Hearts of Smoke and Steam

by Andrew P. Mayer

  Reaching the desk, Sarah looked down to see that he had indeed started putting the heart back together. Although a number of gears were still laid out on the table, the rest had been placed back into an open half of the heart in something that approximated order.

  Emilio pointed at the empty side of the heart that lay nearby. “Look there!” He reached up and pulled down what appeared to be a brass tube on the end of an articulated arm. It hung down from an apparatus on the ceiling, and when Emilio pressed a button on the side of it, a small but intense flame appeared, revealing a series of glass lenses designed to focus the light onto the workbench.

  As Emilio brought the device down closer to the table, the glow focused on the inside of the heart's curved shell, revealing a series of markings etched into the metal. “What is it?” Sarah said, looking closer.

  “Is the same question I asked!” Emilio replied, clearly excited. He grabbed another arm from the array, the tension springs on either side of it letting out a merry groan as he pulled it into place. The end of it contained what appeared to be a large magnifying glass. “Can you see?” he asked as he tried to move the lens into focus.

  Sarah swatted away his hand and looked through it. “I might be able to see if you stopped fussing.”

  She moved her head back and forth until the markings became clear. “They're words!” The script itself was tiny and dense—far too small to have been written by hand, especially against the curved brass chambers, and yet, when properly magnified, it was crisply legible. “The gears must lie in a precise ratio,” she read aloud. “They are aligned in such a manner that they provide not only the timing, but preserve the character of their motion.”

  “This is amazing!” she said, turning to Emilio and giving him a smile. Sarah looked again, not understanding any of the actual text, but simply reveling in the familiar cadence and stentorian but slightly poetic tone of Darby's language. “Every attempt has been made to make the dimensions and chambers as precise as possible. At the same time, the process of transformation is organic, and like all things of nature it is the action itself that creates the perfected individual.”

  “You see!” Emilio said with a smile. “He tells us!” Emilio asked her after a moment.

  She pulled her eyes away from the glittering words and looked up at Emilio. “Definitely.”

  Emilio nodded. “Is very good.” He pointed to a series of books that lay open on the desk. In it were copious notes, entirely in a language that she assumed to be Italian.

  Sarah couldn't help but notice that his handwriting was, in its own way, as tight and precise as Darby's had been, although how the old man had managed to shrink his distinctive script and apply it to the walls of Tom's heart was beyond imagining.

  “I try to understand,” he said as he looked down at the floor, “but so much of it I cannot.”

  Sarah peered back through the lens and tried to find the beginning of the text. She spotted a large, florid letter T and began to read again. “To those who have discovered my words, and would attempt to understand what it is I have created here, welcome. I cannot be sure what your purpose is in opening this vessel, but I assume that it is noble. In your hands is one of the most powerful objects I have ever created. It, more than anything else I have ever done, will change the world. I trust you to make it better.

  “But to fully understand what I have created, you must first recognize that science is more than just the discipline of proof; first there must be a theory. To invent the impossible, we must first imagine the improbable. So, to any brave soul who discovers these words, I tell you that a true understanding cannot be reached through science alone.”

  As she spoke, she realized that it was both thrilling and terrifying to hear Darby's words from beyond the grave. How many other secrets had he hidden away before his death? “Human ingenuity is the art of seeing, and then making. It will never be enough to simply copy something. You must will your success into being.” Sarah thought back to the key that Darby had worn around his neck—the broken element was proof that even perfection couldn't always guarantee the intended result.

  She stood up, took Emilio's hands into hers, and then stared intensely into his eyes. Sarah hoped that the seriousness of her words could keep her passion at bay. “Do you trust me, Emilio?”

  He smiled and nodded. “I do, Sarah.”

  “Sir Dennis and I were very close, although never more than friends. Sometimes I imagined that, if our lives had been just a little bit different, another time…that he would have been the kind of man to me that I think you could become. Do you understand?”

  “You loved him.”

  Once again Sarah felt a prickling in her eyes. Of course she had. “I did.” Her love for Darby was a childish, impossible thing—far more than just years had separated them. But her feelings had also been powerful, passionate, and real. Sir Dennis had been a true mentor to her, guiding not only her mind, but also her spirit, to places where she could dream of escaping from her father's world and discovering a way where she might begin to make her dreams come true. And now they had. Everyone had secrets and failures, but being a hero meant trying again anyway…

  “But to understand his genius…This isn't just how the heart works, it's a way to uncover Darby's methods. Do you understand?”

  A look of confusion passed over Emilio's face. “I think…”

  Sarah grabbed his fingers more tightly. “You can't just fix Tom, you have to rediscover him.”

  “Rediscover?” He took a step back, his arms stretching away from hers. “I am no Darby!”

  Sarah smiled and gripped his fingers more tightly. “Exactly.”

  “I don't understand.”

  A calmness descended on Sarah. The feeling was overwhelming, almost as if she could feel the spirit of Sir Dennis filling her, directing her in what to do and say. She stood up from the stool and, using her grip on his hands, pulled Emilio back towards her. “That's because you're still missing the most important piece of the puzzle.” She felt the presence of the old man so strongly that it took everything in her not to add “my boy” to the end of the sentence. “He would have liked you, Emilio,” she said as she began to unbutton the top few buttons of her blouse. His eyes went wide, and Sarah laughed. It was comical how once the idea of sex had entered into a room, it seemed that there was no amount of seriousness that could air it out again.

