Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  “So, how did you discover my secret?”

  “You had a tear in your suit after you burned the Hydraulic Man.”

  That wasn’t what had happened, but Anubis didn’t bother trying to set Jack straight.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Anubis assumed that Jack would hand him back to the machine. Instead he continued to support him as they walked through the granite-walled halls. The Shell, now back on its wheels, wobbled past them, rolling down the corridor.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Anubis saw Clements rising up the steps behind them. His hands were balled into angry fists, his eyes were squinting with rage and locked so intensely onto Jack that Anubis thought he was trying to simply will the man to die.

  When the White Knight’s stare flicked over to his own eyes for just a moment, Abraham found himself looking away. Whatever else had happened back in the cell, the villain had almost killed him with his bare hands, literally expanding in size and strength as his anger grew.

  Abraham believed it was his compassion and aversion to killing that separated him from men like Jack, but it was clear that if he ever was given the opportunity to stop Clements, he would need to take it without hesitation.

  The Shell had disappeared in front of them, and a few seconds later a roaring noise came echoing down the corridor. After a moment, Anubis recognized it as a chorus of shouts and cheers. He could hear bloodlust and rage in the hollering. He’d heard it many times as a boy when one of the slaves was going to be punished. Now it was his turn. “Are you sure I have nothing to offer you that might convince you to let me go?”

  Jack tightened his grip on his arm. “Steel yourself, Anubis, and there’s a chance that you might survive this.”

  Anubis’s thoughts turned to Shell. “As what?”

  Jack shook his head. “I have no idea, but if it makes you feel any better, he plans to do it to all of us.”

  “And is that what you want?”

  “You don’t get what you want in life. You just have to take the best alternative.”

  Anubis didn’t agree, but he didn’t feel like arguing.

  As they turned a corner up ahead, he could see a group of men crowded around an open doorway. When they saw Jack and Anubis the yelling grew louder, igniting the unseen crowd in the room beyond.

  Abraham took a deep breath and pulled himself free of Jack. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to evoke the spirit of the ancient god he’d named himself after. In his thoughts he imagined putting on his mask, hiding his true visage from the world. He would be Anubis in spirit only, but it would have to be enough.

  Some of the men jeered at him as he reached the door, screaming slurs at him that he hadn’t heard in years, and others he had only heard in whispers on the streets. He felt hands pawing at him, attacking him as if he were a monster and not a man.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, you unruly bastards!” Jack swatted at them with his cane.

  The men pulled back, but it took only a single glance at Jack’s face to realize that he was enjoying this as much as they were. The man had always thrived on chaos and violence; even now, hidden under his coat, were the rows of gleaming blades that he was eager to throw into human flesh at a moment’s notice.

  To think that he could have somehow convinced this homicidal villain to help him only served to prove how truly desperate a man he had become.

  As they entered the Hall, the already-deafening cheers grew louder still. A wave of dizziness swept over Anubis as he tried to take in the entirety of the scene around him. In the pews that lined the Hall were dozens of men, most of them clearly common folk. It stung him to think that the people who were now cheering for his blood were much the same men whom he had fought in the streets to protect.

  Dotted amongst the crowd were men in a variety of different costumes. Most of them were the crudest approximation of an adventurer’s colors: a single piece of colorful clothing with a mask or hood; a couple with outlandish hats or a fancy coat.

  A few of the would-be villains were clearly more well-off, and had paid someone to construct them an impractical and ridiculous costume intended to approximate the Paragons, but they all fell far short.

  Anubis had seen their type before: their outfits were devoid of any trace of practicality, and, if they had succeeded in becoming adventurers, would have probably found their only true act of bravery to be catching a bullet to the chest. It was exactly the type of man Chadwick Prescott had been before his own costume had betrayed him, covering him in the deadly mix of acid and fuel that had burned the poor fool to death before Abraham’s very eyes.

  If the intention of this motley gallery was to create a new Society of Paragons, it was already a failure. Instead, what Eschaton had gathered together was a room full of mismatched, misbegotten ne’er-do-wells dancing on the graves of better men.

  “Welcome, Anubis,” said Lord Eschaton, his thundering voice coming from the back of the room. The villain towered above everyone else in a grand pulpit that rose twenty feet above the floor on a spiral staircase. There was a large Greek letter Omega painted in white across the front of it, shining in the electric light.

  Standing beneath the gray man, in front of a black curtain on the back wall, were the Shell and another man who had been bound by chains onto a sheet of metal.

  The remains of Hughes rolled around in a short figure eight, pacing beneath Eschaton like an anxious but faithful dog.

  There was something deeply wrong with the other man on the impromptu stage. Even staring straight at him, it was almost impossible to make sense of him. His skin was transparent, giving him more the appearance of a blurry outline than a full human. Underneath his glassy flesh, silver bolts flickered through his body like a school of fish, running from head to toe and back again.

  But there was something else in the room as well, and seeing it instantly filled his heart with both longing and dread. Propped up on a table by the wall were the mask and chestplate of Anubis. It had, up until that moment, been easy to pretend that he was wearing his costume. But now that his other identity was staring at him—judging him—it was hard to keep a hold on the part of him that was more hero than man.

