Dear Will:
Earlier today, I was notified by the bank in Detroit that the account I funded on your behalf has been drawn upon, which means you have arrived. Which is wonderful, and I extend my sincere congratulations. However, I don’t know what to make of the bank’s report that it was a woman—claiming to be your wife and producing a marriage certificate to prove it—who came in to withdraw the funds.
I am left wondering just what the holy hell is going on. Who is this mystery woman? Is she part of a ruse you cooked up to avoid detection? If so, I guess I’m glad that you’re following my advice to “be careful”—but why, exactly, do you feel the need to be careful with me?
Here there was a break in the line of the text. It was clear that Ben had resumed the writing after some passage of time.
Well.
Just got a letter from our mother.
She has explained the situation to me, and I guess I don’t need to tell you that she is in an all-fired rage. Clearly, you followed my instructions on how to block her Sending, for the fact that she’s been unable to reach you is one of the major points of her fury.
What could have possessed you to marry Jenny Hansen? Don’t you know that’s just added insult to injury? It was one thing for you to go to Detroit against our parents’ wishes, but at least that was just a family matter and they might have pursued it quietly. But now you’ve brought D.L. Hansen and all his money into the mix! Don’t you know how many detectives a timber fortune can buy?
Let me put this plain. You must send Jenny home. Telegraph Mr. Hansen immediately, tell him where his daughter is, then get the hell out of the way. And while you’re at it, telegraph me too, and let me know that you’ve done it, because I won’t be able to rest until I know that you have.
If you value my advice even a little, please do exactly as I say.
Your brother always,
Ben
Will folded the letter away. He lay with his arm over his eyes, the pressure soothing his headache.
He considered the situation. If he telegraphed Mr. Hansen as Ben suggested, and let him know where Jenny was, it would indeed take care of many of the problems currently facing him—Jenny’s worrying secrecy, her taskmaster ways, the resentment of his fellow apprentices. It might even placate his parents into calling off their attempts to drag him home.
A little charge of fury made him frown. Why did his parents insist on seeing his actions as those of a spoiled child, instead of those of a man trying to choose his own destiny? Really, they were the ones who had forced him into this stupid corner. If Father had just let him go to Tesla Industries as he’d wanted, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have had to make this bargain with Jenny. He wouldn’t be forced to make this horrible choice—between protecting his own best interests and being disloyal to her.
He felt very low.
But wasn’t that the true measure of a man, he thought? That he held to the bargains he made, no matter what? And he had struck a bargain with Jenny. They’d spit-shaked on it, and she’d held up her end of the deal in every particular. If he sent her back he would be acting just like the spoiled child everyone thought he was. A spoiled child who’d made a childish mistake and was now trying to avoid a whipping.
No. He couldn’t give Jenny up, no matter how many problems it would solve for him. It would be disloyal and unfair. They’d find a way to make this work. Lay low, avoid anyone who might be looking for them. D.L. Hansen might be rich, and Father and Ma’am were surely implacable—but he and Jenny, they were smart. He would stick by her like she’d stuck by him.
“For better or for worse,” he concluded, and then almost immediately fell asleep.
Chapter Ten
The Scientist’s Apprentice
23 DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON
Will’s first week at Tesla Industries was a blur. Having grown up on a farm, Will was no stranger to hard work and long days, and having struggled his way to the top of his class at the Polytechnic, he knew how taxing intense mental activity could be. But the level of effort required of him at Tesla Industries was orders of magnitude beyond anything he’d ever experienced.
His first challenge had been simply comprehending what Grig’s enormous uncompleted machine, hunkering like a steel behemoth in one half of Building Three, was built to do. Grig, always running from meeting to meeting, had shoved reams of schematics and wiring diagrams into Will’s hands (as if that should be sufficient for Will to decipher the machine’s function) but it wasn’t until after lunch on Tuesday that Grig finally had time to explain it to him.
“As you know, Will, one of the great challenges we Otherwhere Engineers face is the limited number of Golden Dimensions,” Grig began. Will nodded, knowing well enough that only about two hundred such dimensions—Otherwheres with physical laws sufficiently compatible with their own native dimension to allow for safe exploitation—had been discovered.
“But what if we could create entirely new Otherwheres?” Grig said softly, eyes sparkling. “Create them to our own specifications, from the ethereal scratch? Create them, and then when we are through with them ...” He kissed his fingers to his lips. “Poof. Destroy them.”
“Create dimensions?” Will blinked. “Actually ... create them?” He cast his mind back through the schematics Grig had given him—and in an instant all of the functions that had seemed so puzzling when regarded out of context made perfect sense. Sure, he thought. Of course. That’s what the machine had to do.
Seeing the light of understanding on Will’s face, Grig smiled.”Clearly, the thrilling possibilities are not lost on you,” he said. “So, have you thought up a name?”
“What?” Will said absently, still working through the incredible implications in his mind. Custom building a dimension to one’s own specifications! As long as the basic physical laws remained compatible, one could specify everything one wanted in it—including limitless amounts of energy, without even the need to build any kind of power plant ...
