The natural curiosity of the ten-year-old overcame the previous fear of being caught trespassing in a restricted area, and she remained, transfixed in front of the silent wall.
“Kalt Afdeling,” she said again. “Kalt Afdeling . . .”
A ping somewhere in the bowels of the plant brought Pia out of her hypnotic trance. She checked her timepiece again and cursed when she realized how much time she had wasted standing before the metal barrier. She turned to leave, but her body disobeyed. And when she finally moved, her motion took her toward the unknown, not away.
Pia stepped closer to the wall and felt a presence, an entity that hid somewhere beyond. She recognized the presence—it was the same one that came to her in a dream two hours earlier. Somehow, Pia had to get beyond the partition. It called to her.
Pia extended her hand and touched the smooth surface of the wall. The moment her finger made contact, a light appeared just right of where her finger touched. She touched the wall again, this time where the light seemed to be coming through the metal.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, and then she heard a faint hum coming from behind the metal wall. She took a step back. Suddenly a panel began to move slowly and silently until it disappeared, leaving only a black space where it once stood.
Pia froze. The beating in her chest increased as she stared into the nothingness before her. The black scared her more than her dream, more than her memories of Lars. She shivered with cold even though her body remained warm from the boiler room. An urge to turn and run washed over her. Instead, something inside the space issued an inaudible call to her, and she answered by slowly walking into the darkness.
Once Pia crossed the line where the hallway ended and the unknown began, a flash of brilliant light flooded the chamber, whiter than anything Pia had ever seen in her short life. She shielded her eyes. The brightness of the room overwhelmed her.
Something else hit Pia as her eyes adjusted to the almost painful light—cold air. It swirled around her, comforted her. The freshness also soothed her soul.
A moment after Pia fully entered the room, the panel silently slid back into place, sealing her inside. She didn’t notice. She did notice the stale metallic air of the plant no longer filled her lungs when she breathed, as well as the absence of any sound in the space, only a faint hum felt through her shoeless feet.
Finally, Pia’s eyes adjusted to the point where she could see. What she saw overwhelmed her. She stood in a foyer with a larger area beyond. The floor-to-ceiling windows allowed her to see inside. Huge metal tubing crisscrossed the ceiling, all converging at a single point in the center of the room.
The conduits led to a large machine, but it was unlike anything Pia had ever seen. The vibrations came from the apparatus in the other room. She saw a small entrance door to her left, and she moved toward it.
She unlocked the door, and the silence disappeared, replaced by the hum now audible as well as felt. It came from the contraption. Something else came from the room . . . cold air. It cooled Pia’s body, even her clothes, still warm to the touch from the overwhelming heat of the boilers. It rushed at her, comforting her with a smothering pillow of relief. The open door invited her in and she answered the call.
Pia entered the room and her blistered feet touched a frozen floor. She recoiled. The frozen atmosphere slowly wrapped itself around her. Her feet burned, but not from the fire; from ice.
Pia wrapped her thin arms around her body. She knew she should leave, but the same prompting that drew her to the room begged her to stay. The frosted air reminded her of the times spent with her mother, years ago. Their ill-equipped home provided poor shelter from the bitter winters; somehow, they survived. She remembered huddling around the home’s only fireplace, listening to Netta tell stories of her childhood.
Pia slowly ventured further into the room about twice the size of her living quarters. Shaking, she approached the machine, but as she drew near, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Behind a silver tube, she saw a shoe—a shoe attached to a foot. She recognized both immediately. The child took another step and came within full view of the perfectly preserved corpse of Netta Hansen.
“Mother!” Pia screamed, and ran to where the woman lay on the frozen floor. She knelt beside the lifeless body and touched her shoulder. She didn’t move. Pia placed her hand on her mother’s cheek and jumped back. She touched skin as frozen as the room around her.
“No,” Pia whispered. “No.” She began to back away from the vessel that once contained Netta’s soul. As she stared at the body, all lights in the room went out, leaving the terrified girl in complete darkness, except for the faint light coming in from the inner room’s door. Pia turned and ran as fast as she could out of the room and into the bowels of the power plant.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to her quarters. Instead of going to her room, she sank to the floor and drew up her knees under her chin.
She didn’t know how long she sat and cried. A part of her knew she had a responsibility to check the boilers at midnight and register the levels, but the overwhelming horror she felt at finding her mother dead inside the cold room immobilized her, numbed her as effectively as if she had stayed with her mother’s body in the room.
After what seemed like an eternity, Pia rose and walked back into the plant. However, she did not continue to the boilers, but absentmindedly walked to where the words KALT AFDELING hung above her mother’s tomb.
Pia knew what would happen if she failed to do her job and report the readings on time. Mr. Rasmussen lectured her over and over again about the consequences. He warned her if she failed to enter the boiler readings every two hours, the emergency override would shut the boilers down, and the city would lose its power. If she failed to do her job tonight, hundreds of thousands of revelers would suddenly be without power.
However, that night, her boss’s threats no longer held her hostage. She no longer cared about the power plant, the people enjoying themselves on New Year’s Eve, or, especially, Lars.
