Their airship, the Onyx Shadow, glided above the city. From here, the Mon seemed to be illuminated by torchlight, as up and down the river Mitch and Jacob could see the tall flare stacks of one massive steel mill after another.
“Have a care to give those flames a wide berth, or we’ll have big trouble,” Mitch warned.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got them in my sights,” Nowak assured them.
“The orbs are moving faster,” Mitch said. “Keep after them!”
Jacob looked down, and then thought better of it, gripping the railing white-knuckled. “I hate flying,” he muttered. The river bank slipped by rapidly beneath the airship with its rail lines and mill towns, as barges chugged downriver without a care about the excitement in the skies above.
Jacob pushed a stray lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes. He didn’t like his hair as short as regulations called for, or nearly as short as Mitch preferred to keep his. With a long thin face and pale blue eyes, Jacob was well aware he looked like the majority of Eastern European immigrants who had flocked to the manufacturing cities of the Northeast to work in the factories of America. The same slight accent that occasionally prompted a dour look from the Brass made him fit right in among the mill hunks and factory workers, as did his ability to speak several Slavic languages like a native. Like those mill workers, Jacob was tall and broad-shouldered, and hard work had put muscles on his lean frame. He seldom started fights, but often finished them.
Nowak maneuvered the Onyx Shadow through the ever-present smoke. Visibility from the airship’s small bridge waxed and waned, and Jacob fingered his St. Blaise medal, certain they would plow into one of the high brick smokestacks or the steep hillsides that sloped down to the river. The experimental airship moved at top speed, faster than any of the commercial or private dirigibles, thanks to the Department’s top-secret technology and design. It was even faster than the Flying Scotsman locomotive in its best race. That didn’t bear dwelling on, in Jacob’s opinion.
“They’re damn fast,” Nowak said, leaning forward as if it would help the airship gain momentum.
“Can you keep up?” Mitch urged. Jacob had seen that light in his partner’s eyes before, usually just before the two of them created a calamity that tended to include explosions and which required lengthy explanations to their superiors.
“I can try,” Nowak said, his expression set in grim resolve. “We’re still working out the bugs. Not completely sure yet what this baby can do.”
“Do it.” Mitch moved as far forward as the airship bridge allowed, staring at the flying orbs as if willpower alone would narrow the gap.
“They’re heading upriver, like as not toward the Edgar Thomson Works,” Nowak said as he managed the instruments and checked the gauges. Their reconnaissance ship held a crew of five, including Mitch and Jacob. Compared to the bigger zeppelins, the Onyx Shadow was fast, light, and classified, using a combination of rotorcraft and a much smaller gas envelope than the typical airships.
“I’ve got ’er opened wide up,” Nowak said. “With a little luck and a tailwind, we’ll keep them in sight.”
Jacob was torn between heady exhilaration and sheer terror, a common feeling when he and Mitch were in the field. The bridge was humming from the sound of the straining engines, and without feeling or hearing the sound of the wind whistling by them, a glance down made Jacob think that the moving scenery far below them was nothing more than scenes from a praxinoscope projection.
“We’re gaining on them,” Mitch said, with the same raw competitiveness that had made him the Department’s top crack shot three years in a row. He held a portable version of the airship’s cameras and had it pressed against the glass, muttering as he tried to hold it still enough to get a shot of the glowing orbs that danced through the sky.
“I can’t hold this speed forever,” Nowak snapped. “This airship wasn’t tested for this. It’s fragile.”
“Just a little longer,” Mitch said, never taking his eyes off the orbs. “We’ve nearly got them.”
Jacob could hear the airship’s engines protesting. “Mitch, this isn’t a train. Push a locomotive too hard and you stop rolling. Push this too far and we fall out of the sky. Those rotors need to spin to keep us in the air.”
“Almost there,” Mitch said, in a tone that let Jacob know that Mitch hadn’t heard a word he or Novak had said.
The orbs dipped and swirled toward the massive Thomson Works mill, moving fast. They aligned over top of the mill, and the factory lights and all the street lamps dimmed and flickered, casting the Braddock riverside into near-darkness before the power came back.
