Hearts of Smoke and Steam

by Andrew P. Mayer

  But no matter what else may have happened, and despite all the questions that surrounded her disappearance after the mysterious events in Madison Square, he was glad to hear that the Automaton had finally fallen that night.

  The metal man had been the most dangerous foe he had ever faced, and just the thought that it might still be prowling the streets of the city sent a shiver up his spine.

  The infirmary was housed in between the living quarters and the offices, and as he walked down the hall, he decided that the wood and plaster walls were far more welcoming than the austere granite that had been used to construct the rest of the building.

  He rounded a corner and saw that the door was already open. Alexander lay sprawled out across one of the operating tables, the doctor still hovering over him. He was bare-chested, a massive bruise blooming across his scar-covered torso, clearly marking out where the White Knight had broken a rib.

  “You're getting too old for this kind of ridiculous nonsense,” he heard the physician say grimly.

  Alexander choked out a chuckle before he replied. “You've been telling me that for ten years.”

  “And every year I mean it more than the last.” Doctor Josephs grabbed the point of his white beard and shook his head. He was rail thin, his lean physique only intensified by the long, black jacket he wore. “You've been a lucky man, Mr. Stanton, but even your legendary good fortune seems to be slowly running out.”

  Stanton turned, and seeing that someone new had entered the room, he smiled. “Nathaniel! Come in!” His jaw was as black and blue as his chest, and his attempt to sound jovial made him slur his words.

  As Nathaniel started to walk forward, the doctor turned and gave him a hard glare that froze him in his tracks. “You can just stand out there for a minute while I finish binding up this old fool.”

  “Don't be such an old fusspot, Josephs,” Stanton said.

  “And you should try not to talk,” the old man said, putting on his spectacles. “There's no telling what else might come loose in your head.”

  Nathaniel wondered how it was that some men could instantly command enough authority to make everyone else feel like children, while he seemed only to be capable of having people continually treat him like one.

  The doctor pulled out a gleaming metal tube from his bag. It was fluted on either end, and he pressed the wider horn against Stanton's bare chest, putting his ear up against the other side. “Now breathe deeply.”

  Alexander started to take in a lungful of air and then coughed it out again. “It hurts.”

  The doctor stood up and frowned. “That's what you would expect to happen when a gentleman your age decides to start playing fisticuffs with a man half his own.”

  “He wasn't half my—” Stanton began to protest, but the doctor cut him off.

  “You're an expert at blowing hot air out, now let's hear you take some in! And raise your arms up this time.”

  Stanton did as he was told, managing to put himself through the entire exercise with only a few winces.

  Nathaniel stood quietly, deciding that it was far better to err on the side of caution than it was to risk the wrath of the prickly doctor.

  “All right, you can put them down now,” Josephs said after having him complete a few breaths. “You've clearly fractured a rib or two, and you didn't do that other wound of yours any good.”

  “And your face looks like you lost a fight with a road,” Nathaniel added.

  “Thank you, young man,” the doctor replied without looking at him. “I'm sure Mr. Stanton appreciates your unnecessary jocularity at his expense.”

  Alexander laughed, then winced. “It's okay, Nathaniel. He's just a spoilsport.”

  Ignoring their discussion for the moment, the doctor stacked his arms together, put a hand on his beard, and tapped his shoe rhythmically against the floor. “Hmm,” he said, letting the end of the sound trail out almost like a purr. “What I would normally prescribe is two weeks of bed rest, but I know you won't do it, so instead I'm going to give you some more morphine and ask you to take it easy for the next few days.”

  “Thank you doc—” The old physician cut him off before he could finish.

  “And I'd like you to seriously think about finally putting away that ridiculous hat and costume before I'm left standing in front of your grave.”

  “I'll consi—”

  “Lift your arms again,” the doctor said, pulling a roll of fabric out of his bag. “I know you think I fuss over you too much, but there are few men your age capable of taking the punishments that you've been given over the last few months, not to mention the stress of losing Darby and your daughter.” He began to wind the fabric tightly around Stanton's chest as he spoke. “You may think that you're invulnerable, but I don't need to be a doctor to know that any man who acts as you do will end up paying a terrible price for his behavior.” As he said the last few words, he turned and gave Nathaniel a hard stare, “And it doesn't matter what age you are, or who you pretend to be.”

  Nathaniel glanced up in time to catch the doctor's eyes. There was no doubt that Josephs was the right man for his job, but that didn't make him right about everything. “Am I allowed to talk to him now?”

  The doctor continued winding the material around the Industrialist's chest, tugging on the end to keep it tight. “I'm a firm believer in the fact that children should be seen and not heard. But you, Mr. Winthorp, are clearly no longer a child, and I'm afraid that any opportunity you might have had to reap the benefits of a proper upbringing have passed us all by.” Finishing the roll, he pulled out a few safety pins and used them to tack the end of the fabric into place.

  “Now Alexander, try to take care of yourself,” he said, putting his top hat on his head. “I know your temper can get the best of you, but perhaps you can leave the actual punching to younger men.”

  Stanton nodded, but it was an unconvincing gesture. “I'll do my best, Doctor.”