“A name!” Grig broke through his thoughts. “This machine needs a name! I told you that yesterday.”
Will certainly didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t understood what the machine was supposed to do until just two minutes prior. He licked his lips and threw out the first name that came to mind:
“The Dimensionator.”
Grig was silent for a long time, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Will heard a snuffled snort from where Roher was sitting across the room.
“I don’t know,” Grig averred. “I’m not sure if Mr. Tesla will like it.”
Will’s heart sank to his shoes, but then inspiration struck him. Remembering the conversation he’d had with Court, he lifted a finger and said:
“The Tri-Dimensionator.”
Grig’s eyes widened.
“Oh, yes!” he breathed. “That’s it.”
“Now that was brilliant,” Court said, the next time they were able to sneak off to the little hideout in the laurel hedge. “Tri-Dimensionator! Maybe you should have gone into advertising instead.”
“Nothing doing,” Will snorted, not even looking up from the dissertation that he’d brought out with him. Grig had asked him to write an abstract by the end of the day, and it was hard slogging. “Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem,” Court said. “Listen, I’ve got a way you can pay me back. I need to use your mailbox.”
“My mailbox?”
Court rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Here all the other fellows are jealous because you have your own apartment and a warm willing wife waiting in it. But what I’m really jealous of is your mailbox.”
Lowering the dissertation, Will looked at him quizzically. “I don’t follow you.”
“There’s a book I need,” Court said in a low voice. “And I can’t have it sent here. Can I have it sent to you? I’ll tell you a secret about Roher if you say yes. Something that will help you knock the wind out of him.”
“I
don’t know,” Will said, though the idea of getting dirt on Roher sounded especially attractive. “I don’t want the mailman gossiping to my landlady about delivering me a stack of Tijuana Bibles.”
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s not pornography.” Court snorted smoke out through his nose. “Trust me, there are two things that I know how to get ahold of inside this high-security prison—the finest of smokes and the bluest of literature. But there’s one thing I can’t get ... and that’s what I need your help for.”
“So, what is it?”
“Well, you know I’m a geophysicist, right? That’s what Tesla and Grig keep me around for. But what I’m really interested in is The Great Change of 1878. You know about the Great Change, right?”
“Not much,” Will said. “I know that no one really knows why it happened.”
“Apparently, there is one man who does,” Court says. “And he wrote a book explaining it. It’s called The Goês’ Confession. It’s scarce as hen’s teeth, and it’s almost impossible to get a copy. Apparently there’s some mysterious ‘Agency’ that destroys the books whenever they can find them. But whoever they are, they can’t destroy them all, and there’s a whole underground network of people who keep printing them so the truth can be known.”
“I don’t get it,” said Will. “What truth? What Agency? What’s a Goês?”
“Gee, don’t they teach you Greek out there in California?” Court said. “The whole thing is a goof on the Stanton Institute. You know what a Sophos is, right?”
Will shrugged. “Yeah, it’s a title. Like a president or something.”
Court made an exasperated sound. “In Greek, Sophos means wise man. A Goês is the opposite of a Sophos. A charlatan, a fool. But you know the old saying—only the truly wise man knows he is a fool.”
“All right,” said Will. “So some fool wrote a book confessing something. So what?”
“This book reveals the truth about The Great Change. What really happened.”
“So what really happened?”
“I’ll let you know after I’ve read it,” Court said. “Which I can only do if I give my friend of a friend who’s managed to get a copy an address that isn’t ... well, you know. Monitored.”
“Come on, I’m sure they don’t open your mail here,” Will scoffed. Court raised his eyebrows significantly but said nothing.
Will paused, brow wrinkling with concern. “You don’t think they’ll be opening my mail, do you?” And the minute he said it, he realized that it wasn’t his mail he was worried about.
“Of course I don’t, dummy,” Court said. “If I did, I wouldn’t be asking to use your mailbox. So how about it? Deal?”
“Deal,” said Will, absently. But despite Court’s reassurances, he resolved once again to remind Jenny to be careful.
And he did remind her that night as they sat up late at the kitchen table, each working feverishly over their own project. He laid down his mechanical pencil, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her.
“What?” she inquired sharply, after he’d stared at her in silence for a long time.
“Court doesn’t think they’ll watch our mail,” he said. “But you’ll be careful, right, Jenny?”
“What are you talking about? Who’s Court?”
“Another one of the apprentices. He’s a good guy. He wants to use our mailbox to have some stuff sent to him, because Tesla Industries monitors the mail the apprentices get.”
Jenny snorted, shook her head. “Your Mr. Tesla sure runs a tight ship.” Then she returned to her work without another word. She was scrutinizing the stock pages of The Detroit News, making neat little notes by issues that seemed of particular interest to her.
“They’re looking for us, you know.” Will did not need to say who.
“Of course they are.” Jenny didn’t bother to look up.
“I mean really looking for us. They’ve already contacted Tesla Industries. Everyone’s furious. And now they’ve got all your dad’s money on their side—”
“My dad can go soak his head!” Jenny snapped. She kept her eyes on her papers, but he saw her expression soften and grow slightly wistful. “Darn it.” She was silent for a long time. “I only need a couple of weeks, William. Once your patent is filed, I’ll go away and they won’t make trouble for you any more.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
Jenny sighed. “Yes it is. Or at least it should be. I may be helping you with your patent, but I know I’m hurting you just as much. If I weren’t here, your parents wouldn’t be half as mad as they are.”