“There they go again!” Mitch said, carefully snapping another picture as the orbs began to move again.
Nowak opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, there were two loud bangs from the direction of the engines.
“Abandon ship!” a man’s panicked voice shouted from the speaking tube on the bridge. “Repeat, engines failing, rotors two and three both down, abandon ship!”
“Not again,” Jacob muttered.
Mitch grabbed his parachute and tossed chutes to Jacob and Nowak. He strapped his on almost without looking, then made sure he secured his precious camera inside his leather jacket before heading to the emergency hatch. Jacob grabbed his journal and shoved it into his jacket and zipped it up.
“Wariat! You’re insane,” Nowak shouted. “You’re bloody insane!”
“Get ready to jump,” Mitch said as if he had not even noticed Nowak’s outburst. He yanked open the emergency hatch, and cold wind ripped through the bridge, scattering papers and howling in their ears. The airship was no longer level, slowly sinking towards the river as the two remaining rotors fought gravity. Nowak struggled with the controls, trying to slow the airship’s rate of descent and level it out as much as possible for everyone to clear safely.
“Come on!” Mitch said, grabbing the pilot by the arm and shoving him toward the hatch. “Jump!”
Nowak had the same training Mitch and Jacob had taken, but Jacob bet that the pilot hadn’t needed to use his as often. He went out the hatch pale with terror.
“Jacob—jump!” Mitch shouted, holding tightly to the railing to keep from being pulled out of the airship.
“Magarac,” Jacob muttered under his breath, not bothering to translate. He had called his partner a jackass often enough that Mitch knew at least one word in Croatian. He dove from the hatch, counted silently and pulled the cord, feeling his heart in his throat until the black silk billowed into the sky above him. To his left, he spotted the two men from the engine room, gliding down with their parachutes. He saw Mitch a little ways over, his dark clothes nearly invisible against the night sky, but his face alight with the thrill of the jump.
The Onyx Shadow nosed toward the river, its engines sputtering and three of its rotors now in flames. They had dimmed its running lights to avoid notice, but even so, it would be difficult to imagine that no one was going to notice a large flaming object falling out of the sky and into the swift waters of the Mon. Once or twice, this kind of thing could be explained away with tales of weather balloons or atmospheric disturbances. Too often, and they’d have to call in help to clean things up. Jacob sighed. He should have known the night was going to end this way.
Jacob brought his chute down on a barren strip of land by the railway, not far from where Nowak and Mitch had landed. They wrapped up their chutes, weighted them with rocks and sank them in the river. Jacob shook his head. He had way too much experience with this sort of thing.
Nowak, still cursing in Polish, had gone in search of his crewmen. Mitch already had his camera out. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll track them on foot.”
Jacob opened his mouth to argue and shut it again with a sigh of resignation. There was no reasoning with Mitch when he was like this. The best he could do was to try and keep the damage to a minimum, if it wasn’t already too late for that. Mitch could explain it to the higher-ups. He always di
d.
“Damn.” Mitch struggled to the top of the embankment, where he had a good view of the massive steel mill. The orbs were gone.
Jacob removed a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “Put that out!” Mitch said. “Someone will see us.”
Jacob shrugged and shoved his hands into his wrinkled canvas jacket. “See what?” he said out of one side of his mouth. “Two jokers walking by the river? We sent the chutes to the bottom, along with the airship. Tomorrow, a barge with no markings will come along and dredge this area, and take out some odd-shaped thing under a tarpaulin. Colonel Falken will hand us our asses when he finds out, you’ll sweet-talk our way out of it, we’ll end up on probation—again—and next week, just to let us know they’re annoyed, they’ll send us out to the Rockies to find that big furry guy—again.”
“I thought we made a deal with him that we’d leave him alone if he didn’t bother the railroad workers?” Mitch said, looking genuinely confused.
Jacob took a drag on his stogie and sent the smoke in Mitch’s direction just to watch him cough and swat the air. “Right now, I’m going down to Birmingham since we’re on the south side of the river and get some decent pierogies,” he said. He said it the way the locals did, “sah side.”