  “See that you do.” Josephs snapped shut the medical bag smartly, sliding closed the two clasps that held it in place in a single smooth gesture.

  “Thank you,” Alexander said, holding out his hand.

  The doctor took it and gave it a curt shake. “You're welcome, Stanton. Just remember that while you're out there making more work for me, that there are actual sick people who could also use my help.” He turned to face Nathaniel. “All right, young man, the grumpy old doctor is leaving now. You may commence with your costumed tomfoolery.”

  He walked out and Nathaniel shut the door behind him. “He's got a point.”

  “About what?” Alexander grabbed his clothes from the table next to him. “That I'm too old? It's nonsense.”

  “Being in the Paragons will probably get us all killed.”

  “We're all going to die someday,” Stanton said matter-of-factly. “At least this way it's a choice and not an accident.” When he tried to move his arms in order back to put on his undershirt, he couldn't hide the pain. “Ungh…” he grunted.

  Nathaniel moved in closer, taking the shirt from his hands. “That's one way to think of it.”

  “I know you've had a rough few months, boy. You'd be a fool not to be worried after what's happened to you.”

  “And Sir Dennis, and Sarah.”

  Stanton paused for a second at the mention of her name. “She decided to run away.”

  Without saying a word, Nathaniel picked up the starched shirt and held it open. “I'm not an invalid,” Stanton complained. But he took the offered assistance and pushed his arms up through the sleeves. Once the shirt was on, he quietly began doing up his buttons, and then paused to pat the open space on the table next to him. “Have a seat, Nathaniel.”

  As he sat down, he realized that it had been a long while since he had been so close to his step-father. “Why did you fight with Clements? What had he done to you? Wouldn't it have been enough to just tell him no?” For a moment he felt like Grüsser—asking one question after another.

  “It was
a mistake, but in the end…” A slight smile appeared on Alexander's lips as he shook his head. “Men like that don't understand the meaning of the word no, anyway. They just need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Don't you need to win for that to work?”

  “You don't think we won?”

  Nathaniel stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at his own bruised hands. He didn't know what to say next.

  Stanton laughed, and then winced. “That's what being a Paragon is all about. We call ourselves a society because we work together to do things we could never do alone. And perhaps we don't always do them well, and we argue with each other, but when we need to, we win together.”

  Nathaniel had been around the Paragons for so long that what he was being told seemed blindingly obvious, and yet it was something no one, not even Darby, had ever bothered to actually say out loud: they fought to win. “I think I understand.”

  “No, you don't—not fully—because you've never been on a battlefield before.”

  “I've fought!” he said reflexively, embarrassed by the defensive tone of his voice before the words had even finished leaving his mouth.

  “But not in war…” Alexander looked into his eyes. “And that's not something I would wish on any man. Imagine being surrounded by hundreds of strangers, all of them screaming, shouting, and dying. Your only chance to live is if you can figure out who is trying to kill you or protect you.” He sighed and went back to buttoning up his shirt.

  “You make it sound horrible. But there's glory too.”

  “Only after the fighting is over. And the worst part is that some of the men who want you dead are inevitably on your side.” He looked down at the ground. “And you also find allies in the strangest places.”

  He shifted on the table and looked up into Nathaniel's eyes. “I pray to God that you'll never have to face it yourself. But there are lessons that surviving war teaches you—the most important one is that whenever possible, you need to surround yourself with men you can trust. That's the only way you can safely get back home to the ones you love.”

  Alexander put his hand on Nathaniel's back. “I know that since your parents died I've been a poor substitute for your father, and I'm sorry about that. It was always Amelia who I relied on to raise the children, and once she passed away…”

  Nathaniel felt overwhelmed. He had grown up with Alexander Stanton, been raised by him, but he had never felt this close to him before. “I think I've turned out all right.”

  “Maybe you have, although you still have some growing to do.” It made Nathaniel feel good to hear him say that, and Alexander nodded and brightened. “Where are you living now? I mean, since the Darby mansion burned down?”

  “I've taken a small apartment nearby. It's a place that a friend's father owns. The house is modest but comfortable. And honestly, I spend most of my days here at the Hall anyway.”

  “In those dark stone rooms? That's nonsense,” Stanton said. He slipped off the edge of the table to stand, swaying a bit. The pain made him hunch over and move stiffly, like an old man.

  Nathaniel grabbed his shoulders to help, but Alexander shrugged him off. “Don't baby me, boy!”

  “I'm sorry, sir,” he replied, and quickly let go. Alexander Stanton was a proud man, but all the pride in the world wouldn't help him heal any faster.

  “No no. It's all right. I'm sorry as well. I lose my temper sometimes, you know that.”

  “I do.”

  “But that's beside the point,” he said, and began tucking the tail of his shirt down into his pants. “I want you to move back into the house with me.”

  Nathaniel was shocked. “Back in the mansion? I thought…”

  “It's just me in the house now, and it's ridiculous to waste all that space on one old invalid. Besides, you'd rather be there than some filthy apartment, wouldn't you?”

