His sister, on the other hand, could not hide her almost-limitless contempt for everything she hated. Emilio supposed that to some degree she was of a mind with Sarah when it came to taking revenge on the Children of Eschaton, and their leader. But her anger was hardly limited to “justice” against him. Since the moment that Sarah Stanton girl had entered their life, it was his Voila who had paid the greatest price for their transgressions amongst the Paragons. He had tried to point out the risks she would take if she tried to involve herself even more deeply in the affairs of these gentlemen adventurers.
The Italian girl reached her hand through the empty face and began to pluck the wires inside Tom’s head. The taut strings gave out a series of musical plinks. “We should give him a new face—something made of metal. Una fronte infrangibile.”
Resisting the urge to make her stop attacking his creation, Emilio let her continue to strum the wires and took the opportunity to look more closely at Viola’s damaged face. The wounds had healed cleanly, the scars pink and tight across her skin. It was as if the explosion had left behind a permanent impression in her flesh—a single instant of violence that would remain a part of her for the rest of her days. It was a tragedy, and yet everyone had agreed that her recovery was miraculous given the damage.
Viola flicked her eyes toward him, catching him in his fascination. Emilio looked away, but it was already too late. She swept back a curtain of limp hair to reveal her face more clearly. “Do you want to see more, brother? I’d be glad to show you.”
“No,” he said. He could feel his face flushing red, and turned his attention back to the arm. He locked the cap in place, and after giving each one of the strings a pull to make sure they were taut, he began to free up the straps.
“Are you sure? I want you to see what you’ve done to me.”
He looked up at Viola with shock. What was it she had just said? “I didn’t . . .” Did she really believe it was his fault?
She stared at him, unblinking and emotionless. It felt like an inquisition, and Emilio wanted to protest. And beyond his anger he wanted to reach out and offer his sister comfort, but she had never been that kind of a girl. Even if a part of her wanted affection, another part of her would judge him as weak for offering it. With Viola it was never possible to give her love until she asked for it, and right now it seemed she was only capable of giving and receiving pain. “You’re distracting me, Viola. I need to finish this.”
Viola nodded absentmindedly, ignoring his request. She dropped her hands down, letting her fingers stroke the machine’s metal ribs. “Do you think he’ll really come back?”
She reached into the chest cavity and ran the edge of her index finger around the empty space where his heart would go. A series of small gears hung in the empty air, waiting for the engine that would give them life. “Maybe he doesn’t want to come back. Maybe he’s had enough of a world filled with nothing but violence and hatred for a metal man.” She let out a sharp laugh. “Let’s rename him, brother—L’Abominio. What do you think?”
Before Sarah had started ignoring her, Viola had been constantly pointing out that the Automaton was gone when they needed him the most. He knew that Viola must, on some level, blame Tom for what had happened to her, even if he was only the catalyst and not the bomb itself.
But Emilio had promised Sarah that he would help bring the metal man back. And, although it was hard to admit, it had been his failure to be able to repair the creature’s heart properly that had forced him to bring it to Vincent, and that act had ultimately put them all in danger. This time he had the tools he needed, and he would do it right. “He’ll come back, and I’m letting Sarah choose his face.”
“Really?” She let out a short mocking laugh. “Doesn’t the metal man get a say?”
Emilio nodded. “I suppose so, but he has to come back and say it.”
After they had returned to the junkyard, they had tried placing him into a number of different machines, hoping to re-create the miracle of his rebirth. Sarah had hoped that simply having the Alpha Element would bring Tom back to life. But even with that it seemed that more was needed. Until they could figure out what it was, the Automaton would not return.
Emilio believed that although the Automaton was capable of transforming himself, in order to return to life the mechanical man needed to be given a familiar form to inhabit. Sarah was dubious that Tom was so bonded to the human form that he would be unable to return to life without it, but having no better theories to offer, she agreed that Emilio should construct a new body in the hopes that placing Tom’s heart into the form of a man might convince him to return.
But whatever it was that had re-ignited the Automaton backstage at the theater, so far they had failed to re-create the conditions needed, and Emilio was beginning to doubt that this new body would be any better.
Viola’s hands still played with the frame. “Can you talk to Alfonso for me, brother? I want a new face too.” He knew she was testing him, trying to get him angry at her so they could have a reason to fight.
“If that’s what you want.”
“You’ve seen my face. Why wouldn’t I want a new one?” She stopped playing with the Automaton’s body and stepped around it to get closer to her brother. “Can I pick what I’m to look like, or are you going to let Sarah choose that too?” She began to laugh. The sound of it was low and mean, tinged with what Emilio was beginning to suspect might be a permanent touch of madness, although she clearly knew the pain that her words were causing him. “She’s so good at getting you to do whatever she wants.”
It was hard to tell whether the redness he could feel spreading across his face was the result of shame or anger. The two were so thoroughly mixed together that they felt like a single emotion. “If you really want a metal face, I’ll build you one.” Was she being serious, or would she mock him for offering?
