He tensed himself for fight or flight. But a number of steamies had moved in, gathering so close around him and Fagan he barely noticed the two jail guards slip back out into the night.
He cast a desperate look at Brendan, who had turned white with fury.
“Strip them down,” Charles told the steamies. “And if they struggle, try not to damage anything too badly.”
****
Clara wished Dax didn’t make quite so much noise when he moved. The lads had done a fine job with his overhaul, but he definitely revealed his age as he trundled along and emitted regular puffs of steam. At least she didn’t have to worry about him running out of coal. Woodrow and Fred had stoked him well and filled his reservoir before they left the house.
Like a ragged, ungainly band of gypsies, they’d followed Ruella through darkening streets under an overcast sky, west along Georgia Street almost to 4th, a most unsavory part of town. Fred had appropriated the pistol and stayed close to Clara’s side.
Now, at the mouth of a noisome alley, Ruella paused and said over her shoulder, “I think it’s down here.”
Clara stiffened with distaste. From the little she could see, the alley lay cluttered with garbage. But she’d venture into far worse for the sake of Liam.
Liam. The very thought of him called to her and raised a longing she had to tamp down in order to think clearly.
“Dax, you go first,” she bade the steamie. She didn’t want to sacrifice him, but heaven only knew what lay down that dark chute.
The steamie rolled forward willingly. The rest of them pressed in behind.
“Ugh, what a stink.” Ruella fairly gagged.
Ahead lay a rooming house, only one window lit against the gloom. No sign of movement or human habitation, though Clara would be willing to bet rats abounded.
“Nothing here,” Dax said. Was that relief or disappointment Clara heard in his voice? Was he capable of either emotion?
“Let me knock. The rest of you hang back.” Ruella pounded a large fist against the door, with no immediate effect.
She raised her arm to knock again, and the door swung open.
“What do you want? I’ve a pistol and no money in the house, so look sharp.” The woman revealed by a dim light from behind looked every inch the slattern. Brown hair straggled over her neck, and her ragged dress appeared far from clean.
“You the landlady here?” Ruella asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“We’re from the jail, looking for Old Tim. Have a job for him.” Ruella nodded at the wheelbarrow leaning against the outside of the house, and Clara realized with a shock it must be the one in which Liam had been brought to her.
The landlady snorted. “Right, but you’ll get little sense from him. He’s so drunk I had to drag him up the stairs to his bed when I got home.” She swung wide the door. “Come on in.”
“You wait here with Dax,” Clara told Fred and the pistol. “Woodrow, you come with us. We may need you.”
They trooped into the house, only marginally cleaner than the alley, and up a dim, narrow, creaking set of wooden stairs to an equally narrow hallway faced with doors, one of which the landlady indicated.
“In there.”
She went back down the stairs, and Ruella pushed the door open into darkness. Woodrow pulled a box of matches from his pocket, flicked one with his thumb, and located a candle fixed on the wall, to which he placed the flame.
Like the rest of the house, the room stank. Sparsely furnished, it contained only a washstand and a narrow bed on which a man sprawled in an attitude of utter senselessness.
Woodrow leaned forward to peer at him. “Damn! Is he dead?”
“I hope not.” Ruella stepped forward and prodded the old man’s shoulder. “Tim? Tim!” She prodded him still harder, but he did not stir. Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, he stared at nothing. Clara, striving to see, could detect no sign that he breathed.
“Looks dead,” Woodrow opined.
“Well, we need to know what he knows.” Ruella bent closer to Clara, so close Woodrow couldn’t hear. “Guess you’ll have to revive him, won’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It seemed to Liam he’d begun this wild nightmare just this way—strapped naked to a table and damned well helpless. The table to which he now found himself bound wasn’t scrubbed wood like the one in Clara’s workroom but a smooth expanse of steel that burned his bare back with cold. And the straps weren’t leather but some metallic fabric no doubt impossible to rend. He and Fagan had been stripped and pinned by the steamies with ruthless efficiency.
