The Guild Chronicles Books 1-3

by J M Bannon

  Planned gate openings were dictated by the codes listed on the blackboard below the clock. In circumstances like today, when he intended to work in the laboratory, he would step into the Nexus, notate the number of hours needed next to his name, then pull the chain-cord adjacent to door number six.

  Somehow this signaled the Belgian Doctor or one of his subordinates to engage gate six, keeping it accessible for the duration noted on the chalkboard. Allard scribbled four hours and pulled the chain.

  Water trickled down the top of the copper panel, then formed into a solid sheet.

  Henri had watched this a few times and knew to wait; a snap and pop of electricity ignited and the sheet of water glimmered. A green light illuminated over the doorway, his signal to proceed through the water coming out into his personal laboratory.

  The lab was a sanctuary away from Hume’s stifling control and rudderless leadership. This is where the real work on the Homunculus was being done. Henri would be the one who brought artificial life to the Guild and take his rightful place as the premier metaphysical savant. He just couldn’t do it with Hume’s incremental approach and glacial speed; he had surpassed his mentor’s work.

  Allard could leapfrog Hume’s research track even with limited staff and time. His small team consisted of the Belgian surgeon and an American; a seedy fellow who participated in the Kansas border wars, he brought materials and supplies to the lab.

  Henri had been working in secret at the Monastery until the accident, afterward he shared his findings from the apparent catastrophe with Caiaphas. Henri’s breakthrough aligned with the advent of the gate technology. Doctor Caiaphas built an advanced workshop in a secret location; Henri had a feeling it was overseas given the supplies he received.

  The laboratory was immense in size, an underground cellar of stone construction. Henri’s first order of business was to review the state of the soul corral, his prized innovation. Based on Hume’s original work it couldn’t capture a soul but it could warehouse large amounts of life energy, able to sustain the individual life-force in a state of suspension.

  The machine occupied a sizable amount of space, over four meters wide and three meters tall. Attached to one end, a large glass tube circled around in a loop, a giant endless race track for the soul.

  Acolyte Rousseau’s design to concentrate the life energy of two cattle into an ampule, showed promise. However, Henri’s system held the life-force of over two hundred twenty-thousand head of bison, hence the nickname ‘soul corral’. The contraption gave Allard the ability to imbue an animation with one or more lives. He knew that Rousseau’s concentrated test would not extend the life of subject fourteen. Through what was initially a catastrophe for his clandestine project, he had already unlocked the secret of sustained animation.

  Directly adjacent to the beast soul corral stood a duplicate device. It was originally built to warehouse more of the animal life essence, but now it held another type of life force.

  Allard walked past the soul corrals and rejuvenation chambers to the meat cooler. There the Belgian surgeon was crafting subject eighteen. The sides of the cooler housed the inventory of bison muscle, sinew, bone and organs. The center of the cooler acted as a surgical theater, on top of the work table was a homunculus. This specimen was twice the size of the others the Surgeon had previously made, more complex and horrific than number seventeen.

  “Where is the Yank?” asked Allard as he stepped into the cooler. His breath caused a fog as he spoke into the cool air.

  “He is not here and from what I can see, hasn’t been for some time,” replied the Belgian. Allard leaned in to scrutinize the man’s work. The back of the beast was open, he was in the midst of sewing in the brain stem and sensory organs.

  “When do you expect to be finished?” asked Allard.

  “Tomorrow, I will come back and pump in the vital fluids, then you can do your magic,” the Surgeon paused, mid stitch and gave him a smile.

  Allard returned the smile. He calculated to himself the amount of life energy required to animate this Homunculus, “What does it weigh?”

  The Belgian looked to the edge of the table where the scale had a read-out dial, “One hundred twenty-seven kilos.”

  Allard gave him a cross look, “Check your dimensions and make sure that thing will fit in the chamber, it looks too big.”

  “It will fit, I know the specifications of your contraption,” replied the man as he cauterized the muscle tissue to nerve bundles. From the beginning Allard and the Belgian had been using the materials the Yankee brought to the laboratory, so all of the creatures had the girth and muscular density of bison.

  Allard finished formulating the rejuvenation mix in his head. He then began filling a metal bucket with meat scraps the Doctor had thrown onto the floor. Allard returned to the pens where the Homunculus were kept. Unlike the Necronist subjects, Henri’s were not collapsing after a few weeks. Since his breakthrough in August he had sustained the lives of his animations. Subject six through seventeen were kept at the back of the laboratory in metal cages.

  When he went to check on them, the Homunculus had not been attended to; his Yankee assistant had shirked his duties and the creatures were raging and thrashing against the cage bars as he approached. Ever since the Belgian experimented with adding digestion systems the creatures needed to be fed. Once a digestive system was added the atrophy of a subject reduced drastically. Henri grabbed a cask of water and moved to cages eleven through seventeen and poured water into bowls within each cage. The creatures stuck their deformed heads and poorly crafted mouths down to the bowls to drink.

  He has not restocked. What has the Yank been up too? thought Henri.

