“With a few modifications of my own,” Blackwell replied tartly. “I found that there were a couple of weak points when we scaled down the design of the MechaMan Mark II . . .”
“I don’t remember signing off on any armour development,” Sound cut in. Had he missed some mandate stating his orders were to be regarded as “light suggestions” to Ministry personnel?
“Last month, Director,” Axelrod, his voice finally found, began, “if you recall I asked about beginning automaton development based on those plans and—”
“And I realised that it would make for a most suitable protective armour for our agents in the field,” Blackwell interjected. She motioned to the target, the metal not even showing signs of burns or abrasions from the explosives. “Scaling it down makes many of the seals stronger and the welds a little less likely to burst under pressure.”
“That is why we need a higher quality of explosives,” Axelrod said, his smile bright and confident. “We must test our model thoroughly. Find out what its limits are. I wouldn’t want to send our brave lads and ladies out in something not up to snuff.”
Doctor Sound was always unnerved by Axelrod as he carried himself as if he knew far more than Sound did, but was far too charming for Sound to be offended by his superiority complex.
Granted, Axelrod was brilliant. In an eccentric sort of way. So was Blackwell. Individually, they created an odd assortment of gadgets and weapons that could be best described as ridiculous and outlandish. Together, they brought agents home alive.
His gaze considered both of them for a moment, trying to decide if his mad-scientists-in-residence were working from a place of genuine concern for their fellow Ministry workers, or just attempting to get hold of more ordinance.
Blackwell wants a bigger boom, a tiny voice in his head warned.
Josepha’s perpetually wide eyes really made it hard to tell. He was going to have to be politic.
The director ran his hand across his belly—which had grown larger in recent years than he might have liked—and spread his hands wide. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the test room is certified for taking anything larger than the charges that you’ve been supplied, Doctor Blackwell.” Both Blackwell and Axelrod appeared crestfallen. Rather endearing. “I find alternatives come to me quite faster when stepping away from a project.” He leaned in, a wry smile across his face. “I have need for you in the field.”
“A field assignment?” Blackwell and Axelrod chimed in together, and there was no mistaking the notes of excitement in their voices.
Sound straightened. “Delighted to see you are so excited to be providing support to Agents Books and Braun.”
Blackwell sighed, appearing disappointed, while Axelrod’s eyes lit up with delight. “Wellington Books,” he said brightly. “How fortuitous!”
“As a matter of fact, yes, they are handling a most delicate case,” Sound said, his smile widening as he added, “A delicate case that directly involves one of our off-site consultants. One I believe you have been petitioning me to bring on-site for the last three years.”
The two researchers glanced at each other. Blackwell’s eyes were so large they almost threatened to engulf her whole face. Axelrod was now rather pale.
“You mean,” his voice broke a little, and he had to stop and clear his throat, “Nikola?”
“We have to get ready,” Blackwell uttered to no one in particular. “We have to finish proposals.”
“We have to finish a few prototypes.”
“Quite a few,” she agreed. “Testing?”
Axelrod shook his head. “We can always run trials at a later date. Worth the risk.”
Sound raised an eyebrow at that, but both Axelrod and Blackwell were lost in preparations. “Yes, I will send a reply immediately then, shall I? Oh, and due to urgency, we will need to employ the æthergates. Are you all right with that?”
Axelrod, fit to burst, slapped his hands on top of his head. The hair had grown back rather nicely there after the last incident, Sound thought. From their collected enthusiasm, the æthergate option made this assignment practically a visit from Father Christmas. The technology was a convenient way to travel, but not without its dangers. Still, it was the only means to reach Agents Books and Braun before it was too late.
Doctor Sound clapped Axelrod on the back, knocking him onto the tips of his toes a fraction. “Calibrate the gates on their Ministry ring signal and all will be ready.”
