Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  Le Voyageur pulled his eyes from the spectacles and turned to look at him. The sneer on his face confirmed Grüsser’s suspicions about his state. “You found it. I’m so gwad.”

  Grüsser dropped his face to the cold iron of the main air tube. He could barely feel anything as the old man plucked the key out of his hand and began to wind the Chronal Suit once again. “Thank you,” he croaked out.

  “Nowmawwy I wouldn’t cawe about youw fate one way ow anothew, but it seems that ouw cowwission with that ship did us both a favow.”

  On the fifth wind Grüsser could feel the mechanism catch. Somewhere inside the clockwork box on his back a spring began to turn, slowly releasing the collar around his throat. He sputtered and coughed, his body trying to expel the spit in his throat even as he desperately tried to draw more air in. “It seems,” le Voyageur continued, “that we have found the object of our jouwney, and I would hate to have to twy and fiwe the ship’s guns without youw help.”

  “Our mission?” He had almost forgotten the reason he and the Frenchman had been sent out in the first place. “Du hast found Sarah Stanton.”

  “It seems,” he said with a cackle, “zat she is wiving in a junkpiwe aftew aww.”

  He held out the glasses. “Take a wook fow youwsewf.”

  Grüsser was still dizzy but already recovering from his most recent brush with death. Grabbing the edge of the steel box he pulled himself to his feet and pulled the glasses out of the old man’s hands. The brass binoculars were heavy, both from the metal and the glass prisms they contained inside. For an instant he saw himself taking them and smashing them hard into the old man’s skull. But despite the resolve he had when he was dancing on death’s door, the sudden return of blood to his brain seemed to have melted away his need for escape.

  Killing the Frenchman would only solve his problems in the short term. He would need to find a more permanent solution. As he pressed the glasses up to his face he saw clearly what had made the old Frenchman so sure that they had found the right location. Glinting in the moonlight was a metal statue in the shape of a man.

  For a moment Grüsser thought it might simply be a sculpture. “Unmöglich,” he said when it turned and began to walk away from the beach.

  “Ze Automaton,” le Voyageur said.

  Grüsser’s next actions were beyond his own comprehension, but something about seeing the machine had given him hope. Taking a few quick steps, he leapt off the platform and into the air.

  There was a cold shock as the water of the East River enveloped him, and he realized that it was already too late to worry about what would happen to him if the device on his back got wet.

  But as he began to swim to shore he realized that he no longer cared. Whether he lived or died, he would find salvation soon.

  Chapter 11: Iron and Glass

  CHAPTER 11

  IRON AND GLASS

  Anubis awoke to the sound of yelling, and found himself gasping for air. For a man who spent his days in a leather mask, the feeling of suffocation wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar one, but when he reached up to pull off his mask he realized that it was already gone. Instead he felt a sharp shock of pain from his jaw, and as he coughed he could feel an ache in his neck where the White Knight had almost squeezed the life out of him. It almost made him forget about the pounding in his head.

  Something trickled down his throat, and he began to cough. The yelling voices paused, and after a moment he could taste the blood in his mouth. He spat it out on the floor and coughed again.

  “At least you didn’t kill him.” He recognized the atrocious, broken English accent immediately, and opened his eyes.

  “Ja—” Anubis could only get out the single sound before he began to cough again. This time he could feel his entire body spasming as his lungs tried to expel an object from his throat that didn’t exist. It took an incredible force of will to make it stop. “Jack,” he rasped out, “I didn’t know that . . . you cared for my well-being.”

  “I don’t, really. But Lord Eschaton would have had my hide if he didn’t get his hands on you first.”

  “See there, Jack,” said Clements, clearly nervous. “There was nothing to worry about—he’ll be fine.”