  The scene was bizarre to watch as some subjects were so rudimentary they had no sensory organs and therefore they just groped around the cage until they accidentally found the food only to make horrific gagging noises as they shoved chunks of raw meat into their gullets.

  Henri’s later creations were more advanced, and had visual and olfactory senses in addition to bone and teeth -these later subjects quickly found the flesh and tore into it.

  Henri was oblivious to the putrid smell and the aberrant design of skinless raw muscle and bone. To him they were perfect, his creations, his gift to the world.

  Henri’s stomach sank. He dropped the water keg and ran back to the front of the laboratory. It dawned on him what was missing from the collection area. He ran back to the soul corrals.

  It’s not here, the device is missing. He was in a panic.

  Now he was concerned for the whereabouts of the Yank, he had not yet returned; he had the soul vacuum.

  6

  Wednesday the 6th of March

  5:40 p.m. Harpsichord Colorado Territory

  Marshal Quentin’s posse reached the outskirts of Harpsichord after a long days’ ride. He had quickly deputized four men in Denver City and got on the trail. The Deputies were to assist him in his search and to prevent looting. Billy Booth also came along to confirm his account of what he saw.

  Elmore had traveled to Harpsichord once before, to serve a warrant on an old French trapper who was spotted selling illegal pelts in town. The Frenchman had taken off by the time Quentin arrived, most likely back up into the foothills to continue trapping.

  Harpsichord was built around the Astor Fur Trade Post. The way station sprang up on a horse trail created by trappers who came down from the mountains to sell pelts and company men to trade with tribes on the Dakota Range.

  The town prospered around the popularity of the buffalo hide; herds of buffalo were culled for pelts and shipped back east for use in the winter coats and boots market. Coats just like the one Quentin wore were all that kept a man alive in the unforgiving winter wind that blew along the border of the Colorado and Dakota territories. Dandies in the civilized world would buy the jackets to wear around New York and Boston, following the latest trend. The difference being Quentin’s jacket was made from the hide of a bull he had shot himself with
his Henry repeating rifle. He was still packing jerky from that kill on trail rides like this one a year later.

  Astor’s company controlled the settlement, there wouldn’t be a town if it weren’t the trade of hides for goods and currency. The other small businesses existed to separate the trappers and hunters from what they had just earned. A Mayor had been elected, but the Post Manager ran the place, as the only reason anyone ever came to Harpsichord was to buy and sell animal hides.

  As the six men rode in, they observed nothing. No movement or sound outside of what the wind moved or creaked.

  "Describe for me what you witnessed as you arrived," Quentin asked the young man who brought the news of the bizarre deaths.

  “I came in from the other side, from the Northwest. I went directly to the livery, and that’s where I saw Remus the liveryman all dried up. Then I ran to the Sheriff’s office and saw more of the same. I panicked, I yelled a bit to see if anyone was around then got out of here as quick as I could. I sure would like it if I could just stay put right here Marshal,” Billy declared, shivering with fear.

  “That’s fine, but you’ll be alone, we are all riding in there,” cautioned Elmore.

  “Fine option Marshal, alone here or with you in that crypt of a town. God damn! I’ll go with ya.”

  As they rode in, Elmore noticed the group fell behind him to follow his lead. From its saddle holster, he withdrew his Henry rifle and laid it across his lap as he rode. His thumb pulled the hammer back to a half-cocked position as he stopped his horse to observe the scene. The only sounds were the rustling of his posse and their animals.

  Elmore dismounted and walked his horse to the hitching post in front of the Sheriff’s office. The door was open. “You leave this door open when you lit off?”

  “I guess so. I don’t remember shutting it.”

  Quentin stepped inside, it was a small office with a single cell. Sitting at the desk was the mummified remains of a man. Elmore assumed it was the Sheriff, from the badge, but he couldn’t recollect what the Sheriff looked like and this guy resembled someone who had been left in the desert for a year. He looked over the contents on top of the desk and found his watch log. There didn’t seem to be anything untoward other than the Lawman’s illegible handwriting.

  Elmore walked back outside, his posse all still mounted in their saddles.

  “Are you going to help?” Every one of them returned the look of a dumb animal. “Well come on, you cowards, get off your horses and look around,”

  Growing frustrated, Elmore remembered these weren’t lawmen and did not have the instinct or understand what to do. “Fair enough, we will need to conduct a search from building to building, for anyone who might be alive or for some indication of what happened here.”

  The men spread out and checked buildings. Elmore stood at the center of town in front of the Sheriff’s office and walked down main street, towards the Astor company office.

  “Elmore, over here!”

  He looked up, Jake was standing outside the tavern with his pistol drawn. Elmore double-timed it over, coming up along the front of the building, he peeked into the window of the saloon. Standing at the bar was a formidable Indian, dressed like a white man but displaying long black hair and the strong facial features of the Lakota. The Indian pivoted to look at Elmore through the window then turned back to face the back wall of the bar.

  Elmore pushed past Jake, who stood there like he saw a ghost. Six corpses were in the saloon, four sitting at a table frozen in the tableau of a card game, holding cards with a pot of cash sitting in the middle. At the piano, a woman in the midst of playing and standing behind the bar a man, pouring a draft, presumably the bar tender.

