And the Prometheus, that all but mythical creature whose debut had provided the designers of automata with evidence that creation of life was possible, he—it—was fair game. Elizabeth, recognizing the value of fighting something so symbolic, had taken up the challenge.
Jane knew that Elizabeth needed this fight, that it was her way of coping with the massacre. But though she had lost much more than Elizabeth, Jane did not take comfort from this struggle. It was not the metalmen she hated, but the men who used them for evil purposes. And there seemed to be no way to fight against such men; their ranks expanded every day.
In many ways, Jane was living a fairy tale. She had not known, until she came to London, how much there was to learn in this world. True, as a child she had learned to hunt and fight, to navigate along the bayou, to find wild herbs, but she had been taught nothing of physics, of cosmology, of mathematics. She hungered to learn, and Elizabeth indulged her in this. The joy of it astounded her.
But she never forgot that she had such opportunities because her people had been wiped out. The memory of that night haunted her dreams, and there were days when she hated herself for being happy. Much as she loved her life, she would have given it up without a second thought if doing that would bring back her people.
She didn’t believe that killing the Prometheus would free her from the memories that haunted her, but she knew Elizabeth believed it. And she loved Elizabeth.
Near the end of that summer, Jane received a letter. While it was not unusual for Jane to receive letters—she corresponded with a number of scientists—this one lacked any information about the sender and was addressed in a hand unknown to her. It said, simply, “The Prometheus will not be found in any duchy or kingdom in eastern Europe.” There was no signature.
The reports they had on the Prometheus claimed it had been spotted in various countries—Bohemia, Croatia, Serbia, Moldavia, Albania. Sightings were never reported in France or Italy, and certainly not in England. The same Englishmen who considered Jane a savage thought much the same of the people of central and eastern Europe, and assumed it a logical place for anyone who might want to hide.
Jane did not show the letter to Elizabeth. If the letter were more than anonymous rubbish meant to taunt her, the author would likely write again. If not, then there was no reason for Elizabeth to be told of it.
Several other letters followed.
The second letter said, “Nor will you find him in any European republic.” The third, “He is not in the caliphate.” The fourth, “And certainly you should not seek to find him in the depths of Russia.”
Jane noticed that the letters all referred to the Prometheus as “he,” though everyone she knew preferred to say “it.” Other than that, she could deduce little from the letters, except that they contradicted all the reports Elizabeth had received.
The next letter said, “Meet me in the churchyard of St. James’s Church, Piccadilly, at nine in the evening on Thursday.” That church was no more than a fifteen minute walk from Elizabeth’s home in the West End of London.
Jane considered showing this letter to Elizabeth. But while she knew that Elizabeth would not forbid her to go—indeed, Elizabeth placed no restrictions on her behaviour—she also knew that Elizabeth would insist on sending others with her. A crowd might frighten her correspondent away, and while he—or she—might be merely a raving lunatic, Jane wanted to hear what might be said.
On Thursday after dinner, Elizabeth withdrew to her office to read. Jane made a show of retiring early. At about half past eight, she slipped out the back door of the house—her childhood skills at stealth had not deserted her.
As summer was waning, it was full dark at that hour, but the gaslights had been lit. A few people hurried along the streets. Jane pulled a heavy black scarf over her head to conceal her all-too-remarkable features. None of the others paid her any mind.
The three-quarter hour struck as Jane arrived. No lights shone at the church and the churchyard, which had no artificial lighting, appeared deserted. Jane seated herself on a tombstone to wait. Except for the chirping of crickets and other insect noises, and an occasional hoot from an owl, the place was quiet.
The nine-o’clock bells rang. As the sound faded, Jane heard the rustling of a person walking in her general direction. Silently, she slipped off the tombstone and hid behind it. She wanted to see this person before being seen, and, as she had been sitting in the dark, her eyes had become accustomed to the lack of light. She made out a person walking through the gate. A man, she guessed, or at least a person attired as a man, for she could see the shape of a gentleman’s hat on his head, and heard no swish of a skirt as he walked along.
He stopped just inside the gate and looked from one direction to the other. Jane moved up beside him while he peered in the opposite direction and was rewarded with his sudden start when he realized she was there. She kept her hand on her knife handle—she had not come unarmed to this meeting.
“Miss Freemantle?”
“I am. And you are?”
“My name is not important. I am here on behalf of more people than myself. We are in sympathy with the aims of your estimable guardian and those with whom she works, but we fear that they are somewhat ill-informed. Their current efforts will not find the Prometheus.” He spoke excellent English, but with an accent that Jane did not recognize. Not an Englishman, then.
“Why not approach them directly, sir, instead of seeking me out on the sly?”
“Alas, there have been certain words said, certain disagreements. Some of the people with whom I am associated dared to challenge Mr. Frayle’s gun design. Others have criticized tactics. Those whom you serve will not hear us out.”
“And why should I?”