  A million thoughts raced through Nathaniel's head. As much as he disliked his cramped home, there was also a certain freedom that came with being on his own that he quite enjoyed: no one told him what to do, or where to go. And even better, no one tut-tutted about his late-night drinking or the mornings spent sleeping in…

  Then he felt a rising sensation of shame. Had he been angry at his step-father for so long that when the hand of friendship was finally being extended, he was too proud to take it? “Of course, sir,” he said, extending his arm, “and gladly.”

  “Good, good,” Alexander replied with a slightly hazy tone. Clearly the opium that the doctor had provided him was doing its work. “You can move in on the first of the month. I'll let Mrs. Farrows know. Now, if you could just help me on with my tie, I think I'll spend the rest of the evening back at our home.”

  Nathaniel picked up the ribbon of black cloth and began to tie it around his neck. “Of course, Father.”

  Emilio had been spent years protecting himself from any emotional complications, and yet it had taken only a single moment of attraction to this blonde-haired woman for the entire dam to collapse, and now he was drowning in her life.

  The girl stood there, her face twisted into a mask of rage and frustration. “Not again,” she repeated as she watched the villain rise up into the sky.

  “Is okay, Sarah,” he said to her. When he touched her shoulder, the girl wrapped her arms around him tightly, and then crushed herself into him.

  He felt her quivering with anger at all the injustice of the world, helpless to express anything but rage. His sister was like this from time to time, but it seemed to fit this girl far more poorly than it did Viola.

  “Is okay,” he repeated, rocking her slightly. She was clearly not used to the kind of endless anguish and pain that the world could so easily deal out, even to the most innocent and loving of people. Emilio wondered if this was what he had been like the day that he discovered that his wife and children were gone…

  Somehow he doubted it. He had already seen and done so many terrible things by that time…But he hadn't been completely empty at that moment. And yet so much of his heart had been scooped away that when fate came for the last small piece of it, it had barely felt like losing anything at all.

  And here he was, being embraced by this beautiful woman, and he found himself feeling grief and sorrow instead of joy and passion. It reminded him of something his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. “Sometimes,” the old man had said, grinning with a mouth full of missing teeth, “life will give you everything you want, just to prove how wrong you are for wanting it.”

  There was sharp thump, then a groaning sound nearby. Emilio could feela vibration underneath his feet, and when he looked up and over the girl's shoulder he saw that the harpoon cable had been pulled taut. It was being tugged so hard by the balloon that it would soon rip out of the deck.

  “You like me?” he asked her quietly.

  Sarah pulled away. There was a puzzled look on her face. Her eyes were red but tearless. “I barely know you, sir!”

  Emilio shook his head and rolled his eyes. He'd gotten the words wrong again. “No no, fidati di me!!” The words obviously meant nothing to her. English was such a ridiculous language, full of tricks and traps to make you sound like a fool, even when you were only trying to express the simplest things.

  He tried to clear his head. If this was going to work, they would only have a moment. “Trust! Trust me, yes?” As he said it, he looked into her eyes. “Please?”

  “I still don't…” Emilio took her confusion for consent, and grabbed her hand. As he pulled her toward the teetering harpoon, he saw his shield lying on the deck, dented and spattered with blood. He slowed for an instant to pick it up. If his plan worked, they would need it.

  He squeezed the handle and gave it a twist, hoping against hope that it hadn't been damaged too badly to work. The blades attempted to spin closed, the device making a nasty klunk as it stuck on the biggest dent.

  At least it was mostly closed, and there was no time to fix it now. He used the clip he had placed onto the ba
ck of it to hang it off of his belt. There was no doubt that he'd need both hands free, and hopefully the exposed edge wouldn't cut its creator.

  Just above where the harpoon had caught in the deck there was a round flange, making a tiny platform around the edge. Emilio decided that it had been placed there to allow the device to punch through something before locking itself down, making it more of an anchor than a weapon.

  It seemed small, but perhaps it was big enough…Emilio stepped up onto it, wrapped his arms around the shaft, and held out his hand. “C'mon!” he said just as the whole thing shifted ominously beneath him. He found himself wishing that the surface beneath his feet was bigger, but the fact that he hadn't slipped off was a good sign.

  As he thought about the journey he was about to undertake, he felt the old familiar fear rising up in him. And before he even had a chance to try to calm himself, he heard a voice confirming his terror. “Are you mad?” the girl said. “We'll fall to our deaths!”

  Somehow hearing his distress mirrored in her voice made it seem smaller. “No, I help!” Emilio nodded his head and shook his hand more forcefully. “Come!” he said. There could be only seconds before the entire thing ripped free.

  “I can't!” she replied, but took another step towards him. Then she stopped. “No, I can't!”

  Emilio was shocked. He was a commoner, and as far as he knew there wasn't a drop of noble blood in his body. His own failings he could understand, but this was Sarah Stanton, the daughter of the Industrialist—a Paragon! Was she that terrified, or was he truly being insane?

  Maybe he could convince her if spoke English better—there must be something he could say. What would his sister do? She was always so good at manipulating people, perhaps he could…“Not again!” he yelled out to her.

  “What did you say?”

  “Not again!” He shouted her words back at her in a tone so dramatic that it was close to mocking her, and then he held out his hand. “Now come!”