It was catching sight of Doctor Blackwell checking her appearance in the reflective surface of a nearby centrifuge that made Sound’s breath catch in his throat. There had been an incident four years ago where Josepha had met Nikola while visiting Europe. The weekend in Vienna to this day was still referred to as “The Lost Weekend.” Working together again opened the door for dangerous outcomes, but it was just the kind of chaos that might tip scales to their advantage.
Sound wrapped his hand over Axelrod’s shoulder and guided him to one corner of the laboratory. “I am relying on you to be”—the director paused for a second, glancing over to see Blackwell now turning in place to inspect her fashion, not quite able to believe what he was about to say—“a voice of reason over there.”
The researcher blinked at him for a couple of moments, as if he couldn’t quite believe that either. “I will try my best,” he managed to grind out.
“Good man!” Doctor Sound slapped his back again. “Just make certain your compatriot Blackwell keeps her wits about her, respect Tesla’s idiosyncrasies, and you should be fine. Once you are packed, pop up and see me.”
Axelrod gave a curt nod and returned to what Sound could only assume was a checklist of items for the journey. Just as Sound reached the iron hatch, he heard the scientist call out, “Sir, might I ask, what will you be doing in preparation for the journey?”
Sound gave a long, low sigh. “I’ll be enjoying what may be the last good cup of tea for a spell.”
SIXTEEN
In Which Our Dashing Archivist, Colonial Pepperpot, and Friends Old and New Walk in the Footsteps of Giants
The town of Flagstaff reminded Wellington of his time in the Queen’s Calvary: hot, dry and unwelcoming. Immediately on exiting the hypersteam, Wellington exchanged his spectacles for ones with tinted lenses, and breathed deep of the warm Arizona air. He removed the heavier coat he had needed for Michigan, and hoped their luggage would arrive tomorrow as promised by the hotel they’d not enjoyed fully in Detroit. He was feeling the lack of his portable analytical engine and his car.
As America—Detroit, in particular—was deep into the embrace of industrialisation, the town of Flagstaff looked as though it remained stranded in the past. During their carriage ride from the hypersteam terminal, Wellington wondered if they were riding through the picture books of his youth depicting the rough and tumble world of the Wild West. They reached their hotel, the Royal. Hardly the splendour of the Hotel Ste. Claire but civilised enough. The four of them followed their porter up polished wooden steps to their rooms. As Bill and Felicity disappeared into their respective rooms, Wellington decided now would be the best opportunity to discuss the current status of the mission with his partner, without the Americans being involved.
Perhaps, if things went smoothly, he could also share with her opinions of a more personal nature. Again, free of American interference.
Sharing a room—even if it was in fact a suite—was something they’d done before, but he wondered if it was going to be even more uncomfortable now. They opened the first door to the bedroom and went in. It was light and airy, painted a duck-egg blue, with simple dressing furniture and a large bed. A door to the right led to their parlour, while one to the left led to the bathroom.
Eliza was just heading in that direction, when he managed to forestall her. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to debrief, I think,” he said, in what he hoped was a cheerful manner.
&nb
sp; His partner frowned slightly, but came out into the bedroom once more and folded her arms in front of her.
The room itself might be far more modest than the Carolina resort, but as Wellington strolled to the window he realised the view was just as marvellous.
Instead of brilliant gold and ivory beaches and a serene Atlantic expanse, the view from the suite in the Royal looked out over a small grove of trees, and a range of red rocks reaching up into a bright blue sky. He took a moment to admire it before turning to Eliza; she was still wearing that eye-catching corset-trousers ensemble that she had worn at breakfast. Staring at him, one hand on her hip, the other already clasping a glass of water, Wellington completely forgot what he wanted to talk about.
After she’d taken a sip, she looked him up and down. “Well, what sort of briefing is this then? Something hush-hush for our ears only or some such?”
His mouth was abruptly dry. He wanted privacy. Now he had it, and he had not a clue what to do with it. “A lovely view, don’t you think?”
