Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  When the left eye suddenly flared with a menacing red glow, Wellington tightened his grip on the Winchester.

  Then he got a look at the monster’s valet, and Wellington lowered his rifle slightly. That taller figure he recognised straightaway. His weekend with the Phoenix Society had left quite a few impressions on him. “Pearson?” he managed.

  “Mr. Books,” the man-machine spoke, and Wellington felt a shudder pass through him when he heard that voice. So very, very cold. “I feel the time has arrived to introduce myself. I am the Maestro.” He turned his head unsteadily from side to side. “I require a moment of your time. I take it I have your attention?”

  INTERLUDE

  In Which the Good Doctor Is Up to No Good at All

  Nikola Tesla was not a man unfamiliar with physical exertion. Unlike many in his chosen profession, he believed passionately in remaining fit. Abstaining from stimulants such as tea and coffee, a proper regimen of exercise, sleeping only when his body demanded it—as opposed to habitually, as society deemed necessary—were only a few disciplines that kept the fine fibres of his brain in excellent working order with the rest of his body. He discovered in his youth the importance and relevance fitness had in relation to successes in the laboratory.

  However, that Nikola Tesla was a young adolescent burgeoning upon manhood, exploring the mountains of Croatia, attending classes in Austria, or advancing the technology of Budapest’s Telephone Exchange. Perhaps that Nikola Tesla would have barely bothered with the short flight of stairs leading into a building of unknown purpose or occupancy. Perhaps that younger, arrogant upstart Tesla would not feel his heart pounding through his rib cage on hearing the sounds of warfare outside. Would that Tesla have felt, as he did now, the debilitating flashes of thought, inspiration, and power familiar to him when he was a child? He screwed his eyes shut and took in great, hollow breaths through clenched teeth, the stench of a diesel engine threatening to choke him. He needed to control the images of the lighthouse, of the death ray, of the inner mechanics Edison had so clumsily assembled, or, more likely, had his people assemble as per his sloppy, slapdash specifications.

  The lights behind his closed eyelids were now fading. He placed his face in his hands and took another deep breath, the gasoline fumes causing his head to reel, and shouted out to the darkness around him, “No!”

  Tesla pulled himself off the wall and opened his eyes. His vision was normal once again. The stench from the diesel dynamo was tolerable. And before him, at the far end of the building he was told to run into, unescorted and armed only with his intellect, was a wall of machines. Tesla turned back towards the door and felt for something resembling a light switch. On finding a knob, he slowly turned it to the left.

  Of course he had to turn it slowly considering how absurdly fragile Edison had made his lightbulb design.

  The illumination was just enough to reveal more details of the various control stations before him. Yes, that Englishman Books was quite correct in his assumption that this building was the auxiliary control for the death ray. Tesla rested his fists on his hips as he deduced exactly what individual function each station served. Difficult as it was to grasp, Edison had finally managed to impress him with this contingency plan. Having a redundancy in order to carry out or prevent the death ray’s firing solution if something were to happen in the main control room displayed the signature of a logical, rational mind he could respect.

  Still, Edison was behind this architecture. This should be effortless, he thought with a grin. Perhaps a bit of fun, as well.

  While he wouldn’t see Edison’s face when he took control of the death ray, Tesla would know without fail that it would be he who would foil his counterpart’s grand plan for San Francisco’s destruction.

  An explosion from outside caused him to start. That had been far too close for his liking. He needed to cease this diabolical plot with haste. Later he would savour the moment.

  “Let’s see then, this column would be power input, power output, and output stability. Good.” He went to the next bank of controls. “Targeting X coordinates. Targeting Y coordinates. Targeting Z coordinates. Very good.” On these controls, Tesla felt a tightness well in his throat, as he muttered, “Turbine speed. Boiler level. Optical alignment.”

  They were all like this. He took another step back and counted the individual banks of gauges and readouts. Fifteen in total. He then saw the six lights blinking in sequence in three of the stations. In three other banks, the lights were flickering on and off, but Tesla noted that nine lights were always on at one time.

  “A thing of beauty,” he whispered.

  The flash hit him so hard he stumbled back, the world disappearing in a sea of brilliance. He steadied himself, placing his hands on his knees; but again he was blinded by the image of the death ray, new coordinates, the output exceeding safe levels, the focus of power travelling westward . . .

  Then he saw Edison. The sentence handed to the judge, and the word “Guilty!” and proclamations of victory rising and falling like waves of the Pacific as he sat in the gallery, watching the Wizard of Menlo Park fall from grace.

  On the final flash, he opened his eyes, and to his alarm he found himself on one knee. He hadn’t felt himself come in contact with the rough planks underfoot.

  He looked up at the auxiliary controls towering over him, the sacred number repeating in various calculations, various connotations, over and over again. “Of course,” he whispered. “It would be wrong of me if I ignored it.”

  Tesla reached over to the lever on the far end of the mechanics, and brought it down towards him. Once it locked into place, he heard a distinctive crackle of electricity from behind the controls. Still the pattern remained. He knew it would. This would solve so many problems, not only for himself but for the sciences in general. For one thing, this preposterous debate concerning currents could finally be laid to rest.