  Jack spun around on his heels. He walked quickly out of the cage and delivered a sharp blow to Clements’s stomach with the head of his cane. “You ridiculous clown!” As the White Knight bent over from the attack he revealed his backside, and Jack struck again, slamming his stick hard against the Southerner’s posterior. Abraham couldn’t help but marvel at the calm efficiency with which Jack delivered his blows. “You’ve killed that boy, one of my men, and Anubis is only alive because you’re too pathetic to be able to kill anyone except by accident. If Eschaton doesn’t snap both our necks it won’t be for your lack of trying! You’re a sad sack of meat and potatoes, and there’s no denying it!”

  Clements opened his mouth as if to protest, but when Jack raised up his cane he quickly closed it again. “Now stay there and be quiet until I speak to you.”

  The White Knight simply nodded his reply, but even from across the room Anubis could see a narrowing of his piggish eyes. He was clearly scheming for revenge. If Jack had noticed, he didn’t show it. Instead he crossed back across the floor in a few smooth steps.

  Anubis forced himself to smile even though it sent a fresh wave of pain up through his face. How was it that every blow he had taken over the last few months seemed to be aimed directly at his head? “How do I look?” At least all his teeth seemed to still be intact . . .

  “You mean other than the fact that you’re a Negro?” Jack said, smiling back.

  “I already knew that,” Abraham replied.

  “Well, I wish you had told me.” Jack leaned over to peer directly at his face. “You’re starting to look like a rotten apple that’s been left in the sun all day long.”

  Anubis laughed. It was odd to think of it now, but if he had ever been forced to reveal his true identity to someone, he always thought that Jack would be the most obvious candidate. He seemed to hate everyone equally, and despite his aristocratic heritage, his time on the streets seemed to have given him far better tools to judge the value of a man than simply the color of his skin. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  “Don’t thank me just yet. I’m bringing you upstairs for your trial, and I don’t suppose it’s going to go well for you.” He prodded Anubis gently with his cane. “Can you walk?”

  Nodding before he was sure the answer was yes, he pulled himself up to his feet and took a halting step to the door. There was no doubt that he was still feeling the effects of the attack. It had taken weeks for him to recover, and from the moment he’d decided to wear the suit again, he’d been attacked again. Taking a single step back, he sank onto the cot. “Maybe, although I could make good use of your cane.”

  Jack looked down at the wooden stick in his hand and then back at Anubis. “I’m sure you could.”

  Anubis had liked the cane better when it had belonged to the Sleuth. The fact that it now sat in Jack’s hand was a reminder of the fact that Anubis had been partially responsible for the old man’s death—he had given him a clue to help him uncover Eschaton’s plans.

  At the time, he had assumed the Paragons capable of stopping Eschaton. In retrospect, the true depth of his failure to understand the situation had been stunning, and it had been one of the Sleuth’s own teammates—William Hughes—who had cut him down.

  From somewhere outside of the room there came a moan. Jack and Clements both seemed to recognize it. “Come in, Shell,” Jack said.

  What came through the door sent a chill straight through Anubis. He had seen ruined men before—the last war had left behind thousands of men with missing limbs, and burned and scarred flesh—but he had never seen a living creature quite as horrific as this. Covered in twisted metal, the abomination teetered into the room on a pair of equally-twisted wheels.

  “What is that?” At first Abraham had thought that it might
be some kind of monstrous clockwork, but as it moved closer there was an undeniable stench of rotting flesh, although it was covered by a thick scent of oil that suppressed his need to gag.

  Jack smiled. “You remember Mr. Hughes, don’t you?”

  Anubis nodded, speechless.

  “That’s the Iron-Clad?” Anubis had never actually seen the man in the flesh, but it seemed that he had claimed some kind of twisted justice for the murder of his fellow Paragon.

  Up until his disappearance, Hughes’s declining health had been a topic of hot debate in the papers. But his legendary armor had always made him, physically at least, one of the Paragons’ most powerful members. “What happened to him?”

  Clements snorted. “Darby had a plan to turn the entire building into one of his mechanical men. Unfortunately, Hughes got caught in the gears.”