  As she reached down and pulled out the key from around her neck, his expression changed to one of wonder. “What is it?” he asked, and reached up a hand toward it.

  “Darby's final secret,” Sarah said as she put her hands on either end of the lead key, and began to pull it apart. “And I think,” she whispered as she slid off the cap, “it may be the most powerful thing in the world.” Exposed to the air, the Alpha Element's strange light began to grow brighter and brighter until the glow filled the space between them. “With it, you can recreate the Automaton.”

  Nathaniel's transition from unconsciousness back into the waking world was sudden and total, propelling him instantly from a comforting place of nothingness into a reality dominated by pain and thirst. He opened his eyes to discover that he was in a dimly lit stone chamber. Nathaniel could remember nothing about how he got there, or even the events had led him into such a sorry state.

  The only thing he could know for sure was that there was a throbbing in his head, the pain rising and falling in time to a loud ticking from somewhere in the darkness. The sound reminded him of the old grandfather clock that had stood in the hall of the Darby mansion before it had burned to the ground.

  His first instinct was to work to recall at exactly what point during the evening he had—once again—given up his convictions against inebriation, and had actively begun to drink with the purpose of getting drunk. But after a few moments, it was clear that this wasn't just a simple hangover. His head wasn't aching, it had been hurt. And despite his ability to consume epic quantities of drink, he had perfected an ability to end up in
his own bed—and whatever hard palette he was lying on now, it surely wasn't his. In fact, the thin, straw-stuffed mattress barely seemed to qualify as a bed at all.

  He reached out to touch the wall next to him, and confirmed that it was cold, rough-hewn stone. Was he in prison? What had he done?

  The memories crashed into one another as they washed over him: Hughes had become some kind of monstrous blend of human and machine, and Alexander Stanton was dead—murdered by Lord Eschaton's hand.

  Nathaniel sat up, pain making him force out a groan. Bringing his fingers to his head, he felt the dried blood clinging to his hair and scalp. The skin underneath was hot and raw, and if he survived, there would probably be another scar to join the one he had received during his battle with the Automaton.

  “Guten Tag,” said a voice from the darkness. Its words were cold and emotionless. Focusing into the gloom, Nathaniel could see the round shape of Grüsser enveloping a small chair across the tiny stone room. The Prussian sat up ramrod straight, his shoulders almost perfectly perpendicular to the lines of the iron bars that separated the two men.

  “Grüsser, where am I?” After a moment of silence he added, “And what the hell is going on here?”

  “Nichts,” he said, and turned his head to look at the wall.

  “What are you doing? Don't you know what's going on?”

  “Ja. Eschaton ist here.”

  “You need to help me!”

  There was no reply. The round man simply sat in his seat, unmoving, and took in a few long, noisy breaths.

  The last time Nathaniel had seen the Submersible, he had been fleeing from the carnage in the meeting hall. “What are you doing, man? You're a Paragon.”

  Grüsser gave a short, quick nod in the direction of the wall and stood up. “Ich do vas Ich must.” He spoke in a choked whisper so unemotional that he seemed to be talking to the air as much as he was communicating with Nathaniel.

  The Prussian stood up awkwardly, then pulled on a ring attached to the square iron door. The hinges squealed as it swung open. Through the open doorway, Nathaniel saw light from the corridor beyond and realized that he was inside one of the Hall's prison cells. “Grüsser, you're a Paragon for God's sake.”

  Although the jail had rarely been used over the years, everyone had agreed that they might need to detain villains for interrogation from time to time, and ordinary cells might not be able to contain a superpowered foe. Stripped of his wings and other gadgets, Nathaniel was powerless in every way that mattered. They probably didn't consider him worth the trouble of electrifying the bars, although he wasn't eager to find out.

  Feeling a growing thirst, he leaned over the edge of his seat and looked to see if there was any water nearby. A wave of vertigo and nausea rose up through him, and Nathaniel sat back against the wall to wait until the feeling passed. He wondered just how much damage had been done to his head.

  The metal door opened again. A tall figure ducked slightly before walking through. “You,” Nathaniel mumbled. The man was no longer dressed in his King Jupiter outfit, but instead wore a simple white shirt with crisply creased pants. Even in the darkness he could see the tiny Omega signs stitched in gold brocade across the vest he wore. The silver buckles on his shoes were cast in the shape of the Greek symbol as well.

  “Hello, Nathaniel,” he said, coming up to the bars. “We've never been properly introduced. I'm Lord Eschaton.” He stuck a gray hand through the bars.

  Unable to stand up, and trying not to reveal his weakness, Nathaniel let out a tiny, little snort, “And you're the lord of what, exactly?”

  The gray man smacked his hand against the wall, letting out a small spark. “Lord of the Paragons, at least.”

  “You didn't earn that title, you stole it. You're just a cheap thug and a murderer.”