  He looked at the current coordinates, and began to run calculations in his head. Perhaps there would be casualties, but not nearly as many as if San Francisco were to remain the target. No, this way would be the only way to still show what Edison had created, how dangerous Edison was to society, and what Edison was truly capable of. Deaths, if any were to occur, would be acceptable, as San Francisco would be saved.

  A few more adjustments and the new firing solution would be set. Tesla would finally be free of Edison. The bombast’s influence would disappear into the mist.

  All would be well.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Wherein Things Go Unexpectedly Awry

  From Eliza’s vantage point, there was no way she could get a clear view of this gent calling himself “The Maestro” as he was blocked by that behemoth Pearson.

  “I don’t know who you are, sir, and quite frankly I don’t care,” Wellington began. “I am here to apprehend Mr. Edison and stop the House of Usher, as a courtesy to the United States government. I mean no offence, sir, but I do not know you from Adam.”

  That’s it, Welly, Eliza thought. Keep this crackpot talking. Bill and I need to get an idea of whom we’re dealing with.

  “No, you do not, but I am well aware of you, Mr. Books. Since your first insertion into my affairs, I have made you a bit of a pet project of mine.” The Maestro chuckled, and Wellington winced as he had heard coughs from sucking chest wounds less painful. “I should thank you, now that I reflect upon it. Doctor Devereux Havelock was a bit of an incompetent. It was your interference that brought this to light, and for that I am indebted to you.”

  Wellington managed a meek grin. “You’re welcome, sir?”

  “And once I became aware of your involvement in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I knew it was most imperative I became involved in this delightful scheme.”

  This was when Gantry blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When it was brought to my attention that Agents Books and Braun from the Min
istry of Peculiar Occurrences were being sent to the Americas on a goodwill mission for the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical, I made it my business to find out why.

  “This is why your original pilot for this plot bowed out, Mr. Gantry, whilst you were enjoying the sights of Detroit, Michigan. As much of a hold you perceived to have upon him, mine was greater. You will be happy to know your pilot has reunited with his family.” He cast a casual glance towards the ocean. “As close as a father could ever imagine to be with his wife and children.”

  “Dear Lord, Elias,” Edison spat, “what kind of lunatic have you gotten us in league with? I trusted you to take care of the resources needed for this venture.”

  “I would daresay, Mr. Books, we are of the same mind here,” this Maestro prattled. “I have an agent on the ground in San Francisco, an agent of immense value to me, and I would care not to have such an asset lost in the mayhem and destruction that Edison would bring about.”

  Edison’s demeanour suddenly changed, and Eliza did not care for the inventor’s sudden swagger. “You have stepped into the middle of a final experiment which, if successful, should prove to be the next step in the evolution of electricity, science, and warfare. Do you really want to bungle that?”

  “That is exactly my intent, Mr. Edison.” The Maestro settled into his mechanical chair. “Pearson, proceed.”

  Eliza’s grip tightened on her rifle as Pearson drew from his belt two mammoth knives. She recognised them as Spanish facóns, but a brief glimpse of them was all she could see before one sailed across the control room and felled the Usher agent. The other Usher man had glanced at his mate, and that moment’s distraction was enough for Pearson to move. Eliza would have never imagined a man of Pearson’s height or stocky build to move as swiftly or gracefully as he did. The hulking butler was on top of the gunman in seconds, and when he stood Eliza saw not a trace of blood on him. He was dangerous and neat.

  She had seen a lot of things in her time in the field, but a showdown between a pair of megalomaniacs? This was a first.

  “So that settles the matter of being ambushed by your men, Gantry, doesn’t it?” asked the Maestro.

  “I do crave a pardon,” Wellington interjected. “I still have a Winchester. Your man there is fast, but I would not recommend him challenging his agility to my shooting.”

  “Quite inspiring, Mr. Books,” the Maestro said with a chuckle. “Such grand nobility for Queen and Empire. Admirable, but wasted. Regardless of what you may believe, I have the situation well under control.”

  When Eliza heard the sharp clicking behind her of a gun’s hammer being locked into a firing position, she comprehended the Maestro’s confidence. “Very slowly, madam,” the voice warned.

  Eliza set her pounamu pistols on the control panel in front of her, and then she rose to her feet. Very slowly. The man countered around her, keeping the Smith & Wesson trained on her. On the other side of the control room, Bill stepped out into view, hands raised with another of this ship’s crew behind him.

  “Now that I have made it clear to everyone present who is in control,” the Maestro began, settling comfortably in his mechanical throne, “do I have your attention now, Mr. Edison?”

  Edison looked over to Gantry, then back to the Maestro. “Five minutes,” the inventor said.

  “If you would?” the Maestro asked Wellington, his Winchester still trained on him.

  Wellington lowered the rifle, but Eliza could see he had no intention of powering down.

  The Maestro also noticed. “Even as I hold your colleagues prisoner?”