  Elmore approached the bar slowly and looked over, the floor was covered in beer where the draft had overflowed from the glass. He turned to the Indian who was drinking rye.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hanska,” said the Lakota. “What are you doing here?”

  “Drinking,” said Hanska.

  “That’s stating the obvious, I was more interested in what business you have here in Harpsichord?” asked Elmore.

  “If you’re here to pay for burials, then I am the new undertaker. Otherwise I am here to sell coyote pelts. You buyin? Because Astor is as good at bargaining as he is at pouring a beer.” He threw a thumb at the mummified barkeep. “What are you doing here?” asked Hanska turning and leaning on his elbow to face Elmore.

  “I am the US marshal of this Territory interviewing a lone Indian in a town full of dead folks. Wondering if I will get straight answers from him,”

  “He is armed Elmore,” Jake interjected from outside.

  “I see that Jake. So am I and so is the fella with the full house sitting at the table, but you are the only one with a pistol drawn. So why don’t you holster it and go look for any more folks who are alive… and Jake we want them to stay alive so take it easy.”

  “What do you make of all this Hanska?” Elmore gestured around the bar.

  “They brought this on themselves.”

  “What do you mean by that? Please explain.”

  “Out on the plains I have been seeing this unfold, you white folks are using bad magic to kill herds, and it looks like it has turned on you. That’s what I think,” Hanska poured himself another whiskey.

  “You going to pay for that?” asked Elmore.

  "Sure; how much? I asked him, and he won’t tell me.”

  Elmore smiled. “So, you have seen something like this before?”

  "Well I have seen a lot of villages wiped out by white men but if you are referring to this bad magic, yes I can show you where hunters are killing whole herds of bison," confirmed Hanska.

  "And you have seen the person who did this?"

  "No just what they leave behind…"

  "Hey, Marshal you need to come see this,"

  “Hanska, I am going to ask you to follow me,” said the Marshal.

  Quentin followed his man through the alley between the barber and Astor’s office. It was from there he saw something strange in the dry creek bed about twenty yards from the back of the buildings. It looked like a horse-drawn buck board.

  As he came upon the animals, he noted they were dead but not all shriveled up like the others. The fella lying beside the tipped over wagon wasn’t like the others either. Two of his men stood staring into the back of the toppled wagon at an object unlike anything he had ever seen. An unusual brass cage and within it was a large red crystal. The crystal was glowing.

  He took a closer look at the crate and the contraption, which had presumably fallen out of the box when the wagon tipped over. Crouching down, to look more closely, there appeared to be mist or smoke moving around inside the crystal. Stepping back from the scene, it looked like the driver had steered the team into the wash and the whole rig tumbled down into the creek bed. In the spill over the coachman was killed.

  The body by the buck board was different, not shriveled up but had been killed in the accident, he was pinned under the wagon, his neck contorted. The Marshal went through the deadman’s pockets. He found a billfold, pocket knife, some change and a fancy pocket watch.

  He opened the lid of the watch. Isn’t that curious? He pondered.

  Unlike any watch he had seen before, this wasn’t some factory watch from the East Coast it was unusual and expensive. Elmore carefully tucked away all the items in the pocket of his own coat.

  The rest of the posse rode up to the wagon.

  “Any of you know this guy?”

  The posse looked at each other and the dead man silently shaking their heads.

  “What about that thing in the back, any of you gents see something like that before?” asked Quentin.

  “Not me,” a few said, exchanging perplexed glances amongst themselves.

  “It looks like something from the military or from one of those airships,” suggested Hanska.

  * * *

  10:40 p.m. Hawkin's House, Paddingtonr />
  "You have to stop him. You have to save Preston from that horrible, incompetent man," screamed Lorelei, her face awash in tears and anger.

  "What are you on about, Lorelei?" asked Rose, gripping her friend by the shoulders. Rose looked over at Pāora, who stood at the door dumbstruck. Tiny Lorelei Traube had barreled past him and into the parlor before he could say Good Evening.

  The Maori had settled into the role of Major Domo of the household, not so much a butler, more the keeper of order and head of home security. With this title, he had made it clear he was to answer the door. Rose smiled at him, seeing how embarrassed the sturdy Polynesian was that he was outflanked by the ninety-pound German. He shut the door and walked back to the kitchen leaving the two women alone.

  "Old man Gilchrist has Preston under the care of a Doctor. This morning he arrived with a team and forced Preston into a medical house arrest; they think he is mental," cried Lorelei.

  Rose embraced Traube and comforted her as she sobbed. "It has become very difficult these past few months, the two of them trying to live together,"

  "I know Preston always struggled with his father's peculiarities, I was unaware of his return," said Rose showing her support for Lorelei.

  "No not his Lordship. Well, that has made things worse. I mean Preston's existence with Azul. Both Azul and Preston have deteriorated; forced to live together indefinitely in the same body. They no longer visit the library to research solutions. His existence reduced to either ranting and raving at Azul, or off in a drug-addled state," finished Lorelei exasperated.