Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  “All right, Sarah.” She reached over and gave the girl a hug. She still missed being able to wrap her arms around her. “But be careful. I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt.”

  Jenny could feel Sarah’s face nodding against hers. “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Farrows.”

  They hugged each other tightly, and Jenny felt better, if only a little bit. She couldn’t say why, and darker emotions seemed to be swirling inside of Sarah, waiting to break free.

  And when she let go, Jenny looked up. Her eyes caught on something in the darkness. It took a few moments for her to realize that it was Viola—hiding in the shadows, staring at them both through angry eyes.

  Chapter 4. Under a Dark Cloud

  CHAPTER 4

  UNDER A DARK CLOUD

  There was, Anubis had determined, little work done in the factories of New York that couldn’t be described as punishing. Although much of the construction and manufacturing that had once been located on the island had begun moving to the nearby cities of Queens and Brooklyn, there were still plenty of machines that clattered, rattled, and chugged during the day. Their smokestacks, although diminished in number, continued to belch gray clouds of smoke across the city’s sky, choking the people below. But though the products of this endless industry allowed fewer men to create far more, they still could not work without human hands to direct them.

  In the years following the war, more and more machines were being used to stamp, bend, and mold objects in massive numbers. While it seemed as if people should have been satisfied with this sudden explosion of things, the opposite seemed to be true: people’s appetite for manufactured goods had started to grow and grow. And although one might have thought that men who owned these mighty factories might share their good fortune with the workers who had made it possible, it seemed that the opposite was true: there was a sense of entitlement that had come over the ruling class of the city: anyone who wished for a share in their success was a parasite. Life in the factories was growing crueler, and all the legal and social engines seemed only to churn out wealth for the rich, and punishment for the poor.

  Not that, as far as Anubis could tell, there was a time where things had ever been easy for those members of society whose role in life it was to take orders from others. But in the last decade, with the heavy costs incurred by a country battling against itself still unpaid, it seemed as if the wealthy and powerful were, as always, happy to heap as much of the responsibility and suffering as they could onto the backs of the least fortunate.

  Despite all his skills he was still just a worker, of that there was no doubt, but he had been lucky enough to avoid the worst of it. He had some genuine skill, and his prowess with a spanner and screwdriver had allowed him to put together his staff and costume. It also made him handy at fixing sewing machines and power-looms, so that when he wasn’t covered head to toe in black leather he was eminently employable.

  And the machines, no matter how miraculous they might appear, were complicated and prone to breaking under the best of circumstances. But in his time working on them, Anubis had discovered that, as often as not, what caused a machine to fail was not a mechanical flaw or fatigued metal, but an act of human carelessness with catastrophic consequences. He had retrieved more severed fingers from between the shifting wires of the looms than he cared to think about.

  Because he was often indispensable, the men in charge at the factories seemed to live for the opportunity to point out a flaw in his work, or berate him for laziness. And although they were often obviously attempting to find a way to feed their egos at his expense, their complaints weren’t always without merit.

  His activities as Anubis were mostly nocturnal, and they conflicted with his ability to do his job effectively. Not only did he spend many days on the verge of unconsciousness from sheer exhaustion, but the fact was that physically he was already paying a toll for pursuing an activity that often ended in violence.

  The battle at the Theater Mechanique had left him in such a state that over the next few weekends he could do nothing but recuperate. Taking multiple blows to his head had left him bedridden for days, and paying for the services of a doctor willing to ask no questions had put a large dent into the money he had earned with the Children of Eschaton. His intent for that money had been far nobler than using it on himself; he had been saving it to make a large charitable donation. But that source of income was closed to him now.

  By helping Sarah he had finally revealed where his true loyalties lay, and there was no turning back. Jack and the other boys would be looking for him, and Anubis had decided it would be better for him to lay low while the man behind the mask returned to more mundane work. He hadn’t worn the costume since that day, and truth be told, it felt like a kind of torture. There wasn’t a single night that had passed since then where he hadn’t been wishing he could still leap across the rooftops . . .

  It was, he reflected, somewhat ironic that he had been biding his time by working with the Children of Eschaton, and now that he had finally revealed his true intentions, he was waiting once again. But this time he had put his fate into the hands of a nineteen-year-old girl.

  If no longer being a costumed hero had its downsides, there were at least a few good things to brighten his day. He had managed to find time to train, and being back at work he rediscovered some genuine satisfaction in coaxing broken machines back to life. Compared to men like Darby and the Italian boy, his skills may not have seemed like much, but it had been too long since he had used his hands for more than punching, and his current employer ran a number of different factories where his help was actually needed. And while he couldn’t call the man he worked for “honorable,” he was less than cruel, and the work was far from the worst thing he had ever been forced to do.

  He was even able to get out and about and enjoy the spring air for at least a few minutes each day as he travelled from one factory building to the next. The entire route took him only a few square blocks, but Anubis imagined that there were few people who were more aware of just how much could go on in such a small patch of New York. And even if it all had been nothing more than empty lots, even a few minutes in the outdoors was better than spending each and every day boxed up inside the brick walls of a factory.