“Because, Miss Freemantle, you are more skilled and intelligent than they. You, who can move so silently that even an experienced campaigner such as myself was unaware of you, who have studied mathematics and physics, and also know something of human nature. You are a person who will be more likely to hear us out.”
Jane was not so foolish as to be unduly flattered by the compliments, though they were pleasant to hear. “I will listen, but I make no promise to believe.”
“In July of last year, an airship travelled from Scotland to the Americas.”
Jane inhaled sharply. “Successfully?” Transatlantic flights were considered highly dangerous.
“Yes. They flew to Newfoundland, a somewhat shorter distance. Then they flew southwest across the continent—a safer journey, since they could set down as needed—to the island of Galveston in the Republic of Texas.
“That ship, Miss Freemantle, carried the Prometheus, and his champion, the writer Mrs. Shelley.”
“Why has no one else heard of this?”
“It was carefully planned. The Prometheus was, indeed, hiding in eastern Europe for many years, but as campaigns such as that organized by your guardian became more common here, those in sympathy with him decided that they must move him to the Americas, where there is less interest in such matters, especially on the frontier. Eventually they found an airman willing to take the risk.”
“And how did you learn of this?”
“The airman is cousin to one in our group.”
Jane had removed a tin from her pocket, and she struck a match and held it in front of the man’s face. The light showed a dark complexion—though not as dark as her own—and a neatly trimmed beard. The face was unfamiliar.
“I am unimportant,” the man said again. He did not appear to be offended by her examination. “They have a fine house on Church Street, in Galveston and keep a small blimp there, in the event that they should need to leave abruptly. But of course, that is less likely in, a city once run by pirates and even now less concerned with law than most.”
“Again, why do you tell me? Could you not send out your own people, since you know so much?”
“We have neither the resources, nor a person as skilled as yourself to send. Of the many trying to
eliminate the Prometheus, you have the best chance. We offer you this information in the hope that you will do something with it.” He turned to leave, then added, “Do not rely overly on Frayle’s gun.”
“How do I kill the Prometheus without it? Regular guns and even the sharpest of blades are reputed to be useless.”
“You will find a way,” the man said, and slipped out the gate.
“You should have told me about the letters,” Elizabeth said. “And you certainly should not have gone to meet this person by yourself. You are very valuable to this process. What if you had been kidnapped? Or,” and here Elizabeth shuddered, “what if you had been murdered?”
Jane gave a slight smile. Elizabeth did not miss it.
“Oh, I know you believe yourself the equal of any danger you should face. But the difference between confidence and unwarranted arrogance is very slight. And I could not bear to lose you.” She dabbed at her eyes.
Jane reached over and patted her hand. “I took great care. I simply did not want to raise false hopes before I had investigated this avenue. The letters might merely have been the work of a madman.”
“But, in fact, you believe that this information is valuable.”
“It makes more sense than the balderdash we hear from the men at the Anti-Prometheus League.”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “They are singularly useless, are they not? But perhaps this is simply a ploy to lead you away from our quarry.”
“I do not think so. I would swear that the information the man gave me is correct, though whether he is truly on our side or an ally of the Prometheus, I cannot tell.”
“Nor can I, since I did not see him.” Elizabeth sighed. “If you truly wish to investigate this information, and are willing to travel to the wilds of Texas to do so, I will make it possible.”
“I would like to do so.”
“But I will not go with you. I will never willingly travel on that continent again.”
“Galveston is not Louisiana,” Jane said. “And what happened to us could have happened anywhere on Earth. It could even happen here.”
“No. It cannot happen here. Such massacres only happen in places where simple people—such as your people—live on land that more sophisticated people desire.” Elizabeth’s voice was controlled, but anger boiled just beneath the surface. “And the Americas, like Africa, have an abundance of land in the hands of people who will not know how to deal with metalmen, or even high-powered rifles. Many horrors such as we experienced have happened and will happen there. And I am unwilling to see such things again.”
“Perhaps we should devote our energies to protecting people like mine, instead of searching out the Prometheus.”
“But that is what we are doing, my dear. What else can we do but try to stop the expansion of this obscene technology?”
“We could send teachers among the native peoples,” Jane said. “And we could arm them with weapons that fight both metalmen and the evil men who would take their land.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “How many would respond to teachers? And you know that many of the native peoples of the Americas attack harmless white settlers. How can we put modern weapons in the hands of savages?”
This time it was Jane who looked away.
“Oh, not you, my dear, and not your people. But not all the different tribes of Red Indians are like you. You are different; you are special.”
I am other, Jane thought. Even to Elizabeth, whom I love and who loves me, who has given me so much, without whom I would never have escaped the massacre—for I would have had no place to go—even to her I am other. But she just nodded her head in reply.
It was a sunny day, warm for autumn. Jane sat in a lounge chair on the upper deck of the transatlantic steamer Mermaid, reading a history of Galveston. The book, which described the native Karankawas as savage cannibals, thankfully wiped out, annoyed her, but it did give her some insight into her destination.