After carefully placing her water down on the table, she smiled. “Look, Welly, it’s been a long trip and I’d like to clean up. I’m not terribly interested in the Oak Creek Canyon at present, but I know the sandstone is quite lovely, and also there is a very nice vantage point for a sniper on the lower ridge facing east.”
“Oh,” he whispered, as understanding washed over him. He had wanted to brief her on his assessment of the mission and, perhaps, his own emotions, and yet it was she who was schooling him.
Eliza smiled lightly. “Remember, this is an assignment, not a holiday.”
“Of course,” he muttered, feeling particularly dense.
“And as I am the senior field agent, please, tell me what you can about our current locale.”
With a quick nod, Wellington cleared his throat and looked out over the property. “There is a solitary entry point in the back, a servant’s entrance no doubt. That means the Royal has one door at the front, exiting into the street, and another leading to this modest grove behind us. A small stable with room for at least ten horses. No surprise as this is the largest hotel in Flagstaff. The establishment probably caters to the needs of professional gamblers.”
“Very good, Wellington,” she said, sitting on the large bed and crossing her legs.
He went to continue, paused, and tried not to look at Eliza. She did have very fine legs, which were especially noticeable in the current outfit. Such an evaluation was highly inappropriate. Wellington yanked his mind back to the task at hand. “Well, there is my motorcar. Once it arrives from Detroit, I need to make sure it receives attention, preferably when it is not high noon as the heat can be rather unpleasant here.”
“Rather,” she agreed.
“Out of the ten stalls, there are seven occupied. That would mean the Royal is not full to capacity but quite well-off as I’m sure being one of the largest buildings in the town, it could serve many people on their way west.”
“So are you insinuating that if the corral is full, so is the hotel itself?”
“Hardly,” Wellington said, shooting her a satisfied grin. She was trying to trip him up, but he would not disappoint. “The corral is but a courtesy offered from the Royal. Once the tenth stall is occupied, I have no doubt that patrons are offered, for a reduced rate, accommodations for their steeds at the stables we passed only five doors down.”
“Excellent.” She got to her feet and went to the window. “And the rooftops—what did you note about them?”
Wellington frowned. He glanced through the curtains, parted them slightly for a second, longer look, and then shrugged. “Some are flat, some are at angles. Quite common for modern American architecture.”
Eliza motioned to the continuous row of wooden structures. “The buildings are far enough apart that anyone cannot simply leap from one rooftop to another. Until we get closer to the centre of Flagstaff, it is not a concern for us.” She glanced to either side and then to the ground. “We are quite secure in the Royal and should not have any issue if under siege.”
Wellington’s eyes fell on the trough of water. That area, far enough from the horses so as not to disturb them, could serve as the best to park his motorcar. He would need to fill the boilers, just to be certain they were ready for any unexpected occurrences. Around Eliza, the unexpected was rather to be expected. He wanted to be ready, ready as she was. This was, after all, the world he had been bred and trained for, but turned his back on, those many years ago. How his choices had disappointed his father.
There is always room for redemption, a whisper echoed in his mind.
“If you must know, you’re exceeding my expectations, Wellington,” Eliza said, bringing him back to Arizona and the here and now. “You handled yourself with exceptional aplomb in Detroit.”
“Thank you, Miss Braun.” He checked his watch and caught his breath. “Oh dear, I do believe we only have a few minutes until our meeting with Doctor Sound. Shall we head down to the reception area in ten minutes?”
Could he say what he wanted to in ten minutes? He didn’t want to part company at present. It was rather nice having Eliza next to him. He wanted to let her know how he felt, how he felt about seeing Bill kiss her. That was his fault, he wanted to admit, spending too much time getting the motorcar shipshape and Bristol fashion, as it were.
“Right then,” Eliza said, her smile oddly mirthless, her voice definitely cold. “Off you go.”
Wellington turned to leave the bedroom, however each step felt completely wrong. He needed to talk to her. Desperately.
“Tosh, man,” he chided himself, as he prepared the small, curved couch in their parlour into something that he might be able to sleep on. This is Eliza. She is back in her element. Let her do what she has longed to do, and then, on the way home, perhaps you can discuss things over tea. Now is not the time.
