Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  Anubis gestured toward the box. It had always been foolish to believe that he could spend so much time with these maniacs and not be dragged into their insanity. “What do you want from me?” he asked the gray man. Some part of him had known that this moment would come, sooner or later.

  “I don’t want anything from you, Anubis, that I cannot take. I already have everything I need.” Eschaton started down the spiral staircase, the light following him. “I have the Hall of Paragons, and I have Darby’s laboratory.”

  “You don’t have the Automaton’s heart.”

  Eschaton seemed shocked at that, pausing for just an instant before he continued to the bottom of the steps. “No . . . not yet. But there is more than enough fortified steam contained in this building for me to continue my experiments until I get it.”

  Anubis forced himself to remain calm. “You have enough for your experiments, but you can’t change the world.” It had not occurred to him before just how badly Eschaton needed what Sarah Stanton had. And that meant that Abraham had a secret that he knew and the villain didn’t. He wondered if the Children had already known of the limited reserve of fortified steam.

  “Enough!” Eschaton shouted. “We’ll find the girl soon enough. The Stanton child has enough of her father in her, I think, that she won’t be able to sit idly by while the man who murdered him simply takes over the world.” He walked over to the crowd, where a tall boy held out a case toward him. The gray man lifted a large glass tube out of the open case, a thick cork stuck fast in the open end. Illuminated by the spotlight, the liquid inside of it glittered and shone like gold. Once again Anubis could feel the heat rising in the room.

  “Meanwhile, there is more than enough steam to make you one of my purified humans.”

  Immediately a chorus of howls and boos rose up from the crowd. There were also shouted slurs and epithets, along with demands that he simply be killed outright. He glanced over to Clements and saw that the man was enthusiastically joining in, his hand cupped against his face as he screamed for Abraham’s execution.

  “Quiet!” Eschaton shouted, and once again the gallery obeyed, except for Nathaniel.

  “You’re a monster! I want my life back!” The boy’s chains rattled as he struggled against them.

  “There is no turning back for you . . . or for me,” Eschaton informed him. “But you’ve made a great sacrifice and proven that my transformation was no accident. Now Anubis can become something even better than you, my pathetic boy.” Eschaton held out the vial toward Anubis, offering it to him. The liquid inside swirled and churned. “I gave him Mercury, but I’m offering you gold.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with this . . . gift?”

  “You’re supposed to drink it,” Eschaton said, and pulled the stopper free.

  He took it from the gray man’s hand, a short shock travelling into his fingers as they brushed Eschaton’s. “What is it?”

  “The engine of your rebirth: a pure element,” he announced loudly, “along with a few . . . other things.”

  Anubis sniffed it, his nose wrinkling at the strong chemical smell. “And if I choose not to?”

  Eschaton shook his head. “Either way, you’re going into the chamber, so you can die in the smoke . . . or you consume my elixir and discover with me what will happen to a man who is infused with gold.” Eschaton walked over and unlatched the chamber’s door. “Your fate is, within reason, entirely up to you. But I’ll warn you that what this contains is poison. Once you’ve consumed it, your only salvation is in the smoke.”

  Anubis nodded. “Then I suppose I’ll take my chances.” As he prepared himself to consume the golden liquid, another scent rose up, far stronger than the sulfurous odor from the vial. It was the smell of burning leather . . .

  A moment later a shout rose up from the crowd and Anubis felt a wave of heat roll toward him. The air suddenly became scorching hot and difficult to breathe, as if he were standing too near to a vat of molten iron. The sensation was followed by a bright light, as bright as a flare, that appeared to be growing behind Eschaton’s shoulder. After a few moments it had become so bright that it eclipsed the arc light and cast hard shadows across the entire room. Some of the shouts in the audience were turning nervous.

  A figure rose up from behind Anubis, glowing with such intensity that it was almost impossible to look at him directly. It took a moment to realize that this was Nathaniel, transformed again. No longer translucent, he was now burning with a white flame that seemed to consume his entire body.

  “That’s enough!” the glowing boy shouted. “This has to end!” There was still the sound of desperation in his voice, but it was no longer helpless.

  For better or worse, the opportunity to escape that Anubis thought might never come had finally arrived, and he yelled out Eschaton’s name. When they gray man turned toward him, he threw the golden contents of the vial straight into the villain’s face.

  The gray giant stumbled backward into the smoke-filled chamber, his hand shattering one of the thick glass windows. Black gas crawled out into the room.

  Chapter 12: Roundheels

  CHAPTER 12

  ROUNDHEELS

  Emilio had been hopeful that the return of the Automaton would bring things back to “normal” around the house, but it seemed as if they were anything but.

  Both Sarah and Viola seemed enamored with the metal man, and both of them had spent the last few days with their attention entirely fixated on Tom.