And that made another difference. When he’d awakened at Clara’s, Fagan hadn’t been strapped to a second table beside him, beneath blazing lights.
He turned his head now and scrutinized his companion. The lad looked terrified, and with good reason. His broad chest rose and fell, fighting against the straps, and his eyes were wild.
“Steady, lad,” Liam told him, though he himself felt far from it.
“What are they going to do with us? What goes on in this place?”
Liam hated to think. The area where they were now confined lay separated from the rest of the warehouse by the great steam plant, which he could still hear hissing and rattling behind a big pair of wooden doors. He’d caught glimpses of other things as the steamies hustled them in, things that would give him bad dreams for years—if he survived that long.
Fagan gasped, “I smell blood.”
So did Liam, and worse. The charnel reek that colored the place definitely originated somewhere close by.
He closed his eyes for an instant against a staggering wave of horror. He’d wanted to know what happened to his fellow prisoners. Now he feared he did.
The table on which he lay was grooved, and when they wrestled him down, fighting every inch of the way, he’d caught a glimpse of channels on the floor underneath, stained dark.
Men had died here before him. Those channels had carried Irish blood.
“Courage,” he told Fagan, speaking as much to himself as the lad. “We’re not done yet.”
“Oh, but I think you are.” The black-haired man appeared at the side of Liam’s table. He now wore what looked like a rain slicker that covered him from the neck down. The black hair had been covered by a crude sou’wester that, in any other circumstances, would have looked ludicrous.
“Coward!” Liam tossed at him, and bared his teeth. “’Tis easy enough to face men who can’t fight you.”
The man leaned in, and the mechanical eye adjusted disconcertingly. But Liam had passed far beyond being disconcerted.
“You’re a fine specimen,” the man said. “I’m pleased.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Fagan croaked the words as if he couldn’t prevent them. The man’s head swiveled to face him.
“Nothing very pleasant, I assure you,” he said without much emotion. “But comfort yourself with knowing you’ll be part of a grand and important experiment, and significant portions of you will live on.”
“Jayus,” Fagan wailed.
The black-haired man advised, “I really shouldn’t bother calling on him, if I were you. He never comes here, though many have called.”
“Do you have a name?” Liam snarled. “Your buddy there is called Charles. But are we not to know the name of the man who murders us?”
“You may call me Master Mason, since I am a member of that noble, ancient, and venerated society. And I’m no murderer.”
“Right. You usually have your meat brought to you fresh hanged.”
“Usually, and only the finest. You should consider yourself honored to be amidst an august company. The Irish have many faults—many—but they do grow fine examples of manhood, strong and tall. And, so very often, dispensable.”
“He’s not dispensable.” Liam jerked his head at Fagan. “A policeman—”
“Unfortunately, a victim of a tavern brawl while off duty. Someone saw him going into the river. Lost.”<
br />
“Get on with the job.” The steam-burned man, Charles—he with the horrific hands—appeared at Mason’s side. “Must you toy with them? Just end it, and let’s get to work.”
“Me? Why me? You do it.”
Liam bared his teeth again. Aye, they had no liking for the ugly deed Maynard usually accomplished for them.
“You’re the man who’s so good with the saw,” Charles said.
Fagan moaned.
Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Liam taunted their captors, “Afraid?”
The mechanical eye clicked as Mason regarded him. “Afraid of a little blood? On the contrary, Mick, I’m just unwilling to monopolize all the pleasure. Always eager to share with my partner.”
Charles waved a metal hand. “Be my guest. Just get on with it and shut them up.”
“To be truthful”—Mason struck a pose—“I’m wondering what the effect might be if we kept them alive throughout the procedure. We’ve never before had this opportunity; I hate to waste it. Think, Charles—living flesh grafted to metal, just like your arms, only amplified a hundred times.”
