Noble Metals

by L. A. Witt

  Maybe another night, he’d demand his money’s worth, but not tonight.

  With my worries assuaged, I drifted off beside him.

  For days on end, we talked by day, slept by night, and never touched.

  The cold hadn’t really set in yet, though. When it did, any man who wanted to survive the night would huddle against anyone within reach, and I dreaded that night.

  It came a little over a week after we’d left Ketchikan. The sky was clear and it was too cold for snow to fall on the frozen ground anyway. There was no way we were sleeping apart tonight, but perhaps it would be too cold for him to ask anything of me beyond body heat.

  After we’d set up camp, John took a peculiar device out of the stack of provisions. It was a brass box with three coils inside, and when he removed a glowing coal from the mech’s boiler and put it into a small compartment of the little box, not ten minutes later, those coils glowed like the coal had.

  He set it near the side of the tent, careful to keep it from touching the material so it wouldn’t catch fire, and tucked a thin pipe under the edge of the tent. “It’ll blow the exhaust outside. Otherwise, we might be warm, but we’d be too dead to enjoy it.”

  I was wary of the little device, but when the air inside the tent warmed, I decided it was well worth the risk of burning or poisoning us. As I settled onto my bedroll, I was toastier than I’d been since the last time I’d slept in Beatrice’s brothel.

  John pulled the fur up over himself on his own bedroll. The little device hummed and gurgled, but otherwise, our tent was silent. And it stayed that way.

  Though my bones ached with exhaustion, I lay awake listening to his breathing and his machine. The conditions were certainly inviting. We were tired, of course, but that hadn’t stopped many of the men who’d celebrated their return from the Yukon with a visit to a whore’s bed.

  I turned my head. The faint sunset-colored glow of the heater illuminated John’s shape, picking out the rise of his shoulder beneath the thick fur and a few tendrils of his hair. He was sound asleep—when had I memorized the way he breathed?—and as much as I’d dreaded having to earn my pay for this journey, I caught myself feeling a little disappointed that he hadn’t asked me to.

  “Do you like that, Robert?”

  I swallowed, shifting my gaze back to the top of the tent. I didn’t remember anyone else ever asking me that before. Certainly not because they wanted to know the answer. And maybe John hadn’t cared. Maybe it had just been something to arouse his ego, to convince himself he was as good as most men who fucked me thought they were, but as I heard the words over and over in my mind, I couldn’t make myself believe that.

  And the fact was, I had liked it. I never wanted to be any man’s whore again as long as I lived, but I was only lying to myself when I said I didn’t want John’s touch.

  But he didn’t touch me.

  He just slept.

  The next morning, as he packed away the device, he said, “We’ll have to use it sparingly. We could burn through half a bag of coal in that thing before we’re anywhere near the Yukon, so it’s only for nights when the cold is truly unbearable.” He glanced around the trail. “Like my other device, no one can know about this. As the weather gets worse, men will be willing to cut our throats for this kind of heat.”

  I gulped. I’d shivered my way through twenty winters in Montana. After a night of sleeping in that wonderful warmth, I could imagine how desperate everyone would be for the same once that deep, unavoidable cold set in. “I won’t say a word.”

  He smiled. “I know. Now let’s get moving. How are your feet?”

  “Sore and cold, but I’ll manage.” I chuckled. “Guess we’ll both have to get used to that, won’t we?”

  John laughed. “Well, you probably have the advantage over me after growing up where you did.” He held up his gloved hands. “My fingers are good and callused from my work, but I can’t say the same about my feet.”

  “Except I haven’t been on a farm in a while.”

  “Oh. Well. No, I suppose you haven’t. But your profession has had you on your feet more than mine.”

  I blinked.

  His cheeks darkened. He cleared his throat. “The bartending portion, I meant.”

  “Right. Right.” I muffled a cough. “So, we should get moving, right?”

  “Yes, we should.” He tugged at one of his gloves. “Ready?”