“You would do that for me, wouldn’t you?” She looked up at him and caught his eyes. For a moment he saw a flash of her old playful spirit sparkling within them. “I want my new face to be steel, and I want it to be covered in flowers.” It faded away an instant later.
Emilio sighed. “You are my sister. I would do anything to make you whole again.” He flexed the limb a few times, testing the gimbal he had created for it to move with. “I love you, Viola.”
There was no reply. “Viola?” he said as he turned to look for her, but the girl had disappeared. Perhaps she was getting better, but he worried that she was healing like a badly set bone, forever changed and diminished by the experience.
He pulled the wires in the arm taut and the limb contracted, quickly at first, and then slowing as the metal strings found their natural tension. What he was creating was an odd mockery of genuine life, but that was his goal, wasn’t it? Even if the Automaton would return to his animated state, he would still be a creature with a steel heart. Still, the thought of the metal man’s return brought a smile to Emilio’s lips. He had done a good job, and this would be his greatest triumph: a machine of far greater grace and complexity than the crude form of the Pneumatic Colossus. He would prove himself to Sarah and she would give him another chance.
Chapter 2. A Walk in the Park
CHAPTER 2
A WALK IN THE PARK
Nathaniel awoke to almost-total darkness, his head pounding—he’d been quite effectively blindfolded and only the smallest touch of light leaked into the edges of his vision. Although by its brightness it was clearly sunlight, the illumination told him nothing of his surroundings other than it was daytime. A piece of cloth had been stuffed into his mouth, and his tongue was dry. His ears, however, were not obstructed, and the chatter and clatter all around him led him to believe that he was still somewhere in the city.
Nathaniel was in a seated position, and yet when he tried to move his arms and legs he found that he had been tightly bound to his seat. Repeated efforts at struggling against his restraints only managed to shake the seat slightly, and there was a creaking and r
attling from the chair he’d been strapped to.
He vaguely remembered being betrayed by another bottle of scotch, and as he squeezed his eyes and tried wishing the pain away, he once again came to the conclusion that he seriously needed to rethink his relationship with alcohol.
In the weeks since he had been placed into his cell, Eschaton had been, on occasion, drugging his liquor. What occurred during those periods of unconsciousness was still a mystery, but it had only been today that he had woken up outside the jail beneath the Hall of Paragons.
Every day since that cold February morning when Darby had died atop the Brooklyn Bridge—the very same day that his leg had been pierced by the Bomb Lance’s steel shaft, it seemed as if every time he had taken a drink he had ended up in an increasingly bewildering set of circumstances, each time worse than the last.
After the Darby house had burned down around him, leaving him homeless and without almost any worldly belongings, he had asked some of his wealthier friends for help. Happy to assist a friend in need, they had allowed him to spend a few weeks in their “hideout.” The building had appeared to be, from the outside at least, a nondescript East Side tenement. Not in the worst part of town, it was far from the best. But that was part of the building’s appeal, as its doors concealed a well-appointed hideaway for the wealthy.
Although Nathaniel was a child of privilege he had a limited capacity for conspicuous display. Truth be told, although he could understand the intent, he had found the place disconcerting. Its ready access to so much freely flowing liquor also made it far too easy for him to drink to excess and indulge in activities that even he considered too debauched for his own good.
He was beginning to understand what it was that the people preaching about temperance had been prattling on about. Liquor might hide the pain, but it often left a bad situation worse—it was impossible to deny the fact that his consumption of the better part of a pint of bourbon before he had confronted the villains invading the Hall of Paragons had made it impossible for him to save his step-father’s life.
But his guilt did not end there. His current situation was far more terrifying than any that had come previously. And while it was true that drink wasn’t entirely to blame, when Eschaton had drugged him it was Nathaniel’s weakness for whisky that had been the villain’s method of delivery. Even in his current predicament Nathaniel couldn’t deny that what he wanted most in the world was a drink.
“Ah, so the dreamer finally arises.” The voice was familiar, and Nathaniel tried to reply, but there was a rag stuffed into his mouth. The moist cloth made it impossible for him to respond in anything but a series of guttural grunts and coughs.
“Now, now,” Eschaton continued, “there’s no need for you to get upset so soon after waking up. The good Lord may have been angry at you,” his captor said loudly, and in a manner clearly intended for public consumption, “but if you can find it in your heart to worship him fully, he will heal you. And he’s about to bless you with gifts that you cannot begin to imagine.”
Nathaniel tried to tell Eschaton to go to hell, but for all his effort the only sounds that came out of him were the muffled screams that reminded him of a particularly angry chimpanzee he’d seen at the Central Park zoo. At the time he’d found the creature’s helpless cries amusing, but now he felt an odd kinship with the hairy monster.
“You have the Lord by your side,” Eschaton continued, “and he believes that even a man struck dumb and blind may still improve his character if he is only given the right sort of help.”
There were a million replies that came to mind, some of them so obscene they surprised even Nathaniel. But he was unable to put voice to any of them. It was only after another round of fruitless struggles and loud grunts that he finally settled down into his chair.
