Hearts of Smoke and Steam

by Andrew P. Mayer

  The villain raised up a hand. “Stop, Sarah Stanton.”

  Sarah raised up her gun and fired. The bullets bounced off the man's black leather costume, clearly doing little or no damage. If she ever had the chance, she really would need to talk to Emilio about the effectiveness of his weapon…

  “Please,” said the man in the wolf mask, stepping closer.

  “Stay back!”

  “I'm trying to…Ungh!”

  Sarah smacked him as hard as she could with her purse, realizing an instant later that she had just used Tom's heart as a bludgeon.

  It had been an effective weapon. The impact knocked the man clear of the door, and he slumped to the floor. “I'm sorry, Tom,” she whispered, praying to herself that she hadn't just managed to undo Vincent's and Emilio's repairs in a single blow.

  With the doorway clear, Sarah ran out across the courtyard until she reached the backstage door. She was gasping for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. At least she'd had the good sense to wear boots instead of fashionable shoes, otherwise she would have completely collapsed from the effort.

  Sarah flung the door open with enough force that it caused a nearby stagehand to jump. But after she pulled the door closed behind her and threw the bolt, she had no idea what to do next. It was possible that she could head for the exit and try to get the attention of Emilio and Viola, but what good would that do? They were already facing at least three of the Children of Eschaton, and there was a good chance that more would follow…If she tried to warn them, it might only make things worse than they already were.

  Her other option was to run—head right out onto the stage and scream for help. But that could cause a commotion, possibly a stampede. After the events onboard the ferry, the last thing she needed on her conscience was another massacre.

  What she needed was a place to hide while she gathered her thoughts. Looking out across the stage, she saw the Pneumatic Colossus still sitting in the corner, steam spitting from his joints and the hoses rising up out of him.

  Sarah ran toward him and shoved herself down behind his back, her corset once again attacking her thighs. This close, the mechanical puppet was hot and moist, and stank of the lubricating oil that had been mixed into the steam.

  As she felt the greasy moisture seep into her clothes, Sarah heard her mother's voice inside her head, lamenting the fact that Sarah had just managed to ruin her last good dress. She supposed that Viola would be thrilled to see the remainder of her “rich girl” clothes oil-stained and ruined.

  “Focus, girl!” Sarah whispered to herself. She was in trouble and she knew it. It certainly wouldn't take long for one of the Children to find her here. She did, after all, have the very object they were looking for in her hands. And she could expect no help from Vincent.

  But was the heart even fixed? Sarah took off her gloves and pulled the object out of her bag. Vincent and Emilio had done an admirable job of making it look as if it were repaired. It appeared far more like it had when she had seen it in Tom's chest in Darby's laboratory. Emilio had even replaced the plug that held the Alpha Element with something similar to the one that Eschaton had pulled out of it.

  When she unscrewed the plug, she saw that the base of it was a receptacle for the key around her neck. Emilio clearly had a very good memory.

  From nearby she could hear a loud rattling, and shouts from the stage door. It would be only a few moments before the Children of Eschaton found her.

  Sarah pulled the key out from her blouse and removed the lead covering. “Tom, I hope you're still in there.”

  The Alpha Element seemed to almost be devouring the steam around it, glowing brighter than she had ever seen it glow before.

  She shoved the front end into the plug. It fit perfectly, and Sarah quickly began to screw it back in. With each turn, her excitement grew, and her hands were trembling.

  Halfway in, the plug caught, the threads mashing together. Sarah swallowed, and instead of forcing it, she untwisted it half a turn and tried again. This time the plug found its groove and turned all the way in.

  Having screwed it as far as it would go, Sarah held her breath for a moment. She wanted something to happen, some sign that Tom was still alive, even in his reduced state. But the device in her hands remained motionless.

  A feeling of despair rose up in her, making her feel desperate and childish. What was it she was expecting to happen? There had been no guarantee that repairing the heart would restore Tom to life.

  “Miss Stanton?” The voice that came from nearby had the same deep timbre she had heard the wolf-man use in the workshop.

  As Sarah looked desperately around to try to see where the voice was coming from, she discovered a hatch where the legs and the waist of the Colossus came together. Perhaps she could hide the heart there? It was better than having one of the Children snatch it from her.

  Twisting open the latch, she lifted up the hatch to discover a gearbox inside. Spinning cogs controlled a series of rotating shafts that spidered out into the limbs of the mechanical man, allowing the giant puppet to move its hands and feet.

  She shoved the heart up into it, the gears jamming against the metal as she pushed hard to make it fit inside. Steam and grease covered her hand when she removed it, and her fingers slipped a few times before she could shove the latch back into place.

  “Miss Stanton, you have nothing to be afraid of.” Sarah looked up to see the snarling face hovering above her and felt that it was very doubtful he was telling her the truth. She pointed her gun up at him.

  “If you wanted to be calm and reassuring, you've picked the wrong mask,” she told him.

  “My name is Anubis. I only judge.”

  Accepting that she was beyond the point where she would be able to fight her way out of her predicament, Sarah put the gun and gloves back into her bag. When she was done, she held up her hand, but the leather-clad figure didn't move.