  “When you are.”

  We were well out of Ketchikan by then. The trail was virtually deserted in places, the crowd having thinned along the way as mechs broke down, horses rested, and men stopped at trading posts and native villages. In Skagway and Juneau, many groups stopped to rest. From there, dozens had branched out onto different roads and trails which promised to bypass some of the steeper terrain or get them to Chilkoot Pass faster. Since the end of the first week, it hadn’t been unusual for us to be alone for hours at a stretch before we passed another party or someone passed us.

  Whether we were amongst others or walking alone, John and I continued our conversations, which meandered like the path beneath our feet and the mech that staggered between us. We talked about our families and their disappointments when we’d gone off to pursue our unusual dreams. He told me about some of his eccentric colleagues and impossible-to-please superiors. With the help of a little whiskey from John’s flask, I told him about some of the bizarre things I’d seen and heard during my time as a prostitute. He couldn’t quite believe I’d really spent not one but three nights with the son of the owner of one of the major logging companies, and I insisted he was telling tales when he said one of his former lovers had left Chicago—and him—to take a seat in the Senate in Washington, DC.

  And still, when the cold nights came, the conversations faded and we slept apart.

  From the Diary of Dr. Jonathon W. Fauth — September 23, 1898

  I’ve been remiss in writing since our arrival in Alaska.

  We are now en route to Chilkoot Pass. I have never known such exhaustion in all my years, and I’m certain my boots will be worn to my socks in a matter of days. Even now, as I write beside our campfire, my eyes grow heavy, so forgive me if this entry lacks coherency.

  My faith in our mech wanes with each passing hour. After inspecting the contraption more closely, I worry that we’ve fallen prey to the outfitters’ attempts to get rich off those with gold fever. Our mech appears sturdy, powered by a small but efficient steam-powered device, but the construction of the legs has left me unimpressed.

  Then there’s the engine—I’ve spent most of the day trying to come up with a better design for the inadequate relief valve system, but implementing such a thing out here may prove difficult if it’s possible at all. I can only be vigilant and check the valves frequently to make certain they’re working properly.

  Now I see where the stories of mechs falling down the Chilkoot or getting stuck in holes have originated—poorly designed machinery on an already-treacherous trail. The metal is thin in places it ought to be reinforced, and though the joints are well made, are they suited for the weight they’re being asked to carry over rugged, frozen terrain? I’m not convinced.

  Fellow passengers and men camping in Ketchikan with us were filled with stories of heaps of mangled mechs at the base of Chilkoot Pass, and the skeletal remains of the same scattered along the trails. They’re susceptible to ice, malfunction, vandalism—and that’s assuming they don’t go errant and fall down ravines.

  Like vultures, men descend upon the disabled mechs, stripping them down to their brass skeletons. Cogs, springs, entire legs, even nuts and bolts, anything that can be is salvaged, rendering the already-crippled machines useless.

  Barring a disastrous malfunction, though—particularly from those damned relief valves—I believe I can keep the beast on its feet until we’re over the Chilkoot Pass and into Canada. From there, if it’s as troublesome as I predict, we’ll abandon it, take what we can carry, continue on foot, and sort out return transportation
when we reach Dawson City. It is imperative I get to the gold fields as soon as possible and obtain as much platinum as it may yield. Pity we haven’t the money for an airship ticket—we’d be in Dawson City in no time, and we’d easily elude Dr. Sidney’s men.

  At least we don’t have to rely on pack animals. No amount of inventing and tinkering will put a horse’s leg back together.

  The mech came with two bags of coal, and we’ve been warned to use it sparingly. Water for the steam is as easy to find as stooping to pick up some snow, but the coal must last us all the way to Dawson City and back. If we run out, wood will suffice as a substitute, but it isn’t nearly as efficient, especially when most of the timber out there is wet or frozen. I shall heed that advice and guard our coal as jealously as I guard my device.