This time, she approached the room, no longer frightened. She calmly touched the smooth wall, revealing again the secret entrance to the room, and entered. The door slid silently closed behind her. Once inside the inner room, she maneuvered around the pipes until she came again to see her mother’s body prone on the floor.
Pia approached the body. She wanted to be close to the corpse. The sight no longer instilled her with fear. Shaking, she sat on the floor next to the body, drew her legs under her chin, and wrapped her arms around them. She lowered her head onto her frozen knees and tried to think of what to do next. She looked again at her mother’s face resting on her arms. She looked so peaceful, as if she were sleeping.
Pia touched her mother’s cheek again. This time she did not withdraw, but caressed the skin that belonged to the woman who had loved her with all her heart.
As before, the lights in the room shut off. Without light, the darkness and cold seemed to conspire against her. She began to imagine demons and ghosts somewhere in the black. Instinctively, she reached for her mother’s hand in the dark. She could not move it from the floor.
However, next to it, she felt an object the size of a coin purse and picked it up. With only the sense of touch, she immediately identified the object: her mother’s match case. Her father gave the metal box to her mother years before Pia was born, and Netta wore it around her neck on a string. A conversation returned to her.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a gift from your father.”
“What’s in it?”
“Only matches,” Netta said. “But this reminds me of him, and those memories are much more valuable.” Pia held the frozen memento in her hands and felt a connection to a man she never knew.
Pia opened the case and touched three wooden sticks. The slim shafts offered the shivering girl a chance to once again see her mother’s face in the darkness. She lifted one of the matches and struck it against the ridged
edge of the metal case. The black space around her retreated and a small light blazed.
She extended the match to illuminate the face she loved more than anything else in the world. She held the match close and the peaceful look warmed her heart. She watched until the flame descended and threatened to burn her fingers. The light went out. The darkness returned to occupy the space it so deeply coveted. She sighed. This time she couldn’t see the cloud of condensation rise in the blackness.
A short time passed. Pia began to lose feeling in her limbs. As she sat, she began hearing voices and imagined seeing people in the room with her, speaking to her, trying to reach her. She wondered if one of the voices could possibly be that of her mother’s, offering love and comfort, or could it be voices from others, from ghosts wishing to haunt and terrify.
With great effort, Pia opened the case and drew out her second to last source of light. Her shaking hand barely applied enough pressure to the side of the case for the spark to ignite. Again, Pia extended her shaking arm. She focused only on her mother’s beautiful face.
Suddenly, the cold room grew bright. The vibrating machine vanished. In its place, Pia’s childhood home appeared and her heart nearly burst from her body with happiness.
In her mind, Pia saw it all: the frosted window near the front door, the worn, braided, rag rug which they had made together on the floor, and the entryway where winter winds slithered between small cracks and stole the heat from the room. She continued looking until her tired eyes rested upon Netta—no longer lying next to her on the floor, but smiling brightly before her, a smile yearning to be shared with her daughter.
Pia remained where she was, a wide smile spread across her frozen face. She held out her arms, almost willing herself to cross the span that separated them.
But she remained seated on the floor. The match in her hand burned down and finally died. Before the flame went out, it burned her fingers, but Pia never felt the pain. The moment the flame died, so disappeared the scene before Pia’s iced-over eyes. She had to get them back. She could not allow herself to lose her mother again . . . not again.
The dying girl found the last match and struck it against the side of the case. She dropped the object on the floor and never heard the echo as it hit the ground. The light from the last match intensified her previous vision. The room of her past returned but with a greater force.
The aroma of a roasting goose wafted throughout the room and into the girl’s nostrils. The hard floor transformed into a warm wooden chair situated close to the meat slowly turning over the fire.
This time, she heard laughter, like music from a symphony, or the sound of birds in the spring air. She heard the lilting sounds of Netta’s voice echoing throughout the small space. Pia longed to remain at home forever.
“Pia,” Netta softly said. “My beautiful girl. Join me and we’ll be together forever.”
“Mommy!” Pia whispered. “Please take me with you. I want to never be apart again. When this last match dies, you will disappear, like you did before.”
“No, darling,” Netta said as she crossed the small room and picked up her most precious possession. “I will never leave you again.”
Pia melted in the warmth of her mother’s embrace as the last fibers of wood burned to nothingness.
Lars Rasmussen sat in his study as he looked outside his window at the city lights below. The man loved New Year’s Eve. He loved seeing a world powered by his brilliance. Through the frosted glass, he heard the masses making as much noise as possible. His anticipation grew as he waited for midnight to arrive. He longed to hear everyone celebrate together. He checked his timepiece. Midnight was only seconds away.
As sirens blared and bells atop government buildings rang, Lars slowly sipped whiskey from his private stock. As he lifted his glass to drain the remaining exquisite drops, the lights in his study began to flicker. A moment later, the house went dark. He watched in horror as lights all over the city faded and eventually died.