  At first Emilio had considered that to be a good thing and thought he would be able to get back to work on his spinning shield, but every time he heard Tom’s heavy metal footsteps on the stairs, he found his usually-focused thoughts instead trying to figure out which of the two women he was supposed to be siding with: his sister, or the woman that he was beginning to suspect that he loved, despite his own best intentions.

  Sarah had spent most of the night talking with Tom, reading through the newspaper accounts of the “massacre in the park,” as the headlines had called it. The two of them had still been up when Emilio had gone to work; and she had fallen asleep sprawled out on the couch.

  He felt a tinge of guilt at entering the living room, but it wasn’t as if Sarah had ever asked for permission to take over the main room of the house as her personal sleeping area. Her tendency to take other people’s permission for granted was something else she and Viola had in common.

  Sarah had been keeping the articles together inside the pages of a Bible, but now they were spread out across the floor, arcing out from the couch like dingy fireworks.

  He carefully bent over and tried to read some of the tiny type on one of the smaller articles. It told the story of a man who had survived the explosion. He had actually claimed that his eyesight had improved, and that he felt invigorated by the incident.

  Nearby was another article discussing how the man had been discovered a few days later with a knife in his neck. Sarah had written the word “Eschaton!” over the article.

  Did Sarah think that the villain was murdering the survivors of his experiment? And to what end?

  Weary of trying to guess the answers to his questions, Emilio walked up to a gaudy, chipped cabinet, and opened the doors. Inside was their last bottle of vermouth, part of their dwindling supply of food and drink. Looking back he saw that there were already two glasses on the table. They were dirty but serviceable, and he’d already found himself washing the dishes far too many times in the recent past.

  Breaking the wax, Emilio sat down next to Sarah on the couch. She grumbled slightly as he leaned back into the plush velour.

  It wasn’t until he began to pour the liquor that she finally managed to pull herself out of her slumber and look up at him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.

  “Drinking,” he said, only barely managing to hold back a sigh.

  “So late at night?” she said, slowly pulling herself upwards.

  “It’s before dawn.”

>   “In the morning?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, and poured a second glass for her. “You, too.”

  It had been a long time since they had last had a drink on the couch together. He still had hopes that perhaps he could discover whether the girl who had overwhelmed him with emotion on that ferry boat a few months ago was still somewhere inside this angry woman.

  “We make a toast,” he said, and handed her the glass. It was slightly sticky and clouded. “To Tom!” He raised up his own flute.

  Sarah nodded and clinked her glass against his.

  “You’re happy your friend is back?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she replied, but there was something missing in her tone.

  “Then why do you seem so sad?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Morning or night, I’ve still just woken up. I need some time to . . .”

  Emilio frowned. “When will that be, Sarah? How long will I have to wait?”

  She let out her breath in a huff and put the glass up to her lips. Sarah took a longer sip this time, and if Emilio hadn’t known that she had taken her very first taste of alcohol on this same couch only a few months before, he would have thought she’d been drinking for years. “You really want to go through this, Emilio?”

  He nodded. “For better or for worse. I do so much to bring him back, now tell me why.”

  Sarah nodded. “He’s different now. Something happened to him in the theater.”

  “We’re all different since then.” Emilio was surprised to find himself feeling defensive of the metal man. “And we’re also still the same. Perhaps he just needs you to tell him you are his friend.”

  “I have,” Sarah said with a sigh. “But everything he’s gone through . . . the new body . . . It’s all damaged him in some way.”

  “Then I can fix him for you.” It sounded good. But after letting Tom rebuild his body to his own specifications, Emilio was immediately doubtful that “fixing” Tom was actually something still within reach of his skills.

  At least his offer had managed to raise a genuine smile on her face. “Thank you, Emilio, but I don’t think even you are able to repair someone’s feelings, whether they’re made of metal or flesh.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand. “Maybe people need to give me the chance.”

  Sarah’s smile widened, and only for an instant he felt as if perhaps he had broken through. Then the look faded, and she pulled her hand away from his. “I want you to know that I appreciate all that you’ve done for me here; taking me into your home, fixing Tom.”

  He had hoped that by being bold he might just get the smallest glimpse of what was going on inside her head. It had always worked with his wife, but Sarah was a very different woman. “Tell me, Sarah, do you think anyone stays the same? You want him to be alive, but you don’t want him to change . . .”

  She turned her head slightly to the side. “I want to trust him, Emilio. Just like I wanted to trust you.”

  He was about to push her again, but it seemed as if some kind of shutter had fallen into place. It was almost as if she were becoming more like the Automaton, except he couldn’t see the tiny gears turning behind her eyes.

  Wasn’t it the men in this country who were supposed to hide their emotions? What was she trying to do? “This isn’t about Tom at all!” he said with a sudden realization. “You want to be your father.”

  “That’s not . . .”

  He wrapped his fingers around her free hand. “He was a good man, but you will not win this by becoming him.”

  She looked away from him, and he knew he was right.

  She didn’t pull her hand away, but she didn’t react, either. She simply kept her head down, breathing deeply.