  It is more than a little tempting, I promise you, to ride on the mech like it’s a coach. Walking the next four hundred miles to Chilkoot Pass, and the subsequent couple hundred across the Yukon, is hardly appealing, is it? The machine can easily bear our combined weight in addition to our ridiculous amount of gear and provisions, but every outfitter emphatically warns prospectors to stay off the mechs. Some fools still ride them, I understand, reasoning they should save their energy for walking up the passes. But all it takes is a particularly bad patch of ice or a badly placed rock, and the stampeder suddenly has to worry less about saving energy and more about how to cart himself over the pass with a busted leg. I’m told a few dozen learned this lesson the hard way, and now most everyone walks beside the brass spiders.

  After a few miles of constant nudges, Robert and I have both quite bruised our hips, but then Robert fastened a couple of unused pairs of mittens to the corners for padding. I told you he was clever!

  There’s been no sign of Sidney’s men since we left Ketchikan, so I believe they’ve fallen for our deception and gone toward White Pass instead of Chilkoot Pass. Still, I remain vigilant. They will not hinder my journey, nor will they interfere with my platinum acquisition. Not while I still have a chance at beating Sidney, Edison, and Tesla to creating this new technology.

  For tonight, though, I can no longer ignore this fatigue. I need to check once again that the device is safely hidden in the tent, douse this campfire, and sleep.

  The wind and rain were getting colder by the day. Even though it was only September, it wouldn’t be long before the rain pelting my face would be tiny crystals of ice, and the snow wouldn’t be far behind. At least the trail would stay mostly clear—thousands of stampeders before us had carved a wide, muddy road through the wilderness. If it snowed during the night, though, we’d have to maneuver the damned mech through it.

  On the bright side, I had someone to talk to. Many of the teams seemed to trudge along in silence, but John and I nearly always found something to discuss.

  “So you came to Seattle with your brothers,” he said on the trail one frigid morning, pausing to nudge the wandering mech with his hip. Once it was back on its correct path, he glanced at me. “Where did your brothers go? Are they still in Seattle?”

  I hesitated. Shame twisted beneath my ribs at the thought of my brothers. “One, I don’t know. The other, uh, went back to Montana. Gone to work for our father.”

  John glanced at me over the mounds of gear on the mech. “And I can’t imagine you want to go back to that.”

  “I didn’t exactly dream of the life I had in Seattle, but I wasn’t ready to give up on the rest of the world in exchange for a life of tanning cowhide.”

  “Is that why you can’t go back?”

  It was easier than the truth, so I just nodded.

  “If I may ask,” he said softly, “what happened to the provision money you and your brothers brought with you?”

  I sighed. “My brother loved whores, but I lost plenty of it on a card table too.” My cheeks burned. “I had hoped to secure us better traveling conditions, maybe even an airship, but by the time I was done and my brother had slept in every bed in Seattle, we couldn’t even afford to go back to Montana.” Well, that much was true, anyway.

  “I can’t blame you for trying to secure better travel.” John pursed his lips. “I looked into alternatives myself, but the university wasn’t about to pay those prices. If I want to dig, they told me, they’d get me to Seattle by train, and I was going the rest of the way on foot.”

  “And here you are.”

  He laughed. “Here I am.”

  And I thanked God that he’d let the subject drop.

  A few hours later, as we rested our exhausted legs beside the campfire, I couldn’t ignore the wooden box half-covered by a flour sack between us.

  “So, uh. I’m curious about the device.”

  John stiffened. “What about it?”

  “The men who are following you—do they know what it does? Obviously they know it exists, but do they know its function?”

  John sighed and gazed into the fire. “Unfortunately, yes. A few months ago, some of my notes were stolen.”

  “Notes about the device?”

  “Yes. Not enough to build one, but enough to understand its purpose.”

  “Do you know who they are? The men following us, I mean?”