  “Don't you have any manners?”

  “I'm afraid I don't…”

  “Can you help me up, please?” she said, taking a tone of authority. Whoever this man was under his mask, he clearly hadn't been raised in society.

  “Of course,” he said, and offered his hand to her, palm upward.

  Sarah took it, her greasy fingers barely hanging onto his gloves as she stood. “Thank you.” Throwing all convention to the wind, she wiped her sleeve against her brow. If she hadn't been convinced that the dress was a total loss before, the damp black smear she left behind on the cloth confirmed it.

  “Wherth is she?” said another voice. “I'll kill her!”

  She looked up and saw Donny's broken-toothed face approaching.

  “Leave her alone,” Anubis said.

  “No.” Donny walked straight towards her. The pain of the slap he gave her came almost as much from surprise as it did from the actual blow, which was not inconsiderable in its force. She felt her head rock from the strength of it. “I've had enough of your mouth.” The broken-toothed boy raised up his hand to strike her again, then held it there, a simple and obvious threat. “Now tell me where the heart ith.”

  Anubis turned to face him, but there was no emotion visible under his black mask. “If you do that again, I'll knock you down.”

  Donny faced Anubis defiantly. “And if you were on our thide, I'd thtill have all my teeth!”

  When he turned back to her, Donny's face was puckered into a sour grimace, like a pouting child. His hand lashed out again, but this time something stopped the blow.

  Donny turned to face the man in black, his wrist caught in Anubis's black-gloved hand. “You've lotht your mind. Jack will kill you.”

  From somewhere nearby, Sarah heard a familiar grinding sound.

  “I've had enough of him, and of you.” Anubis said as he slowly twisted the man's arm, forcing him down to the floor. “I was hoping to accomplish more by being one of the Children, but too many people have suffered while I waited for my opportunity. It ends now.”

  “T
raitor!” Donny yelled at him. “I knew it all along.”

  “You were right.” Anubis held up his fist, clearly intent on hitting the other man. But the threatening hand withered and fell to Anubis's side as his gaze fixed onto something behind her.

  The grinding noise grew louder. Sarah turned to see that the Pneumatic Colossus had begun to rise. Its legs were slowly unfolding underneath it as the machine rose up from the floor, its head rolling upward like a puppet being lifted by invisible strings.

  “Tom,” she whispered. Looking up into its fiery eyes, she realized Vincent had been right; the machine was far more impressive when it was spitting fire and steam. But she would have never believed it if someone had told her that the Pneumatic Colossus would speak her name.

  “SARAH,” it replied, and the word poured out from the grate under its face in a cloud of white vapor.

  Emilio turned to Sarah to point out that he had created the mechanized cherubs currently saving “Young Vincent” from toppling over the edge of the cliff. Instead he discovered an empty seat. As he looked for her silhouette in the dark theater, he vaguely recalled Sarah telling him that she was going somewhere, but he couldn't quite remember where it was she was going to go, or how long ago she had told him she was leaving.

  “Have you seen Sarah?” he whispered to Viola in Italian.

  Her eyes were intensely focused on the stage, and she didn't move them to talk to him. “Shhh,” she said, raising a finger to her lips, “I'm watching.” From her tone, it was clear she expected no further disturbances.

  Under other circumstances he would have been pleased that Viola was so enraptured by the show. While he had been working on Vincent's mechanical creatures, she had often mocked him. “It sounds terrible,” she would tell him. “Who wants to see a bunch of tin monkeys running around on stage?”

  But now that she was actually there, his sister was totally lost in the spectacle, and he was sure that she would deny having ever said a discouraging word about it.

  Emilio loved his sister, but her selfishness was his least favorite part of her. When Viola was a little girl, their mother had taken to calling her “my little mule,” due to her stubbornness. It was still a fitting description.

  Viola was the most in love with what loved her the most, and the fires of that passion burned very hot. They also needed constant fuel, and she could be hopelessly in love with a man one week, and then barely be bothered to remember his name when the next one came along.

  He shook his head and tapped her on the shoulder again. “Sarah is missing.”

  “What?” This time she glanced at him for a moment. “Don't be ridiculous. She's probably gone to make water. She'll be back soon.”

  Up on the stage, a cluster of the small angels were about to enter into desperate combat with a flock of brass vampire bats intent on extracting every last drop of blood from the intrepid adventurer.

  He watched Viola gasp along with other members of the audience as the flying creatures clashed in midair. One of his mechanical angels was torn to pieces, leaving only a small cloud of feathers to flutter onto the stage. It had been a good design. “I'm going to look for her.”

  “As you like.” Viola muttered at him. She clearly had no interest in joining him.

  Emilio stood up and shuffled out of the aisle as discreetly as possible. He knew where he was going to check for her first. Given Sarah's ability to find trouble, and her nervousness about the fate of the mechanical man's heart, she would have headed to the workshop.

  He reached the end of the aisle, and then turned to watch the conclusion of the battle between the angels and the bats onstage. Young Vincent and the remaining angels were working together now, and the explorer fired a large blunderbuss that seemed to blast half of the black creatures off the stage while the rest flew up into the rafters.