  Next to his suit was another costume. It was made of metal with a large metal wing across the back of it. The steel was etched with fine lines that danced and shimmered in the electric lights. He had never seen this exact costume before, but it was safe to assume that this belonged to Turbine, put up as another scalp next to his own.

  Standing next to them was the familiar red, white, and blue of the Industrialist’s hat. “Trophies of the dead . . .” Perhaps he’d soon be joining them.

  Clements drawled angrily in his ear a moment before he was roughly shoved forwards. “Less talking, more walking. I’m tired of waiting to get my hands on you.”

  Thrown slightly off-balance, Abraham stumbled down the ramp. The men in the pews jeered, and as he got closer to where Lord Eschaton was standing he noticed the Bomb Lance seated in the row nearest to the front, behind a short wooden wall.

  Coming closer to the transparent man on the stage, Anubis could now see that he was straining against his bonds. This man was clearly one of Eschaton’s experiments—another in a seeming parade of freaks that the gray man was threatening to turn Anubis into.

  The metal sheet he had been bound to was on top of a cart, and the wheels rattled as he struggled. “Are you all right?” he asked. Anubis was as curious to hear the man speak as he was to find out the answer to his question.

  “I don’t think I should have had that drink,” the bound figure replied in a familiar voice.

  As he looked closer at the transparent man, the silver streaks travelled through the man’s face, and as his features flickered into full view, he realized that he had seen this man before: this was Nathaniel Winthorp. The last time Anubis had seen him had been in the park, moments before Jack had captured him.

  At that time, the Paragon’s skin had been a chalky white.
Now he had undergone another metamorphosis, and it had left him looking even more wretched now than he had been back then.

  Clements gave him another shove. “Stand here,” he said, placing him directly in front of the black curtain. This close he could see now that it was made from silk. At first Abraham thought that it was intended to be a backdrop, but now he could see that it concealed something the shape and size of a large box.

  As he turned to face the audience, a jeer rose from the crowd, and he ducked as a few bottles and other objects were thrown in his direction from the unruly mob.

  As he tried to comprehend the whole horrifying tableau, it struck Anubis as being almost infinitely strange. He had finally reached the Hall of Paragons, but under circumstances he could have never imagined possible.

  When Abraham had first put on the mask of Anubis, he had entertained fantasies of meeting the Paragons. He had imagined his heroic actions would catch their notice, and although cautious at first, they would invite him into the Hall, to consider asking him to join their group.

  In his daydream they would demand that he reveal his identity to them before he could become a member. He would refuse, of course, telling them that they would never be able to accept him if they saw what was under the mask.

  Unable to accept his terms, the Paragons would send him back into the world, having forged a grudging respect between lone wolf and gentlemen that would one day . . . lead to the death of the Sleuth.

  Even without these fools and ruffians that currently inhabited them, these granite walls and gleaming brass doors had always been the symbols of everything that he detested. The fact that Eschaton had been able to install his terrifying carnival into what had once been the stronghold of the most respected men in the world was not only proof of the weakness of proud men, but proof that it had been his own pride that had kept him from putting a stop to Eschaton when he’d had the chance.

  Slowly the lights in the room began to go out, first on the left, then on the right. In a few seconds the only illumination that remained was a strip of lights that ran down the ramp, and the bright beam of an arc lamp that shone down on Eschaton from above.

  “Thank you, my Children, for coming tonight.” The applause started up again, but Eschaton started to shout over them, cutting it off before it could reach the fever pitch again.

  “I know many of you have eagerly, but patiently, been waiting for the time when my plans will be complete and you will be able to step up to the next level of human evolution. I know that it has been a frustrating wait. But your patience will pay off!”

  There was more applause and some cheers, although Anubis wondered if perhaps there wasn’t some fear as well. “Tonight, for the first time, I can tell you that there is a truly uplifted human in our presence.” Nathaniel was tipped upwards on his cart by the Shell, and the spotlight turned on him, washing out his body with its harsh glow. “I wish to introduce to you the newest of our Children, and the future of all humanity—the Mercurial Man!”

  He existed only as the faintest outline as the sparkling of the silver bolts swam underneath his skin, and rather than the sudden thunder of applause that Anubis had expected, there was a long pause. Clearly whatever the crowd had been expecting to see it was not a transparent man strapped to a metal table. But after a moment’s hesitation, and with the Bomb Lance and the White Knight leading the way, the clapping began, and it took only a moment to reach an almost-respectable level.

  Nathaniel struggled against his bonds, but didn’t say a word. Anubis wondered if the boy was drunk, or simply beyond caring.

  “Now, on to other business . . .” If Eschaton was disappointed in the reception his creation had received from the crowd, he wasn’t letting it slow him down. “Below me stands Anubis,” the gray villain said loudly, letting the sound of his voice hush the mumbling crowd. “Formerly one of us, now revealed to be a traitor.” He wore a wide grin on his face as he raised up his arms. “We welcome home this wayward Child.” There was a cool threat contained in his words, and the crowd reacted to it, letting out a chorus of jeers.

  Abraham half expected to be pelted with rotting vegetables, but it seemed that some small shred of decorum still remained in the Hall.