  Abraham frowned. Since the events in the theater, he’d had more than enough of intelligent machines and madmen willing to play with the fundamentals of human existence. But even after its rampage, the Automaton had been able to convince him that it was ultimately a creature worth saving, and Sarah had even asked him to come to the junkyard to help in its resurrection. In this case, on the other hand, life was clearly a curse rather than a gift. “How did he survive? Is he one of Eschaton’s purified humans?”

  “A poor copy,” Clements said with a laugh. “But he still came out better-looking than a monkey like you. Although if it turns your skin white, I suppose that’s a start.”

  Jack flicked out his hand, the metal tip of the cane banging hard against the cell’s metal bars. “That’s enough.” The Southerner visibly flinched in response.

  “Anubis, it’s time to get going.” Jack held out his hand, and Abraham took it. As he rose to his feet he felt a sickening rush of dizziness, but managed to maintain his balance.

  “Shell,” Jack said, “our friend here needs some assistance.”

  The machine-creature wobbled closer, letting out a shrill whine when it came to a stop.

  Anubis placed his arm over the thing’s shoulders. The metal was disturbingly warm, the temperature of human flesh, but without the yielding comfort of skin.

  The Shell wobbled slightly on its wheels as Abraham lent it his weight. The putrefying odor was stronger in such close proximity. Still, he was glad for the assistance. “Thank you, Hughes,” he told it as it wrapped one of its metal arms around his back. But if the creature was aware of his gratitude or even its own name, it didn’t respond. Instead it began to move slowly forward, and Anubis limped out of the cage.

  “The two of you make a mighty fine pair,” Clements said as he passed him by. “You’d do well to remember that I let you live, boy. Lord Eschaton told me that I can have you as soon as he’s done with you, and I won’t make the same mistake agai—oooow!”

  Jack had jabbed him with his cane, this time thrusting the knob-end straight into his stomach. “You’d do best to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, sir,” Clements said. Anubis wondered if the White Knight would be able to manifest his supernatural strength again so soon, although he supposed that Jack would be at least somewhat aware of the White Knight’s powers.

  But before he had transformed, Clements’s skin had first flushed a deep red. This time it remained the same pasty white color that nature had saddled him with.

  “I’m not a sir, and he’s not your boy,” Jack answered.

  For all the bickering that Anubis and Jack had done during the time that they had spent together, they had come to communicate pretty well, despite Jack’s homicidal tendencies. His philosophy was everything that Anubis’s wasn’t: the man cared little or nothing for anyone else but himself and his boys, and he had no real regard for human life.

  Certainly there were reasons for that. Jack’s atrocious accent spoke to a past that was complicated and tragic. But the number of people living in New York who grew up without tragedy could probably be counted on Abraham’s fingers. It wasn’t what happened to a man that defined him, it was how he chose to respond. Jack had decided to take a very dark path.

  But Jack Knife also had instincts and insight that were hard to ignore. Of all the Children, he was the one who had been the most vocal about his distrust of Anubis, while being the closest thing he had to a friend. And there was a purity to the man’s philosophy, one that made him unafraid to stand up to bullies like the White Knight.

  Clements and Jack continued to glower at each other until the Shell let out a gurgling whine and moved forward, dragging Abraham out of the room and into the hallway.

  Standing up and moving was obviously doing Anubis some good, and he quickly found himself taking surer steps as they travelled along. Before they reached the end of the corridor, Jack had caught up with them, his long legs easily matching the pace of the wounded man and the monster as they wobbled together down the corridor.

  “I’m sorry about what happened back there,” Jack said.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you be sorry about anything. Usually you’re too busy sticking a knife into things to care.”

  Jack smiled his usual wolf’s grin. “You can’t blame a man for liking what he’s good at.” There was a moment’s pause before he continued. “But I don’t take pleasure in tormenting the weak.”