Will rubbed his tired eyes. “What have we done that’s so wrong?” He found himself thinking back on the conversation he’d had with Nate in the barn. Nate had said Will should try to take his father on faith. “Why can’t they have faith in us?”
“It’s not that our parents are bad, or mean, or unkind,” said Jenny, softly. “They just don’t understand. They can’t understand. Things were different for them. They lived in a different world, and they’re trying to hold us to those standards. We have to teach them. It’s our job to show them, even though it’s hard, even though it may make them ... hate us.” She paused, biting her lip at the thought.
“Your dad won’t ever hate you,” said Will.
Jenny seemed oddly unconvinced. “I’ll wire him tomorrow. I’ll tell him I’m coming home.”
“Jenny!”
She answered the alarm in his voice. “I’m not really going to go! It’s just to stall for time. I’ll tell him I’m coming home, but only if he makes your parents promise to stop bothering Tesla Industries about you. It takes days to get to California by train, and that’ll keep everyone out of our hair for at least that long.”
“And when you don’t show up at the station?”
“All we need is a head start,” she said. “I’ll work harder between now and then to make sure I have everything I need to write up the description. If I have to go before you’re done with the schematics, I’ll find a way for you to send them to me.” She reached across the table and placed her warm little hand on his wrist, pressing it encouragingly. “Like I’ve said, William, I have plans, and you’re a part of them. But it just wouldn’t be fair if my plans spoiled yours. They won’t. I promise.”
Will contemplated this. It satisfied the strict business requirements of their deal, but he did not find it very satisfying otherwise. In fact, the thought of Jenny leaving—going off into the cruel world by herself, with no one to watch out for her—was downright disheartening. He laid his larger hand over hers.
“Can you at least tell me what Claire meant when she said that you were doing something dangerous?”
Jenny drew a deep breath. Withdrawing her hand from beneath his, she lifted her head to fix him with a steady gaze. Will was struck by how her eyes—the color of the summer sky when she was cheerful—could become the color of tempered steel when she was annoyed.
“Why don’t you think of it this way?” she offered. “The word Claire should have used was risky. And yes, what I’m doing is risky.” She laid a hand on the stock pages. “But everything in life is risky. That doesn’t mean it’s dangerous. What I’m doing is not going to cause either of us any harm. All right?”
Will sighed. Nothing she’d said made him feel better. Picking up his mechanical pencil, he leaned back down over his work.
“All right,” he said, as he began drawing again. “Just promise me one thing. Promise you’ll ask me for help if you need it. Remember what you said? Geniuses need people to protect them.”
This made her smile softly, and blush, but she said nothing more.
Chapter Eleven
Working with a Will
TWELVE DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON
Dear Will:
I am in receipt of your telegram confirming that you’ve sent Jenny home. Good for you. You’ve made a wise choice. I’ve had a very interesting letter from Mother describing the hullabaloo you’ve caused back home. She says Jenny made it a c
ondition of her return that everyone had to stop bothering Tesla Industries about you. Loyal little wife you’ve got there! Sometime you’ll have to tell me what the hell you two were thinking. Didn’t I tell you to watch out for girls?
Mr. Hansen got Mother to agree, but apparently Father was a lot more pigheaded about it. So now she’s almost as mad at Father as she is at you. She knows it was his pigheadedness that drove you to take such desperate measures—and while it was her duty to support him, she can’t figure out why he was so riled up about you going to Tesla Industries in the first place, or why he cares so much now about getting you back.
Well, anyway. Leave them to hash it out amongst themselves. You’re at Tesla Industries, and the parents won’t be bothering you anymore, and I hope things can really get started for you in earnest. I am still hoping to come visit you, as I promised. It is very difficult to get away at the moment because we at the Institute are all working very hard on the promotion efforts for the new Dreadnought Stanton moving picture that Edison Studios is putting out.
It occurs to me that you’ve probably wondered just what it is I do at the Stanton Institute. Especially since it is a magical institution, and I’ve described at length how my ability to practice magic was taken from me at a young age.
My work isn’t especially glamorous (if you’ll excuse the pun). I’m what is called a Jefferson Chair, but that really reflects more of how my position is funded as opposed to what I actually do. My official title is Senior Mantic Research Associate. I compile detailed reports on magical artifacts of particular power or interest for Sophos Stanton. He uses my research—and the research of many others like me—to decide what artifacts he needs to take into the Institute’s safekeeping. Of course, his retrieval of said artifacts is usually not quite as dramatic as is portrayed in the pulp novels. Most of the time, in fact, we just buy them. But it’s a good day’s work, especially when we can take something particularly dangerous or malign out of the hands of those who might seek to use it for nefarious purposes.
Anyway, I will send you details about my arrival when I can. I am looking forward to seeing you in person. It’s been such a long time, and we have so much to discuss.
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