  “My father raised me to live with caution,” he said, his fingers splaying around the rifle.

  “Indeed,” he replied. He then placed his good hand across his Gatling forearm and looked up to Edison. “I am afraid, Mr. Edison, Mr. Gantry, as entertaining as I find your experiment, I must call a halt to your proceedings. They are a distraction I cannot afford.”

  Edison blinked. So did Eliza. She was certain others around her did so as well. “Exactly who do you think you are, sir?”

  “I have two agents, one from Her Majesty’s government and another in the service of your President, under gunpoint. I have also removed the immediate Usher threat with the aid of my valet here. Finally, your base of operations is located on my airship. All of these things make me the man in total control of this scenario.”

  “Very well then, Maestro,” Gantry said, marshalling his courage even though he stood tall over the man confined to a monstrous wheelchair. “Exactly what do you want from the House of Usher?”

  “Him,” he said, motioning to Edison.

  Edison straightened his posture slightly. “What?”

  “I am in need of your services for a project that demands a special touch. Your touch, as it were. Therefore, I have come for you.”

  “Just like that?” the inventor asked, his eyebrows rising as his mouth twisted into a wry grin.

  “Yes,” the Maestro said. “I intend to take you with me, pick up my agent from San Francisco, and then be on my way.”

  Gantry scowled. “You expect the House of Usher, after everything we have invested in this operation, to simply allow this?”

  “Of course I do,” the Maestro said, laughing slightly. “You have what you wished of Edison. Perhaps I have delayed your outcome, but I have no intention of taking the death ray. I just need to collect Edison and my agent in San Francisco before you are on your way.”

  “Collect me?” Edison said with a snort of derision before motioning to Gantry, “Will you please do something about this nuisance so that we can carry out our—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Edison,” Gantry began cordially, “for your time and expertise, but our contract with you has come to a conclusion.” He turned to the technician. “You’re relieved.”

  The technician nearly bowled over Edison as he made for the exit. Edison stepped back only to bump into one of the Maestro’s men that had closed on him, taking him firmly by the arm. “I beg your—?”

  “If you were expecting some sort of loyalty for services fulfilled,” Gantry began, “I believe you’ve demonstrated a severe lack of judgement in regard to us. As you made it clear earlier, your agenda is far different from our own.”

  “But you need me!” he barked at Gantry.

  “Not as much as the gentleman here does,” he replied, motioning to the Maestro.

  Wellington suddenly shouldered his Winchester. “I am sorry to be rude and point a primed rifle with repeating action at everyone, but even the attempted destruction of San Francisco can hardly be dismissed, as well as the delivery of a dangerous weapon to a known criminal organisation and the abduction of a fugitive.” Wellington motioned with his head to Edison. “The fugitive in question would be you, Edison.”

  “How noble of you,” the Maestro said. “Parker?”

  “Yes, sir?” spoke the guard behind Eliza.

  “Kill her.”

  Eliza swallowed hard, fighting back her smile. Even at that close range, her corset would protect her. She would be winded but alive.

  He pulled back the hammer of his pistol, then raised it to her forehead.

  “All right, stop!” Wellington said, bringing the rifle up with one hand, the other held out to one side. “Stop, please!”

  The Maestro held up his good hand. “So very noble, Mr. Books,” he wheezed.

  Wellington laid his rifle gently on the deck. With a swift kick, the Winchester was now out of his reach. Parker extended his foot and slid it beyond Eliza’s as well.

  “I have one more sidearm,” he said, raising his hands back in the air. “Shall I?”

  “One word. That is all Parker needs,” the Maestro warned.

  Eliza looked over her shoulder and saw it in Parker’s eyes. It was over. The Maestro didn’t bluff, and he would illustrate that once Wellington was dis
armed and truly unable to help her.

  I’ll die looking at him, she thought, turning her eyes to him. At least this prat is too close to miss. It will be quick. Wellington, however, looked as if he had never been farther away. I’m sorry, Welly, she lamented. I’m so sorry.

  Slowly, Wellington reached behind him and pulled out the Jack Frost. He looked at Eliza, holding up the exciter, and then tossed it in the air.

  I love you, Wellington Thornhill Books, she thought as she watched the weapon fly up in the air only to have gravity take hold.

  Eliza twisted and jumped as the Jack Frost fell just past Parker’s waist, and what happened next all seemed a lifetime crammed into a single heartbeat. There was a shattering of glass immediately followed by a gunshot. Then came the cold, a biting cold that crept up her leg and around her hips. Eliza rolled until she struck something. Whether it was another control station or a wall, she wouldn’t know until she sat up. Her left leg was covered in a light frost, now melting away in the heat of the room. Above her was a statue of Parker, his pearl white face literally frozen in a scream that never came out of him as she had not heard it. The pistol must have been pointed upwards when it went off as his arm—at least the top half of it—was angled upwards. She looked down to find the gun, still in the grasp of a hand that had not been caught in the blast radius of Jack Frost’s shattered capsule. The recoil from his single shot had snapped the man’s arm at the elbow, but no blood fell.