“They’d never endure the pain. Just kill them. Cadaver flesh has always served before.”
“Ah, they’re fine, strong lads. They can withstand a great deal of pain, right, boys?” Mason turned to Fagan. “You want to live a while yet?”
“What goes on here?” Fagan hollered.
“Do you want to see? Do you really want to know the reason you give your bodies and perhaps, indeed, your lives?”
“Just get on with it,” Charles reiterated.
“Not so fast, Master Grasp—we so seldom have living guests, and I want to see if they’re impressed. Bring out some of our creations and show them.”
Creations? Liam swore to himself as every wild and terrible idea that had been kicking about his fevered brain developed into hideous images.
“It’s too dangerous,” Charles objected. “And we’re not ready.”
“Ready enough. Anyway, these two aren’t going to tell anyone.”
Fagan shut his eyes tight. “Just kill me now. I don’t want to see whatever you’ve created—monsters like yourselves, no doubt.”
“Oh, no, Irish, not like us but much more exquisite. Charles, here, and I honed our skills not through choice but necessity. Charles lost his hands in an industrial accident. He would have died, but for me. And I lost the sight in one eye when acid was flung at me by a disgruntled worker—an Irishman.” Mason smiled, a terrible rictus. “He later served as the first of our experiments.”
“How do you know to do such Godforsaken things?”
“Building world-class steam units teaches you a great deal. People who’ve owned them a while say they acquire a kind of rudimentary intelligence—even personality. Why not foster still more of that tendency with the contribution of human elements? So you see, lads, you really will live on. Oh, not your minds, of course. Those, I am afraid, must be sacrificed.”
He turned to his companion. “Trot out Unit 59. Show them.”
Charles hesitated but a moment and then went as bidden. Liam cast a desperate look at Brendan, whose blue eyes were once more stretched wide. What chance had they?
Mason stepped to Brendan’s table, where he parted the lad’s eyelids with relentless fingers. The lad fought and thrashed but could not move far enough to escape.
“Very pretty. These will look fine in our next unit. We’ve found that’s what bothers people most about the mechanicals—their eyes. I’ll be able to charge extra for these.”
“You sell the monstrosities you build?” Liam gasped.
“Don’t call them monstrosities—you haven’t even seen one yet. And yes, they’re selling well on the black market. You’ve probably even walked past them on the street. You just can’t readily tell. Ah—here we are.”
He turned as Charles and another man joined him.
No, not a man. Liam looked at the thing, and his stomach heaved, making him sure he’d projectile vomit. He fought the sickness down.
The thing was tall and broad, with a build like Fagan’s, fully clothed. Impossible to say what parts beneath the clothing might be mechanical. But the portions that showed were at least part flesh. Its eyes… A rich, lively green, they dominated the broad face beneath a thatch of auburn hair. The hands, unlike Charles’s, looked normal. It truly would pass as a man, on the street.
Mason waved a hand. “The framework—or skeleton, if you prefer—is steel alloy. The steam chamber’s concealed in the thorax. When it expands, it appears he’s breathing. Vents draw air through the nose passages to feed the coal fire in the bowels. Certain organs—harvested from our donors—keep the mortal portions alive. The eyes, the hair, and the main organ—that’s the skin, including the scalp and nail beds—are all from donors. They’ll be harvested from you, including a certain, for lack of better wording, ‘human essence’ that makes these automatons what they are, and far superior to regular steam units.”
Fagan gagged and retched. The thing looked at him with what almost appeared to be concern.
“They have emotions?” Liam asked, his voice a hoarse rasp of horror. “You trap the spirits of dead men in there, after murdering them?”
“I’ve murdered no one, as yet.”
“You have, in your dirty deal with Maynard, as surely as if your hand was on the rope.”
“Don’t be a fool, Mick. What I’m doing is important. And, technically, no one’s died if—as you say—a little of the dear departed’s spirit has gone on in these units.” Mason concluded by pronouncing, “I’ve made those Irish sinners immortal. I doubt even God would have consented to go so far, for the sake of scum.”