“And a beer?” Mitch asked with a knowingly raised eyebrow.
Jacob grinned. “This is New Pittsburgh. A shot-and-a-beer. Iron City.” He took another puff. “See how many people are talking about strange doings over the Mon,” he said, and his accent, usually nearly non-existent, grew more and more Slavic. “Need to know how much damage control is needed. Before we stir up more.”
“You don’t care what I’m going to do?” Mitch retorted.
“Nope,” Jacob said. “Because you’re going to hang around here and get some pictures, telling everyone you’re a newspaper man. Then tomorrow, you’re going to wake me up early and drag me out to Tesla-Westinghouse to see if that boy-genius had anything to do with the orbs,” Jacob added, his gravelly voice carrying even though he did not turn his head.
“You’re angry about the crash,” Mitch said.
Jacob shrugged and kept on walking.
Mitch jammed his hands in his pockets and glared at him. “Who insisted on having parachutes on the airship?” He said. “Me, that’s who.”
“And who made us need to use the parachutes?” Jacob replied drily. “You, that’s who. See you at the house, Mitch. If I win a few hands of cards, I might bring you a bucket of beer.” With that, he sauntered off down the riverside.
At first, he could hear Mitch fuming behind him, but it was all for show. He and Mitch had been partners since the Johnson County Wars out West, only back then, they were green recruits, still wet behind the ears, newly signed up for the adventure of being in the U.S. Cavalry. He took another long drag from his stogie and let it out slow. Adventure. That’s what they called it. Nearly got our asses shot off. Still have some lead in my leg from that one.
By the time Jacob reached the safe house in Shadyside, it was after midnight. The lights were out, and no one responded to his quiet knock. Jacob picked the lock and let himself in, then crept up the back stairs.
“About time you got back,” Mitch said. He had hooded the room’s only lamp so that it could not be seen burning from the street. “I waited to send our report until you came back.”
On the table in front of him sat a clockwork carrier pigeon. It was a mechanical marvel, designed with the ability to fly long distances and return to its home base just like its living counterpart. What set the Department’s “pigeon” apart was the hidden compartment on its steel back into which small objects could be placed.
“I developed the pictures we shot earlier,” Mitch said. “Got in a good photo or two. I had to make them small to fit the bird, but it’s enough to give Falken an idea of what we’re seeing.” Mitch stared at the photos for a few minutes before maneuvering them into the hidden compartment. On the table nearby lay a mobile telegraph switch, and Jacob saw a wire snaking out of the window to the pole outside.
“I think we need to show these to the wunderkind over at Tesla-Westinghouse. You printed extras, right?” Jacob asked.
“Yup,” Mitch said. “Oh, and Falken telegraphed. We’re on probation—again.”
Jacob muttered under his breath in Croatian. “I hear Idaho is lovely this time of year. We might as well buy a cabin.”
“Not a bad idea,” Mitch replied. He turned off the light, opened a window and released the clockwork bird into the night sky with the sound of the rustle of brass wings.
* * *
Jacob groaned as sunlight streamed through the window, hitting him full in the face. “Get up, lazy ass!” Mitch’s voice sounded far too chipper given the late night they had put in. “The carriage is coming for us. I brought up a cup of coffee and a roll for you, but you need to get dressed.”
Jacob had barely pulled on his clothing and gulped his coffee before the driver arrived. He grabbed the roll, biting off chunks as he followed Mitch down the steep steps. “No cross words from Mrs. Hanson about last night?” he asked with a mouthful of bread.
Mitch chuckled. “She’s got nothing to complain about. The Department paid to patch up the holes from the last time. You can hardly see where the fire was.”
Hans, their driver, waited with the carriage in the street, a second cowled man beside him. Hans had his cap pulled low over his face, shading his features. Most people wouldn’t look twice at a carriage driver, but if they did, one glance would have made it clear he had been modified.