  John nodded slowly. “They work for Sidney. As I said before, he’s a competitor of mine. We’re both involved in producing electronic devices using semiconductors. He’s been using any means necessary to try to get his hands on the plans or the prototype. Or both.”

  “I didn’t realize scientists were so . . . cutthroat.”

  He laughed. “All’s fair in love and war, and believe me, when you’re competing with Edison and Tesla, it is most certainly war.” He absently tugged at his glove. “My lab’s been broken into three times in the last six months, and now Sidney’s got his men following me all the way out here.”

  My stomach flipped. “What lengths do you think they’ll go in order to get it? I mean . . .” When he looked at me, I raised my eyebrows, unsure how to word the rest of the question without sounding like a coward.

  John dropped his gaze. “I don’t know. I had hoped to lose them in Seattle, but they’re determined if they’ve followed me as far as Ketchikan.” He met my eyes again. “Hopefully we’ve thrown them off and sent them toward White Pass, but they’ll be in Dawson City sooner or later. And, well, it still isn’t too late to join another team if you’re worried. I don’t know how determined they are. I don’t know what lengths they’ll go to for the device. To be quite honest, I can’t promise you’re safe with me.”

  I gulped. “Is anyone safe on this trail?”

  He studied me. “No reason to increase the danger, is there?”

  I considered my options for a moment, but there weren’t many of them. “I’ll take my chances with you. May I, um, may I see it?” I gestured at the mostly deserted trail. “Since there’s no one here?”

  John’s lips quirked, and he looked up and down the trail. “All right. I suppose there’s no reason to hide it from you now.”

  My heart quickened. I had been curious but hadn’t actually expected him to show it to me. Without a word, I followed him into the tent, and he lit a small lantern so we could see without leaving the tent flap open.

  He unlocked the box.

  Inside, a half-dozen corked vials of some sort of liquid were nestled into padded slots along one side. Across the inside of the lid, thin strips of material held a row of fine tools and instruments in place. In the middle, an object about the size and shape of my forearm was wrapped in deep-crimson fabric.

  John glanced back at the flap, and then lifted the velvet cover and pulled out the device.

  I leaned in closer to see. The device was brass, not unlike the mech parked outside. Coils lined one side, opposite the leather-wrapped handle that John gripped. On one end was a liquid-filled glass bubble at the top, and at the other, what appeared to be a miniature boiler like the one on the back of the mech, only much tinier.

  As I turned to him, I said, “How does it—”

 
And suddenly we were face-to-face. So close I could feel his body heat.

  I moistened my lips. “How does it work?”

  John swallowed. Then he turned his attention back to the device. “It’s, uh, it detects noble metals in the soil. Using an electrical charge.” He pointed at a complex network of metal and wires at the heart of the device. “It identifies the conductivity and a few other characteristics of metals within the soil. If it registers certain levels, indicating the presence of noble metals, then that’s where I’ll dig.”

  “And you’ll find platinum?”

  “Most likely. There are other noble metals. Gold, of course. But where there’s gold, there’s frequently veins of platinum.” He faced me again, meeting my eyes from not very far away. “We can work together in the gold fields. With any luck, we’ll both find what we’re looking for.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “So it . . . it does find gold?”

  John searched my eyes for a moment, then nodded. “If we’re in a gold field, and the device finds noble metals, odds are it’ll either be gold or platinum. Quite likely both.”

  I held his gaze. “Think we’ll find it?”

  John swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  We locked eyes for a long moment, but then John cleared his throat and looked at the device. “So, I hope it’s clear now why I’ve been so secretive over this device. If word gets out . . .”

  “I understand. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Once again, he met my eyes. “Thank you, Robert.”

  As we sat on the mech beside the river and ate another agonizingly bland meal of half-cooked beans the next morning, I broke the silence. “You haven’t said much about a family back home.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. My parents are still living, and my brothers aren’t far from them, but I rarely see them. We write letters, but . . .” He shook his head and picked at the beans in his bowl.