  Now it was Eschaton's turn to let out a derisive laugh. “You're a naïve child, Nathaniel Winthorp. Do you think that all the fine and gentle members of your precious society gained wealth and power simply by asking for it? There is, I'm afraid, no title ever earned without at least a little bloodshed. And I'm sure you more than most men are well aware of the kind of cruel games that must be played in order to maintain that power once it has been gained.”

  Between the rage that boiled inside him and the pain washing through his head, Nathaniel couldn't find any words worth speaking in reply. Instead, he lowered his eyes, and saw the stain on his shirt where Alexander Stanton's life had leaked onto him. “You didn't have to kill the Industrialist.”

  “Clements did that.” Eschaton replied. “But he needed to die. The Industrialist was many things, but in the end it is safe to say that his greatest power, beyond any of the ridiculous devices that he wore, was that he had the courage of his convictions—as antiquated and wrong-headed as so many of them were. And when a man like that is diametrically opposed to your vision,” the gray man continued, “there is, I'm afraid, only one sure way to stop him.”

  Nathaniel shifted himself upwards. “Why am I still alive?”

  Eschaton pointed to the wooden chair that Grüsser had been perched on a few minutes before. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”

  “As you like.” His words came out slightly slurred. If he was destined to have all the suffering of imbibing with none of the pleasures, then they could at least let him have a drink of something—even if only a simple glass of water. Although now that he was awake, the desire for a shot of whisky was growing quickly.

  The wood creaked loudly as it settled under Eschaton's weight. It screeched softly as he shuffled it towards the bars. When he got close enough, the gray man stopped and leaned forward. “Now, ask me your question again.”

  He could barely remember it himself, for a moment. “I…I wanted to know why you didn't kill me.”

  “Two reasons,” he said, holding up his thumb and index finger to illustrate his point. “First and foremost, I'm afraid that, as far as convictions go, the only genuine one that I can see in you is the desire to find your next drink. Men bound by addiction are, I've found, far more likely to work with me than against me.”

  “Like Grüsser?”

  Eschaton grinned at that. “You're looking poorly to me, Mr. Winthorp. Are you sure there isn't anything that I can get for you? I'd hate to have you expire before we finish our conversation.”

  Nathaniel's instinct was to tell the man to go to hell, but the truth was that at this moment his thirst was greater than his pride. “Water,” he said.

  Eschaton turned his head to the side and yelled out the open door, “Grüsser!”

  The Prussian appeared a moment later. He had clearly been waiting for his master's call just outside in the hallway. In the light from the open door, Nathaniel could see that his eyes were wide and staring. He hoped that seeing the death of the Industrialist was still haunting him. “Ja, Lord Eschaton. Was ist du vant?”

  “Nothing for me, but your fellow Paragon would like some water.” He glanced at Nathaniel and then looked back at the Prussian. “Find him a pitcher, and a bowl and cloth as well. I'm sure he'd like to clean himself up a bit.”

  The fat man nodded as Eschaton spoke. “Ist der anything else, Lord?”

  “That's all for now, but you'd better hurry, I think. Things are beginning to look tight for you. I'm sure you want me to remedy that.”

  Grüsser raced out of the door at a trot, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Just as the sound began to diminish, Eschaton turned and yelled out the man's name again. “Grüsser! Get back here.” The sound stopped, and then grew louder.

  When he appeared at the door, the Prussian was breathless and red-faced. Whatever talent the man had brought to the Paragons, great fitness was not among them. “Ja, Lord?”

  “Can you also find a bottle of whisky and a proper glass for the gentleman?”

  “Ja.” He stood leaning awkwardly against the doorway for a moment, gasping for breath. He seemed to be waiting to see what else Eschaton might have to say to him.

&n
bsp; “Go!” the gray man boomed, and Grüsser vanished like a chastened cat, his footsteps going even faster than before.

  Nathaniel frowned. He had no great respect for the Submersible, but it was clear that Eschaton's intention was to humiliate him, and he was still a fellow Paragon. “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes,” the gray man said to him with a nod. “He's hidden behind a mask for so long that he can no longer tell if he's pretending anymore. But we'll fix it in time.” He nodded and smiled. “You need to appreciate that there is nothing that I do to the men who serve me that they have not already done to themselves. I just bring it into the open and put it to work for my purposes.”

  Nathaniel considered this for a moment. “Are you trying to tell me that every man ultimately wishes for his own subjugation?” Having spent most of his life with his nose half-buried in books by the old masters, he had to admit that there was a certain degree of simple charm to the philosophies that Eschaton espoused.

  The gray man nodded in response. “I'll admit that it's not the natural human condition. It's simply the outcome that we have brought upon ourselves from the endless arrogance that comes with assuming that we are the children of the divine.”

  “So you don't believe in God?”

  Eschaton leaned back and laughed softly. “Are you shocked that I might question whether there is an intelligent creator who watches our lives from his throne in the clouds?” He shook his head. “The only being I've ever met who was assured of the love of his creator, was the one who never realized that I helped create him.” Eschaton lifted up his arms and balled his hands into fists, “until I tore him to pieces.”

  Nathaniel took a moment to realize what he was being told. “You helped create the Automaton?”