  “Shell,” Eschaton said from above, “bring the prisoner forward.”

  The horrible creature wobbled toward him and grabbed his arm. Once again, Anubis was reminded that no matter how twisted Hughes had become, the monster had still been blessed with exceptional strength. The metal hand pulled him up along the ramp until he was able to face Eschaton directly.

  He could see the faces staring at him with anger, ready to tear him apart, but the crowd remained hushed, clearly waiting for the cue from their leader to tell them when to react. “As you can see, our ranks have swelled since you left us,” Eschaton said, retaining a conversational tone. “Many of the men you see here today have joined us only recently, and they may not know you, but we are all glad to finally have the chance to see what a traitor looks like face-to-face.” Eschaton raised his arm. The arc light dimmed, and his flesh turned white, crackling and glowing with a white light that came from within. It was an impressive trick, and one that Anubis had never seen him perform before.

  The audience gasped and clapped. It was clear they had never seen it before, either. As the arm returned to its normal gray, he lowered it down, pointing his finger directly at Abraham. “Anubis, do you know why you are here?”

  Of course he did. It had been obvious from the moment he’d woken in the cell. “I’m here to be judged.” He remembered that his face was now visible, and he smiled through his pain.

  “Exactly right!” Eschaton thundered back. “You are here, amongst your peers, so that they might learn of both the righteous fury and infinite mercy that comes to those who would betray the Children of Eschaton.”

  “Mercy?” he asked with surprise. “Why would I expect any mercy from a murderer like you?”

  “You’ll need to speak up, Anubis. You’re speaking for the edification of everyone, remember.”

  “Is that your mercy? To be judged by my peers?”

  “To be judged by these men, you would need to be one of them. Are you telling me you want to rejoin the Children?”

  Anubis remained quiet for a second, considering what to say next. It would do him no good to anger Eschaton, but at the same time, he expected no real mercy either way.

  Abraham reached down into himself to bring out his own thundering tones—the ones he had used as Anubis. “You put on a good show, Eschaton, but I have never truly been a part of your group of maniacs and murderers.”

  Eschaton shook his head and looked out at the crowd. His performance was ridiculous and theatrical, and yet the crowd was clearly entranced by his dramatics. “We spent so much time together, and yet you still think of me in terms of black and white, good and evil. But I am so much more. Those who follow me have a chance for a new life!” He raised up his arm, and the crowd once again let out a deafening cheer.

  It was easy to see what it was that the gray man had to offer. In a world filled with despair, his desire to remake the world was a sliver of hope. More than that, it was proof that their miserable lives had meaning, and that it had been the world that was wrong in misunderstanding them. Eschaton offered them more than hope, he gave them justification for their failed lives.

  But it was still all a dream. Why would a world of freaks be better than the one that they inhabited now? Would new powers improve their souls? And if everyone was a superman, then no one truly was. Was he the only person here who hadn’t been corrupted by Eschaton’s ridiculous dream?

  He looked around the room, and noticed Jack, standing next to Clements and the Bomb Lance. The thin man’s hands were still at his sides, and he seemed to be taking the whole thing in with his usual expression of amused detachment. Perhaps Anubis wasn’t alone . . .

  “Let’s get this over with,” Anubis said, shouting through the applause.

  Eschato
n put his hand up and hushed the crowd. “What did you say?”

  “I said, if you’re going to kill me, or whatever you have planned, then let’s get on with it.” He spoke calmly. There was a certain kind of confidence, he was discovering, that came when you realized you were the only sane man in hell.

  “I won’t kill you,” Eschaton said, drawing out the word so far that it would have embarrassed an actress. “I told you that I would be merciful.” He waved his gray hand at the stage below him. “Shell, if you would be so kind. Show this man his fate.”

  The arc light turned downwards to illuminate the cloth-covered box. The creature rolled toward it and grabbed the sheet.

  He pulled it free, revealing the box beneath it to be a chamber of iron bars fitted with glass plates. In the center was a large open grating in the floor. Black smoke swirled out of it, licking against the glass in waves like something halfway between a liquid and a gas.

  Also inside was a steel chair fitted with shackles. It had clearly been designed to hold an unwilling occupant in the chamber.

  “Behold, the Uplift Chamber!” shouted Eschaton. With that, the crowd went wild. Anubis saw Donny leaning forward with such eager anticipation that he was in danger of falling over the stand.

  The air around Anubis suddenly seemed warmer, as if someone had lit a fire. Heat normally didn’t bother him, but this was more than just a flash of warmth.

  There was a thumping and screaming that pierced the silence, and he turned to see Nathaniel shouting and struggling against his bonds.

  Anubis frowned, feeling pity for the boy. “It’s all right.”

  “Look what he’s done to me!” Nathaniel replied. “He’s stolen away my life.”

  Anubis couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be more of the silver slivers swimming through the boy’s skin than there had been before. He stared into Nathaniel’s eyes, realizing that unlike when he was wearing the mask, the boy could stare back into his. “You haven’t lost all of your life yet.” If there was any hope that they would be able to escape from here with their lives, he needed the boy calm.