  Anubis considered that for a moment. If he’d been forced to judge Jack, would he truly have found him wanting? It had been the job of Anubis to judge the full worthiness of a man, not his philosophy. While he was utterly at odds with Jack’s motivations, he couldn’t deny that the villain practiced them in a most exemplary way. “Clements hates me because of the color of my skin.”

  Jack chuckled. “Oh no, friend, I think there’s far more to it than just that. He hates everyone who he thinks might be better than him in some way. It doesn’t leave him with many friends.”

  “And what about you?” Anubis asked him.

  “We had this discussion last time we met, didn’t we? I don’t have many friends either, but I have enough. It comes from being such a busy man with so many responsibilities.”

  They had reached the stairs at the end of the corridor. “I’m afraid, Anubis,” Jack told him, “that this creature won’t be able to help you up the stairs.”

  The Shell rolled to a stop and let out a whine. Anubis let go of it to stand, weakly, on his own two feet.

  Freed of its burden, the Shell tilted forward on its wheels, falling to the ground with a ringing thud.

  Using its metal hands it began to drag itself up the steps. Anubis stared at the metal claws. There was no flesh there, but simply chunks of iron that had been cut into rough approximations of fingers, with hinges connecting them and rods that pulled them open and closed. The digits scraped against the stone to find purchase, and when they did the arms heaved the body up the steps, lugging the twisted wheels up behind it. It was a pitiable sight.

  Jack offered Anubis his arm as a replacement.

  Even if he was still a bit dizzy, Anubis felt more able to walk than he had been a few minutes before. Once again, he found himself trying to sort out which of his recent injuries were temporary, versus those that would take days, weeks, or even months to heal. He was sure there were already bruises forming on either side of his throat where Clements had dug his thumbs into his flesh.

  Anubis slung his right arm over Jack’s shoulders. The villain was shockingly slim under his coat, and yet he seemed to have the strength needed to take Anubis’s weight. It was yet another contradiction in a person who seemed to be almost entirely constructed of them. “Jack, you can call me Abraham, if you’d like.”

  “So we’re trading names now? I’m still Jack, either way.”

  “You got lucky with that name.” They took the steps slowly, but they managed to move up them faster than the Shell.

  “Or I’m just clever. But I’ll admit that Abraham doesn’t seem to lend itself to much in the way of titles. Now where were we?”

  Anubis saw Jack
glancing backwards over his shoulder. Clements was clearly somewhere behind them, just out of sight. Given the choice, Anubis wouldn’t have let the man out of his vision for a second, but Jack seemed convinced that he would still be able to react if the White Knight took the opportunity to try and backstab them. Or maybe he was confident that he’d try to kill the Negro first. “I wanted to know what you thought when you found out the true color of my skin.”

  “Do you think a man who lives on the street and surrounds himself with gutter trash cares that much about what color his enemies are?”

  “I’ve seen all kinds of men in all kinds of places, but I noticed you didn’t have any Negroes in the Blades.”

  Jack chuckled. “Fair enough. Though I suppose that’s because none have asked.”

  “Maybe they thought you’d say no.”

  “The boys might balk, but I’d set ’em straight. But I’m afraid it’s a little too late for you to join now, if that’s what you asking.”

  Anubis smiled at that. There was no doubt that Jack was always good for a quick turn of phrase. “And I gather you weren’t interested in my other offer . . .”

  It took Jack a second to register his meaning before he replied. “Ah . . . the ‘alliance’ you offered me back in the alley. I supposed I might have considered it if things had turned out differently, but I’m not looking to put my future into the hands of a battered Negro on his way to the gallows.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m sure you and Clements can work something out.”

  Now it was Jack’s turn to smile. “I still have more people on my side than you do. Or did you finally manage to make some friends of your own?”

  “I found one.”

  “That’s good for you. No man should go to his death with only enemies to mourn him.”

  “You won’t be sad to see me go?”

  “It’ll certainly make the world a little less interesting, although once I knew what you were hiding under that mask, most of the mystery was gone.”