From somewhere nearby came the disapproving voice of a woman as she walked by, the leather of her heels tapping out her pace against the concrete. She was whispering loudly, and he heard her refer to “the poor spastic in the chair.” It took Nathaniel a moment to realize that it was him she was referring to. Continuing in her shockingly loud whisper, she also expressed that perhaps it would be for the good of everyone if they simply kept him indoors.
Nathaniel dropped his head and huffed out a frustrated sigh through his nose. “And now you’ve settled down.” Eschaton patted him on the shoulder. “That’s very good. I know this may all seem quite disorienting, but I assure you that it’s for your own benefit. All you need to do is simply relax and listen.” From his last interaction with the gray man, Nathaniel already knew that he had a very broad definition of the word benefit.
“I’m sure you’re wondering where you are.”
Nathaniel nodded in response.
“You’re currently sitting in Madison Park. It’s a lovely spring day, the sun is shining, and we’re surrounded by throngs of people out and about on their daily errands. It’s a most wonderful and bucolic scene.
“I’ve brought you out here to this lovely park for a number of reasons. One is irony, but the most important one I will show you shortly. But we have a little time until my surprise is ready, so I thought I might entertain you with a bit of educational reading.”
Nathaniel heard the sound of pages rustling before Eschaton continued. “When I was a younger man—far more naive than I am today—I had a strong philanthropic bent. I spent a great deal of my time helping those I believed to be less fortunate than myself.” His voice had dropped from its usual rumble, and seemed almost kindly in tone. Nathaniel found it both terrifying and cloying. He wondered if this had been how the man had spoken when he had been more . . . human? “And as I grew older and wiser I began to realize that no amount of fortune would change the human condition, and that word unfortunate was a label that could be applied to almost everyone in the world.”
Nathaniel grunted out a “damn you” that he thought might be sufficiently formed to be understood, although if Eschaton comprehended it, he chose to ignore it.
“One of my favorite hobbies before the accident was reading to the blind. It was quite popular at that time, and I always thought of it as mutually beneficial for all involved: I would get to re-acquaint myself with the classics, and some poor person bereft of sight would have a chance to hear the words of Plato, Shakespeare, or Kant. As you are currently blind, at least temporarily, I thought I might read to you while we wait and see if you enjoyed it as much as I do.”
Nathaniel wondered what they were waiting for. He had spent long days locked in a cell underneath the Hall. If this was to be his execution, a part of him would be relieved.
“But today, as a treat, I’ve decided to read to you from some of my own writings.”
Nathaniel let out a moan.
“Oh, I’m quite aware that it’s a terrible indulgence to read my own words,” Eschaton said, “but I’ve been most curious to hear how my words sound when read out to an audience, and none of my Children have your considerable education in the classics. I’m hoping you’ll indulge me.
“But where to begin?” He heard more rustling pages. “Or, perhaps it would be best to just start at the beginning, since this will be the first time that you have heard it.” There was a long pause, then an audibly dramatic intake of breath. “The gospel of Eschaton. Book one: Regenesis.” He took a dramatic pause, and when he started again his voice had dropped an octave. “There was, of course, no one there at the beginning, nor will there be at the end. And there can be only now. But humanity persists in telling its stories of what was, and what will be.” His voice was a monotone, mumbling growl, and Nathaniel felt an instant of pity for those poor, blind folks. “It is an unhappy and unfortunate artifact of human language that we are doomed to try to define the past and control our future.”
Nathaniel, already tired of this ridiculous sermon, tried to let out another yell, but all that came out was a muffled moan. He struggled harder against his bonds, hoping to discover a flaw in the ropes, but they had been tied with expertise.
His most strident efforts only managed to cause more creaks and rattles from his chair.
“There can truly be only the eternal now,” the gray man continued. “The Buddhists say we must live in the moment, but I believe that enlightenment comes from reaching toward a goal that we will never attain. For it is only through constant striving that we can continue to survive in the hellish fire of this eternal moment.”
Nathaniel began to twitch his shoulder and head, and found that after a few shakes he had gathered enough momentum to begin to rock the chair he was sitting in. After a few moments he had it rocking back and forth, the metal pins and wooden joints clearly stressed by his actions. Perhaps if he could tip over his chair he might be able to gain the attention of a passerby with more sympathy than the woman from before.
As the chair rocked he heard Eschaton sigh, and a moment later there was a sharp slap across his face. The open palm hit him like a thunderbolt, both literally and figuratively, sending a surprising jolt of electric energy through his body. Every muscle in his back, already in pain from his bondage, spasmed simultaneously, and when the twitch released him he hung limp in the chair. “Not a supporter? I suppose I should have known better than to try to educate you.”
There was a long quiet moment, and Nathaniel began to regain some sense of equilibrium. He prayed somebody would notice his plight and rescue him from this madman. Where had he been taken that nobody would notice someone striking a man who had been bound and gagged? “Since you obviously aren’t interested in hearing my story, how about I tell you what is about to happen to you instead?”
Nathaniel was tempted to try screaming again, but he knew it was hopeless. He was in the villain’s clutches, and he was better off simply sitting quietly and seeing what the madman had to say.
Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam) Page 2