Lars ran to his desk and hit the button on the communicator. “Peter!” he screamed into the metal box. “What the hell is going on?” Silence met his angry words.
“Peter!” Lars hit the button repeatedly until he remembered the contraption only worked with power. Lars yelled into the darkness. “Martin! Martin!” The door to the office opened revealing a lone figure holding an oil lamp.
“Yes sir,” the obedient servant said.
“I’ll be at the plant!” Lars slammed his fist on his oak desk. He grabbed the lamp from Martin’s wrinkled hand and raced from the room.
It took Lars thirty minutes to reach the plant. Others arrived before him. The security gates had been forced open and he cursed to himself as he ran inside.
He ran through the empty hallways of the plant. The sound of his patent leather shoes echoed through the cavernous space. He ran first to the boilers. Just wait until I find that girl, Lars thought, as he wondered why she failed and embarrassed him on this, of all nights. He then checked Pia’s living quarters.
“Where is she?” Lars spat. When he found her, she would pay. Would everyone now know the truth of his experiment—that his plant was not self-sustaining and required at least one person to run it? Would the authorities find out he employed—no, forced—a mere child to work for him under inhuman conditions? The implications raced through his mind as he descended the stairs from Pia’s living quarters. Though humiliating, the damage could be repaired, especially if he acted quickly. Yes, that little brat would pay.
As Lars reached the last step a single word came to his mind: Netta. He stopped. A visceral fear gripped him and caused him to retch the contents of his stomach on the plant floor. After regaining his composure, he ran.
The man responsible for the city’s power ran through the plant. His aging heart screamed its displeasure at being pushed to such a level of exertion. He wheezed as he continued toward the one place in the building he never wanted to visit again. As he rounded the last corner, two stone-faced policemen halted his progress.
“Mr. Rasmussen?” the first guard said, his voice as unfeeling as the cold floor on which he stood.
“Yes,” Lars said trying to catch his breath.
“I’m afraid you’re not allowed beyond this point.”
“Excuse me?” The officer met his words with silence.
“Listen!” Lars screamed. “I can go any place I damn well want to! This is my plant, and not you or anyone else can stop me!”
He walked toward the men who moved to block his path. He stopped and wiped the sweat forming on his brow on the sleeve of his designer jacket. He tugged at the collar on his tailored shirt and his legs went limp. The hardened guards watched as one of the most powerful men in the country fainted in front of them, falling into a heap on the floor, his breath raspy and shallow.
Lanterns illuminated the areas of the plant occupied by police officers, the bodies of the dead, and one unconscious Lars Rasmussen. The city’s power extinguished, the men worked by the light of simple flames encased by glass as they tended to the gruesome scene before them.
The security team had discovered the bodies of Netta and Pia Hansen twenty minutes after the power system failed. A wrong turn led the men straight to the tomb. None of the officers knew anything of the Kalt Afdeling System or how it worked. They only knew nothing could survive the extreme temperatures generated in that part of the plant.
Silence filled the room as hardened men worked at the crime scene, the somber tone a fitting tribute to the departed. A detective delivered the news of the positive identification of the woman to his boss. It took a moment to find him—he had his hands full gathering up Lars Rasmussen and sending him to headquarters for questioning.
The girl’s identity remained a mystery, as did the reason for her being in the plant itself. The officers wondered why someone would voluntarily stay in this room to die.
“It’s freezing in here. Why didn’t she just leave—the door was unlocked when we got here.
”
“Don’t know . . . damn shame, such a young girl,” one of the officers said.
“Can you believe this?” another man said as he held up a spent match. “She actually tried to keep warm with a couple of matches.”
“You see how she was treated?” The men noticed her malnourishment, the filth on her skin, her hair brittle and crisp. Finally, they saw the burns on her feet. Every officer watched as the men reverently transported the body from the room that killed her. As her body passed before them, everyone noticed the smile that lingered on the dead child’s face. Somehow, her cheeks were rosy.
The officers removed Pia from the black halls of her prison. The walls stood as silent sentinels, while the flicker of lights danced from the men’s lanterns. Fire bid her goodbye. Men placed the small body next to that of her mother in the wagon. They shut the doors and it slowly rolled from the power plant to the deserted streets of a darkened city.
The officer in charge lingered behind. He remained in the room and shivered from the cold. With so many questions, the events of the night signaled only the beginning of his search for answers.
He knelt at the spot and touched the floor where life evaporated for two souls. He felt the frozen ground through his leather gloves. His fingers began to numb, and he slowly lifted them to his face. The gloves frosted his cheek.
The thought of the girl’s face, forever etched into his mind, haunted him. She didn’t have to die—not with an unlocked door. Why did she stay?
He took out a small notebook. With shaking hands, he began jotting notes of the case. He recorded the location of the bodies inside the room and the condition of the victims. Hoping he had enough information, he turned to leave the room, but something urged him to say, to find a message . . . a clue.
“What?” the man asked himself. The sound of his voice disappeared in the machine’s hum. He took a final look and noticed the match case—evidence even he overlooked.
Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Page 13