One of the servants brought her a fresh cup of tea. “Do you need anything else, Miss?” it said in a flat tone.
The Mermaid used metalmen for all its personal care staff, and even some of its sailors. The waiter who stood waiting for a reply—showing the ultimate patience of a creature who never got tired or bored or hungry—was much smaller than the automatons who had massacred Jane’s people, and moved with almost human flexibility. Not frightening, this one, but Jane was glad Elizabeth had not come. Elizabeth, for all her perfect self control, tended to become nervy in the presence of metalmen. Jane realized that they had rarely visited homes of those who used automated servants, and avoided expeditions that put them in regular contact with the mechanical creatures. But all the ocean-going vessels used them.
The metalman was still standing there. “No, thank you,” Jane told it, her manners holding even for manmade beings.
Jane dined that evening—as she did every evening—at the captain’s table. Elizabeth, concerned that Jane might face ill-treatment without her presence, had spent money liberally to insure that Jane would be treated as an upper-class Englishwoman. Of course, with the metalmen, it was easy enough; they did not see as humans did, and gave her the service programmed into them.
Jane took constitutionals around the ship, even exploring its massive engines, which boiled seawater to produce their steam. Once, on the lower deck, her walk coincided with the daily exercise of the unfortunate people travelling in steerage. They came out, squinting in the sunshine, taking in deep breaths of sea air. Most of them had darker skin than she was accustomed to seeing among Europeans—though not as dark as her own—and few seemed to speak much English. There were many children in the group, and some of them gawked at Jane.
“Who are these people?” she asked a passing metalman.
“They are immigrants. They are poor. Many of them are Jews,” it told her. Even in the affectless metal voice, Jane understood the implication: They are other. For once, Jane was being classified as a real person and another group was being labelled as something less than human.
She was curious about the people, but it was clear to her that she—with her lady attire but non-English appearance—made the steerage passengers uncomfortable. After that, she timed her walks to avoid their exercise period.
The ship’s passage was rapid; a trip that had once required a month now took ten days. All too soon they were disembarking at the port of Galveston. The customs inspection was cursory—Texas had only been an independent republic for three years and lacked much structure—though the official muttered something under his breath about the place “not needing no more Indians.”
Soon Jane was travelling by horse-drawn cab through the streets of Galveston. After London, the place appeared more like a village than a port city. There were a scattering of houses, most of them quickly erected frame models, though a few were elaborate modern structures. Scrubby bushes grew on the sand dunes, and the only trees seemed to be those deliberately planted near a home.
The cab pulled up at a two story stone house on Market Street. The owner, a younger son of a baron of Elizabeth’s acquaintance, who had made his fortune in the Americas, was sympathetic to Elizabeth’s campaign and aware of Jane’s background. He had agreed to provide her with lodging whilst she visited Galveston.
No metalmen here, Jane observed; all of the servants were black. Slaves, she realized, though they seemed little different from the servants she knew in England. Elizabeth opposed slavery on principle, although she had never taken any action about it, and Jane had shared her opinion without giving it much thought. Now she was staying in the home of someone Elizabeth knew, who owned other people. Though she supposed the man did not consider them people. Likely he would not consider Jane people, had she not had an introduction from Elizabeth.
But such thoughts were a distraction from her mission. Immediately after breakfast on her first full day in Galveston, she set out on foot to find the home where the Prometheus was reported to live.
The streets of th
e city were not, for the most part, paved, and recent rain had left puddles. Jane picked her way down them, grateful for the split riding skirt she preferred in the close confines. The inhabited part of the city was small, and she soon found Church Street.
The house in question was, like the place where she was staying, a two-story affair, though it was made of red brick rather than stone. A six-foot wrought iron fence surrounded it. The front gate stood open, but Jane assumed that any who entered by that direction would be quickly seen.
She walked around to the rear of the house—an alley where people dumped garbage with little regard for who might come along—and saw a gate in the fence there as well. As she walked by, a man came out and deposited trash in a hole in the ground. So the Prometheus used human servants. Odd. She would have expected it to use metalmen.
The rear gate was likely as well observed as the front, but the fence itself was scalable—assuming Jane dressed appropriately for climbing. An oak grew close to the house. Though the tree was not large, it did sport a sturdy branch that brushed near an upstairs window. And the window stood open; in this warm climate, people did not close off their houses. It would provide an entry. Perhaps entering during the evening meal would be the best time; the residents would be downstairs.
A large shed took up much of the rear yard—likely it housed the blimp. She examined the house from every angle, and then returned to her lodging.
After nightfall, having told her host that she felt a bit unwell from travel as an excuse for missing the evening meal, she slipped out and headed for the house on Church Street. She approached it from the alley. Once there, she took Frayle’s gun from her carpet bag, then shucked off her dress and stuffed it in the bag. Under the dress she wore a loose chemise and men’s trousers. The bag was easily hidden behind a pile of trash. Slinging the gun on her back, she quickly climbed over the wall.
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