  Seeing the mechanical angels flapping, and hearing the rising noise of the audience's thrilled applause, Emilio couldn't help but take a bit of pride in his creations.

  He had certainly built nothing as interesting since. After his time with Vincent, he had spent most of his days isolated in his workshop, hoping to create something that would get him noticed by the Paragons, or at least get him work as an apprentice.

  But now that he'd seen people watching the show, Emilio had begun to wonder if his attitude toward craftsmanship was too provincial and measured. Perhaps Americans appreciated spectacle more than craftsmanship.

  Heading to the back of the theater, he walked through the main doors and back into the menagerie. The mechanical animals had been shut off for the night, and the room was quiet and empty except for two men who were standing near the mechanical frog.

  One of them was clearly wearing an adventurer's costume. There was a hood over his head and a noose knotted around his neck. It would have been terrifying except that the outfit seemed to have been cut for a slimmer figure…

  The other man wore a dingy oiled duster and was smoking a cigar. From the Stetson on his head, Emilio could tell that he fancied himself a cowboy of some sort.

  Both he and Viola had talked a great deal about how exciting it would be to see a cowboy when they arrived in America, but it had turned out that in New York City they were few and far between.

  When they saw Emilio, the men whispered to each other, then turned to face him. “Can we help you?” the man in the noose said in a Southern accent so thick that it was difficult to understand.

  Emilio held up his hand to just about Sarah's height. “Have you seen this girl? She has red hair, and wears a black dress.”

  “Sorry pal, we ain't seen the filly yer lookin' for.” The cowboy also spoke with an accent. It was a western drawl that seemed impossibly authentic, and his words rolled out with a blast of cigar smoke. Emilio did his best not to cough as the cloud surrounded his head.

  “You are a real cowboy?” Looking at the man, Emilio knew that he probably shouldn't be asking him that, but he had to. “I never met a real cowboy before!”

  “Are you a real dago?” The man replied. “Because I've shot plenty of those…” He slid back his duster, revealing a well-used Colt pistol in a holster at his side. “And I wouldn't mind shootin' a few more.”

  As he looked down at the weapon, Emilio couldn't help but notice that the man had a yellow letter D sewn into each of his boots.

  The man in the white costume just stared straight at him through the eyeholes in his hood. “You better run away, my guinea friend, because otherwise I think my friend is going to shoot you.”

  Emilio knew better than to hang around men who were showing off their guns. He began to back away slowly, doing his best to look meek and mild, and certainly not at all like the kind of person who would know that these men might be members of the Children of Eschaton.

  When Emilio reached the backstage door, he turned the handle, but it was locked. He knocked on it nervously.

  “Waitaminit…” said the cowboy. “Didn't Murphy say something about one of the men on the balloon being an Italian?”

  Emilio tried to twist the handle again, but it was still just as locked as it had been a moment before. “Now that you mention it, he did,” replied the Southerner.

  For a moment, Emilio considered trying to escape back into the theater, but perhaps he could still talk his way out of trouble, and running might mark him as guilty of something. On the other hand, his English made it almost impossible for him to try to talk his way out of anything.

  The two men began walking towards him. If they were attempting to terrify him, it was working. The cowboy loomed up at his left side. “Where ya in such a hurry to get to?”

  The man in white appeared on the other side of him just a moment later. He smelled of liquor. “And that girl you're looking for—what's her name?”

  “Sarafina,” he said smoothly, and then tried not to wince as he realized just how big a mistake he had just made.

  Up close, the cowboy seemed bigger, meaner, and far less of a caricature than he ha
d been before. “Yeah? That wouldn't be Sarafina Stantontini, would it?”

  “No, sir. Sarah Bugiardini.” Emilio found himself wishing he had brought his shield with him, or that he had at least made another spring-loaded gun like the one that he had given to Sarah.

  The one weapon he did have wasn't designed to stop two men, and as he began to lift up his arm, he wondered which of them he should consider to be the most dangerous.

  “Now it's Sarah?” the Southerner asked. “I thought you said her name was Sarafina?” Emilio suddenly found his back pressed up against the door, the men too close for him to use his weapon…

  “I sorry…Sarafina. You say Sarah, and you make me very nervous.”

  “A real cowboy makes everyone nervous,” the man in the duster said with a smile.

  Emilio tried to grin back, but he was sure that whatever expression appeared on his face must have looked far more like terror than pleasure.

  Just as the man started to reach for his gun, Emilio felt the door unlatch behind him. The second it opened, he shoved himself through, clearly catching the young stagehand by surprise. “I must go to work. Sorry, gentlemen.”

  Before either one of them could react, Emilio slammed the backstage door shut and threw the bolt home.

  The stagehand scowled. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I'm Emilio Armando, I make the animals.”

  “Well, there's a show going on back here right now, you'll need to come back later.”

  “No, no. I know Vincent. He wants me to take a look at the monkeys.”

  “One of the monkeys is broken?” The boy rolled his eyes. “Nobody tells me anything. Then I guess the question is where were you? They're supposed to go onstage in five minutes.”

  There was banging on the door, and he could hear a Southern accent through the wood. “We'll be waiting for you when you come out, dago.”