing took on the smell of hog’s fat.”
“Hmph. Seems like it would fit them.”
I moved through the city surprisingly easily for a wanted man, shooing away citizens claiming to the “somewhat familiar” nature of my face and sustaining myself with the bills I was given from the investors’ ball heist. Still, I wasn’t comfortable or foolish enough to get within speaking distance of any royal official, no matter how oblivious they may have seen.
There was one moment when I thought I may have been spotted. I was rounding a corner when I came face to face with my own likeness pasted upon a wall amidst other wanted individuals. A bony-armed old woman stopped upon seeing me. Slowly her eyes bounced back and forth from the posters to yours truly. I grinned innocently at the woman, trying to cover my nerves. I could nearly hear the old lady’s mind turning, working, trying to make the connection. Fortunately, her thought process was interrupted before it could come to fruition, as a postman appeared and covered the wall with a fresh batch of criminal portraits. The one that covered mine did not even contain a face, just a crude sketch of a man in a round, latticed diver’s helmet with a caption that read “Ken Atlantic, of the Sea Gypsies.” The old lady chewed on her teeth for a moment, staring at me, and finally shrugged the matter away and scuttled off. I let out a breath of relief.
“Thanks, Sea Gypsy,” I whispered to the poster, “whoever the hell you are.”
I rented a room.
A dusty, dingy hole of a room.
But my renter was an ask-no-questions kind of bloke, so I raised no complaints. Besides, I wasn’t planning on a lengthy stay. I remember sitting on that bumpy rock of a mattress, kicking my heels on the floorboards. The great shine of the Red Priest’s golden boots made a horrible contrast with the place, and they seemed to me suddenly ridiculous. Even my renter, discreet as he was, raised a brow at them, the pile of progress’s scraps clad to an unfitting pair of skinny legs.
I spent the rest of the day in that room, trying to put together a plan of action. The realization struck me that this was the first time in awhile that I was truly alone, free from the noise and clatter and shouting of this bizarre escapade, and the silence quickly annoyed me. In the evening, rain fell outside of my one grimy window. I took out one of the Frenchman’s remaining cigarettes. As I put my lips to it, a bitter thought rose in my brain.
“Is this why?” I muttered to the lonely room, cigarette hanging out over my shadow. “Smoke in the rain, find a little magic? Was that my failure?”
The rain against the window provided my only conversation.
“Had I made it work, gotten a flicker in a downpour, would I be somewhere better?”
The cigarette slipped from my mouth and fell. I caught and clutched it with my left hand.
“Or someone better?”
The rain fell harder. I rose from the stone bed and looked out at the drenched London. An empty smile crossed my face.
“So what if I try it now?” I whispered. “I’m under the rain. Sure, there’s a roof between it and me, but what’s that but a technicality? Maybe I could still squeeze a little magic out. Hell, maybe that’s all magic is. Just a well-spun technicality.”
I rummaged through my pockets, then through the room. There was no match to be found. I cried a mournful laugh, slapping my hands together, and shoved the cigarette back into the depths of my coat.
“Oh, well played, Frenchman!” I howled. “Not about to let a cheat slip by in your little game, eh? Well played, indeed!”
I laughed until I wept, or I wept until I laughed. One of the two.
Evening became night and I tried in vain to sleep. The hours passed, the blurry moon bending the shadows of my possessions, which I had left scattered carelessly on the floor. The stone I lay upon grew more and more rigid as the clock clicked forward. Not that it mattered. I could have been resting on the most luxuriously-crafted bed in existence. My mind was not going to offer me any rest. My thoughts plagued me, conjuring up images of Dolly and Kitt and Gren before sending them drifting off to melt into a grand, crashing nothing. So what was left then? Me? I was beginning to question just who was the lost in this damned chase, them or me.
Just before daylight, I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, sprawled haphazardly on the mattress in my worn trousers and stained, half-buttoned shirt. A dead sleep took me over. I remember a soft-edged darkness, not so much a dream as the performing space a dream would typically occupy.
And then I heard a voice.
“Mister Pocket?” it softly said. “Can you hear me?”
I felt myself gasp and in the dark I could suddenly discern my own hands, my own feet.
My voice.
“Dolly!” I shouted. “Is that you?”
“Mister Pocket,” she spoke. “You have to focus to make it work.”
“Make what work?!? Where are you?” I hurried in a panic through the emptiness, swatting with my arms. “I can’t see a thing!”
“Please focus.”
“Where are you?”
“Please…”
“Damn it, I’m trying! But I can’t see my way through this!”
Frustrated, I stomped my foot hard against whatever constituted the bottom of that blackness. Where my heel connected, a spark popped, and from that spot, a shaking road of ruby-colored glass appeared and began to flow like water into the distance.
“Come to me,” I heard the Doll say.
“This is glass. It’ll shatter.”
“Please…I want you to.”
“Dolly—“
“I’m scared!”
“All right! Just…okay, just give me a moment.”
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 48