  Perhaps those walks wouldn’t be something he would be so fond of once the summer turned to fall, or when the rains came, but hopefully by then he would be able to put on his mask once again, and on this fine, late summer day in the year of 1880 there was nowhere he could imagine he’d rather be than walking the streets of New York.

  Realizing that he should enjoy the moment—something that his old fighting teacher had constantly told him was equally as important as practicing his skills—he stopped and took a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the warmth of the sunlight on his skin, focusing the faculties of his mind.

  He still missed the old monk in moments like these. He had been more than just a teacher, he had been a true friend.

  A simple act of kindness had brought them together, and he had been amply rewarded for the bruises he had received when he’d helped the old man fend off the gang that was attempting to rob him of his last few dollars. Much more difficult had been helping him break free from a long dependency on opium. His first lessons in fighting had been stopping the old man from trying to escape.

  Anubis’s moment of recollection was shattered by an explosion that came rattling down between the buildings. It sounded like a clap of thunder, but had been preceded by the sharp report that was the distinct signature of a man-made ignition. “Dynamite, probably,” Anubis muttered out loud to himself.

  New York was constantly full of the incredibly loud bangs and bumps that came plowing under the past to grow taller every day. But even those demolitions were usually not as loud as this one.

  He looked up to the sky but could see nothing. Instead he surveyed the faces of the afternoon crowd. Everyone had frozen after the report—and now their heads were craning around.
He expected that he’d discover the answer he was looking for more quickly by watching them.

  It only took a few seconds for the answer to appear. First one, then everyone, looked toward the sky. A black mushroom cloud roiled as it rose up above the tops of the buildings, looking like an ebony rip in the bright blue sky. There was a collective gasp as the greasy vapor rose up. Within its surface Anubis could see flashes of lightning, as if a tiny thunder cloud had formed over the city. He could figure the general direction, but where exactly was it coming from?

  Now he turned his thoughts inward, to his internal map of the city. “Madison Square Park,” he mumbled to himself, and with that realization his mood took a sour turn.

  He had seen the results of dynamite explosions before, having spent some time working for the railroads, not to mention having been exposed to Doctor Dynamite’s handiwork on more than one occasion. But TNT had never looked like this. There was something ominous and unnatural about the cloud. Rather than simply rising and dissipating, the hanging smoke seemed to almost seethe and contract in the sky, as if it were a living thing.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring the murmuring chaos around him. It was a technique he had been taught as part of his training in the oriental fighting arts, and his teacher had impressed on him the importance of recognizing that every decision made before an action was taken was the most important, whether the result was to fight or to run.

  A part of him practically screamed for him to move toward the danger, but at the moment he was dressed as a technician, not a leather-clad adventurer. And even though they might not notice his absence immediately, technically he was still at work and his destination was only a few blocks away. And this was New York: disaster or not, they would expect him to arrive at the next factory within the next ten minutes.

  He told himself that there was a real life to be led. “And real money to be made.” His alter ego couldn’t have all of his time. A man needed to make money, and he needed to eat.

  A feeling of inevitability rose up, and he sighed as he looked down at the toolbox in his hand. If he was going to check out the explosion as Anubis, he would need to find a safe place to hide the box before he put on his costume.

  The costume was hidden nearby. He’d taken to stashing the outfit in its hiding place every morning before work. So far no one had uncovered it, but it hadn’t stopped him from breathing a sigh of relief every evening when he returned to retrieve it. Sadly, the hole wasn’t the right size for his tools, and if they were stolen he’d be unemployed in an instant.

  People gasped, and he followed their gaze back up into the sky. The roiling cloud seemed to suddenly tire of floating, and was in the process of crashing back to earth in a dark rain. After a few seconds there was only a gray smudge where the blackness had been just moments before.

  Something about the way it twisted and moved in the sky had struck him as familiar, and as it fell the truth became obvious. “Fortified smoke . . .” he whispered to himself. “It must be.”

  The last remaining pangs of guilt about abandoning work vanished underneath a sense of urgency, and Anubis ran as fast as he could toward the alley where his costume was hidden, the toolbox in his hand letting out a loud “clunk” with each step.

  He had only ever seen Lord Eschaton’s magical gas in its natural form once, back when he had spent a week guarding the factory on the West Side where Lord Eschaton had been manufacturing the substance. The man who had run the place had been a young engineer named Eli.

  Before working with that man, Anubis had known nothing about the Jews beyond the usual broad generalizations he’d heard from friends, and the occasional professional interaction. But he also knew better than to let the reputation that came with a race of men effect his actual opinion of an individual. Eli had been a challenging man to get to know, at first, but over the course of that week he had come to find out that Eli was truly fascinating. Although he was a man of many contradictions there was no doubt of his genius, and he was also devoted to Eschaton’s ideals beyond reason. Eli had been born into the world with one arm missing, and he was not willing to trust that world to give him anything that he wasn’t willing to take, nor was he willing to accept his limitations within it.