Tea. He did so long for a proper cuppa, but sadly this country did not seem to regard the ceremony of tea with the same reverence as the Empire did.
He took a moment to splash some much-needed water on his face, take a breath, and then changed his shirt. He opened a pair of small windows opposite one another in the hopes to encourage a cross breeze. The Arizona Territory was hot, but at least there was very little humidity in the air.
Eliza emerged from the bedroom, giving him a silent “Are we ready?” glance. She too had changed, by placing a fresh white blouse over her corset, accenting the new look with an ivory, long-line jacket. She had gathered her hair into a bun at the base of her neck. From underneath the coat, he could see her two pistols.
“Eliza . . .” And again, he was at a loss. Why was this so hard? Stiffen sinews, summon up the blood, and all that. “I know this has been a delight for you . . . returning to the field . . .”
His partner sighed dramatically. “Wellington, we had ten minutes, yes?”
Most assuredly, on the voyage home, Wellington pledged to himself silently as they made their way down to the Royal’s reception area.
Bill and Felicity were waiting for them in a small atrium of circular couches. Settled into wide-back chairs, both of fine wicker make, Bill was reading the newspaper while his colleague enjoyed, with outward, obvious interest, her new surroundings. Felicity, rocking back and forth on the chair slightly, made eye contact with Wellington and smiled at him brightly.
“You all settled in?” Bill asked, as he folded the newspaper and tossed it on the wicker table before him. His smile, Wellington noted, was aimed squarely at his partner.
“Quite,” Eliza replied with an inclination of her head that hid the tiny smile on her lips. “The Royal is a lovely establishment.”
“I apologise for the room sharing we’ve had to do,” Felicity said. “Apparently, Flagstaff is booming so much they are struggling to keep up with demand.”
“No need,” Wellington said, waving a hand dismissively.
“We will manage.”
“I’m sure you will.” Felicity looked between him and Eliza. “But if an inconvenience arises, do let me know. Straightaway.”
“Certainly,” he said, furrowing his brow slightly. What was Felicity implying exactly? Dear Lord, when it came to women, sometimes he felt all at sea. “Learn anything from the paper, Bill?” Wellington asked, desperate to steer the conversation in another, safer direction.
“These local rags?” Bill shook his head with a snort. “Barely worth the ink. No, I’m reading what is happening out west. But I do have some great news: unexpectedly our luggage—and that motorcar of yours—is all arriving this afternoon.” Wellington gave a sigh of relief as he continued. “And the prototype from the Outer Banks is already here. Our people expedited it as they deemed it ‘real important.’ It’s at our safe house. We also had a message waiting for us at Reception.” Bill took the telegram out of his pocket and read, “‘Anxious to see you in Flagstaff. Keep your shadow close. Cheers.’” He looked up. “Well, that makes as much sense as a lawyer running a church.”
“I know the code seems a bit much, but we were using the open wireless, Bill, so we had to be careful.” Eliza touched his arm in an entirely too familiar fashion. “The House of Usher has a wide reach, and they probably know by now we’re on their trail.” She checked her pocket watch and gently bit her lip. “So ‘Keep your shadow close’ is in reference to when they want to meet. Your shadow is closest to you at noon. Which it nearly is.”
“Then let’s get goin’.” Bill nodded to Felicity and rose to his feet. “Follow us.”
The Americans led Wellington and Eliza out into the warm streets of Flagstaff. The desert sun was strong, and so many were seeking shade underneath the awnings of the various buildings and stores. Traffic along the main causeway was very different from the traffic of London, mainly stagecoaches that Wellington had never expected to see for himself. As a young man on the grounds of his father’s estate, he was being groomed for a life in the Empire, not serving at the Queen’s pleasure in the United States. The dust from the road didn’t seem to hang long in the warm air of the desert territory, but it was immediately kicked up again even by the slowest moving of carts.
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