The mechanical man’s eyes jerked round to Mason. It appeared to consider what he’d said.
“How many of these do you have?” Liam asked, still hoarsely.
“On the premises? Nearly a dozen. We’ve already sold almost half as many again. I’m considering perfecting the design and then approaching the military. Imagine an army of these! The skin overlay can be cut, but everything else is protected within the frame.”
“You’re going to do that to us?” Fagan sounded ready to snap. “Put my skin—my eyes—on a metal puppet?”
“Good thing you’re such a big lad, isn’t it, Mick? I build my units strong.”
Liam watched as 59’s eyes twitched again, at the word “Mick.”
“I won’t have it!” Fagan raged. “It’s an abomination against God and all the saints. I’ll die first.”
“As you wish.” Mason called to his partner, “Bring the saw. We’ll start with this bog-jumper, and cut into his cranium while he’s still alive.”
Fagan bellowed. Under cover of the racket, Liam said to 59, “What’s your name, lad?”
The thing looked at him in confusion, an expression with which he could identify. Liam himself had waked not knowing who he was. But on some level, he’d recalled his name.
Just what made a man human? He prayed he was about to find out.
Chapter Forty
Clara regarded Old Tim with horror. The last thing—the very last thing—she wanted to do was place her mouth on his and breathe life into him as she had Liam and Cassie. Even for love of Liam she didn’t know if she could.
Woodrow leaned closer and held his hand near the old man’s mouth. “He’s still breathing, barely.”
“Thank God.” Clara sagged with relief. “Get him up, Woodrow, if you can. We must have some sense out of him.”
Not unkindly, Woodrow hauled Old Tim upright and rested him against the spattered wall. The old man gasped and choked.
“Leave me alone!”
“It’s me, Tim—Ruella. Mr. Maynard has a job for you, an important one.”
“Eh?” Tim pried one eye open and then the other. “I need a bottle.”
“Smells like he’s just had one.” Woodrow muttered and nearly gagged.
“You’ll get your bottle,” Ruella said. “Soon as you give us so
me answers. Two men came here looking for you not long ago, young Fagan from the force, and another man. What did you tell them?”
“Sent them to the Cuttery, didn’t I?” Tim mumbled, and closed his eyes again.
“The Cuttery?” Woodrow repeated, mystified. “What the hell’s that?”
Clara did not even bother to scold him for his language. “I have no idea. Ruella?”
Ruella shook her head. She reached out and grabbed Tim by his filthy collar, then shook him till his old teeth rattled. “What’s the Cuttery?”
Tim muttered something Clara did not catch. She stared at Ruella in frustration. “He’s not making any sense.”
“Listen to me, old man,” Ruella said through gritted teeth. “What’s this Cuttery place? Is it where you’ve been taking the bodies? Those of the men killed in the jail yard?”
Tim rolled his eyes till only the whites showed. “You’re in on that?”
“Sure I am. Didn’t I give you that bottle from Mr. Maynard, and take one of those bodies meself? But see, I didn’t do the job right. Mr. Maynard wants me to train as your backup in case you’re ever indisposed, because he trusts me, see? So you just take me wherever you sent young Fagan, so long as it’s the same place you take those bodies.”
“Don’t think he’ll be able to walk far,” Woodrow put in.
Neither did Clara. She doubted the old man could stand, at this point.
“Doesn’t need to—just give us the direction. I’ll get us there.” Ruella squared her beefy shoulders in resolve. “If my lad Fagan’s gone off into trouble, I’ll rescue him.”
“Tim.” Clara leaned down and engaged the old man’s eyes. “You need to tell us how to find this Cuttery, please.”
He considered her hazily and then grinned. “What’ll you give me if I do?”
“What do you want?” she returned, praying it mightn’t involve physical contact.
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