  The fortified smoke manufactured at the warehouse had been kept in a large iron boiler in the middle of the room. The white Omega painted onto the pitch-covered metal clearly marked it as an important part of Eschaton’s plans.

  On the last day, Anubis had followed Eli up the wooden ladder to the top of the iron boiler. Pulling open the brass hatch, the one-armed engineer had used a set of mechanical tools attached to the stump of his missing arm to decant some of the material into a glass bottle. The material was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It moved almost like a living thing; a cloud one second, a greasy liquid sliding down the side of the bottle the next. Every time Eli would give the container a shake it would roil up again like a miniature storm, tiny sparks of electricity flashing inside of it. “This, my friend,” Eli had told him, “is the very stuff that made Eschaton the man he is today. And tomorrow?” He had leaned in very close to Anubis’s leather-covered ear to whisper the future into it. “This is going to change the world. And you, me, and him . . . we’ll all be better than we are today.”

  Even at the time Anubis hadn’t been able to hold back his doubts that the black gas would be the savior of the human race. “And what about everyone else?”

  Eli smiled and twisted open the bottle. “They’ll have to take their chances.” The smoke inside seemed to almost sense its freedom, and wriggled up and out of the container into the fresh air. “Some win, some lose—just like always.”

  But, having escaped from its glass prison, the smoke began to lose cohesion, and after a few moments it fell to the wood below in a wet stain. A moment later a thick white cloud rose up from the ground where it landed, and an acrid smell invaded his nostrils. “Very dangerous, this stuff,” Eli had told him. “You wouldn’t want it on your skin, that I can promise.” According to what Jack had told him, in the end the engineer had died underneath a blanket of the magical smoke. Eli, it turned out, had been one of the losers.

  And now, Lord Eschaton had unleashed a cloud of fortified smoke into the park. Clearly this was part of his plan, although Anubis couldn’t imagine that this was even a fraction of the gray madman’s ultimate goal. It would certainly spread fear and confusion into the world, and there was no telling what damage it would do to the poor souls caught in the explosion.

  He reached the alley he had been searching for. At the end of it was a tall wooden building that looked, from this side at least, in serious danger of collapsing from rot and neglect. He lifted up some of the loose shingles and stuck his hand into the hole. Groping his hand up along the wall, he found the end of a rope; giving it a tug, he pulled down a dirty leather satchel that contained his costume.

  Anubis looked around for a useful place to hide the toolbox. When he’d picked this location he’d chosen it to be near to his work, and because it was out of the way, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he might need to be hiding a three-foot-long box of tools, as well.

  He hastily shoved the tools under a dirty sheet of canvas and shoved the whole thing into a pile of shattered junk. The pile was constructed mostly of broken wagon wheels, their iron rims twisted and rusting. For a moment he wondered who might have put them there, or if someone intended to take them back. But asking where things came from and went to in New York was a game that could occupy every second of the day. He’d have to trust his luck.

  Taking a quick look in either direction to make sure he was unnoticed, Anubis slung the satchel over his back, then took a few running steps and flung himself at the wall of the building, his hands finding purchase on the high brick sashes of the ground-floor windows. He scurried up toward the roof, his fingers grasping for the protruding edges that stuck out of the sheer brick face.

  It was at moments like this that he most misse
d having his staff. The new version was in his bag, but using it now might put his identity at risk. At the same time, a man who didn’t know how to climb up a building bare-handed had no business trying to do the same with a rope. Safety was an illusion most of the time, and it always paid to have a backup plan in place for the moment when things inevitably failed.

  Still, climbing without it was slow work, and it took him almost half a minute to reach the roof. By the time he had travelled halfway up the brick facade sweat was already trickling down from his hair and across his face. He barely noticed it except for a subtle feeling of happiness that settled over him. Sweating was a feeling that he had gotten used to after spending so much time sealed into a leather suit. What differed from his expectations was that by the time he pulled himself up onto the rooftop he was breathing heavily. He was paying the price for his new line of work. He’d made the effort to exercise, and he had convinced himself that he had maintained his fitness, but clearly practicing to be a hero didn’t keep a man in the same shape as actually being one.

  Now that he was up above the city he had a clearer view of the location of the incident, although he wasn’t close enough to see the park. Anubis thought he could hear the distant screams, and it spurred him to put on the costume as quickly as he could, his fingers almost trembling from the excitement of pulling on his chestplate and tightening the buckles that held it in place.

  He screwed together his staff and gave the completed device a spin. It felt good to hold it in his hand again. There was, he had to admit, a sense of power that came with the costume, and even though his vision was slightly blurred by the taut fabric that hid his eyes from the world, it felt good. He liked to believe that he was the same man in or out of the mask, but it was hard to deny that he was different when he wore the costume. He and Anubis weren’t exactly one and the same.