Half his face was metal, with a mechanical eye and exposed gears—results of a bad explosion a few years back. Likewise his companion kept his visage equally hidden. Hans was still obviously human, but the second man was clearly a mechanical, one of the latest generation of Werkmen the Department had begun to deploy. They were loyal, trustworthy, did exactly as ordered, and they did not require hazard pay.
“Hello, Hans,” Jacob said as he and Mitch climbed into the open carriage door.
Hans nodded curtly. “Good day, sir,” he replied, with the odd whirring and clicking that accompanied his voice when he spoke.
“Tesla-Westinghouse—you know the way,” Mitch said when they were settled.
“Very good, sir,” Hans replied, climbing back up into the driver’s seat beside the guard.
The carriage wound through the crowded New Pittsburgh streets. Jacob glanced out the window. Most of the damage of the Conflagration of 1868 and the Great Pittsburgh Flood of 1869 had been repaired, although the devastation had changed the city’s destiny forever, especially after the Quake of 1872. The catastrophes had leveled buildings, changed the topography, opened up rich natural resources and made or destroyed fortunes. And for once, the Department hadn’t had a thing to do with it.
“You really think Wunderkind can help with the orbs?” Jacob asked, drawing himself out of his thoughts.
Mitch grinned. “If he doesn’t, he can figure out how to get what we need. He’s as good as his reputation—maybe even better.”
The carriage brought them across the Monongahela to Wilmerding, where the main Tesla-Westinghouse labs were housed. The carriage pulled up to “The Castle,” the elaborate, turreted Renaissance Revival/Romanesque building that housed the company headquarters. A fire two years ago had leveled the structure, and the rebuilding not only restored the grand structure but added a new set of secret laboratories beneath it.
“Stay with the carriage, Hans,” Mitch said as he and Jacob disembarked. “Keep your ears open—I’ll transmit if we need you.”
Mitch and Jacob each wore a wide-banded “watch” that was one of the Department’s latest toys, since it included among its many functions a short-range Morse transmitter. The receiver was concealed in a rather large lapel pin. Jacob had no reason to expect danger, but he had grown accustomed to being surprised.
Mitch flashed his Department badge at the agent on duty. “Hi, Grace,” he said with a grin and a wink.
Special Agent Grace Palmatier gave him a coolly appraising glance. “Captain Storm,” she replied. “And Captain Drangosavich. Nice to see you again. Please try to leave the building—and our vehicles—intact, this time. Your last visit was expensive.”
Mitch gave her his best “aw shucks” look, but she shook her head and Jacob chuckled. “I think she’s got you figured out, Mitch,” Jacob said as they took the stairs to the basement, then entered the left elevator, where Lars, another Werkman, was dressed as an elevator operator.
“Good day, sirs,” Lars said with mechanical stiffness.
“Minus three,” Mitch said. “We’re expected.”
“Very good, sirs.” The elevator buttons only showed the upper levels. Lars flipped a switch, revealing a secret control panel, with the subterranean levels that were home to Tesla-Westinghouse’s confidential and experimental projects.
When the doors opened, a tall, skinny young man in a lab coat was waiting for them. A mop of straight, sandy brown hair fell into his eyes, over wire-rimmed glasses that appeared to be smudged. “Wunderkind,” otherwise known as Adam Farber, stood several inches taller than either Jacob or Mitch but looked as if he skipped regular meals. He was gawky and rail-thin, all of maybe twenty-two years old, and one of the most brilliant inventors on the Eastern seaboard.
“Come on back,” Adam said, dispensing with formalities. “Coffee?” He was as twitchy as a squirrel, making Jacob think the man had probably consumed more than enough caffeine, even though the morning was still young.
“No thanks,” Mitch replied. “But we’re hoping you can help us with a new project.”
Adam poured another cup of black coffee for himself and took a seat at a cluttered table, gesturing for Mitch and Jacob to join him. “What do you make of these?” Mitch asked, laying out several photographs of the orbs.
“Who wants to know—and why?” Adam asked. His eyes suddenly appeared much older, wary from the time he had already spent navigating the push and pull of competing powers who wanted to ransack his intellect for their own purposes.
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