  “I know you are young, Sarah, but not so much more than me.”

  She stared at him, and the lost look on her face made him sadder than he could remember being in a long time. “Whom can I trust, Emilio? Everyone I love is dead.”

  He smiled back at her and stroked her hand lightly. “Then you need to love more people. You can’t do this on your own.”

  She pulled her fingers away once again. “No. I can’t. Not until we put an end to this.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to be strong.”

  “Loving people isn’t weak.” Did she think she was the only person to lose someone they loved? “Everyone we love dies, eventually.”

  “But they weren’t all murdered by the same man.”

  “Eschaton,” Emilio said. “You still want to fight him? He has the Paragons now. How could we ever win?”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, and a pained look came over her face. “We can win—now that we have Tom.”

  In that moment he looked out over the clippings and notes she had written, and began to see the shape of her obsession. It was ridiculous to think that the two of them—even with a miraculous mechanical man—could take on a villain with the power of Eschaton. And yet Sarah was clearly drawn to it, like a moth blinded by the light before being consumed by the fire. “We aren’t strong enough. We aren’t heroes.”

  Sarah sat up. “No one ever wins without trying, Emilio. Darby, the Sleuth, my father—they all spent their lives being better than what was supposed to be possible.”

  He shook his head. “And now you sound like your father.”

  “It was something he used to say.”

  “Look where you are, Sarah,” He waved his arm at the room. “This isn’t your Hall or your home. You and I aren’t real heroes or adventurers. But maybe we can escape—leave New York and head West. This madness wouldn’t follow us.”

  Before she even opened her mouth he could see that she would never follow his plan. “You’re wrong, Emilio. Madness grows. If Eschaton destroys New York, who would stop him then? None of us would be safe.”

  “This isn’t our responsibility, Sarah. We don’t have to save the world.”

  “Somebody has to.”

  “But not us! We could be together.”

  “The world won’t be right until we’ve put a stop to him.” Sarah picked up one of the clippings from the table. The headline shouted out its message in bold black type: DOZENS DEAD IN PARK MASSACRE! “This is what happened while we waited. There’s no one else left to stop him but us. We have to fight.”

  Emilio drew in a breath, preparing to argue with her. But maybe there was no other choice. The attack on the park had made it clear that Eschaton was willing to sacrifice all of New York to feed his ambitions. There was no safety for any of them until the villain was gone. “But why does it have to be us?”

  “There’s no one else,” Sarah said, and gave a nod of conviction. “You didn’t have to build that shield, and you didn’t have to come to my rescue.”

  “I thought you were beautiful.” Just a moment ago they had been talking about her. When had this become about him?

  She gave his fingers a solid squeeze. “And you’re a good person. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.” Her eyes caught his, and for a single moment he could see a flash of the Sarah he had first met peeking out at him. There was something beneath the sadness. “And you’re right, I need to trust you.”

  It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and it wasn’t what he wanted her to want from him. But somehow she had managed to turn the conversation her way, and suddenly he found himself on the defensive. “Even if we fight, how could we possibly win?” he said, still trying to protest. But it was a weak argument, and he knew it.

  “If you can help me with Tom, then more will come. He can become the most powerful thing in the world. And you are the one who proved it to him.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to help him understand his power to fuse with machines.”

  Emilio frowned. That was a miracle and mystery. And it was also terrifying. If Tom could take control of any machine, and infuse it with his consciousness, who was to say that he wouldn’t be more of a mon
ster than Eschaton could ever be?

  Sarah had already been corrupted by the promise of power. He wanted her to turn back into the shy but steadfast girl he’d fallen in love with, but it seemed that girl had become another casualty of that night at the theater. Instead, this hard woman had taken her place, and he wasn’t sure that this was someone he could ever feel the same emotions for. “And what about you and me?”

  “I’m sorry, Emilio. This has to come first. And then, maybe . . .”

  Emilio took back her hand into his and squeezed it tightly. “You are strong. I know this very well. You don’t have to fight against everything.”

  She gave him the slightest squeeze in return. “I’m not, Emilio.”

  He laughed at that. “No? Are you sure? Then tell me what it is you are fighting for.”

  “I’m fighting to save the world from a madman,” she said, with a definitive nod at the end to punctuate her words.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, “That’s no real reason,” Emilio told her. “You would give up everything for that? Are you the savior? Do you love the entire world? Does the world love you?”

  Sarah flinched, her face twitching almost as if she’d been struck. “It isn’t about that.”

  “Nobody fights for the world: it’s a dream—a fantasy. We fight for the things we love . . .”

  A sour look came over Sarah’s face. “All right, then. I’m fighting for the things I love in the world.”

  “And what are those?”

  “Are we playing a game now?” She glared at him.

  “No,” he told her. “But if you do this, if we do this, all of us, together, then there needs to be a reason. There will be bad times for us soon.”

  “Bad times have already come, Emilio.”

  He wasn’t surprised by her response. “My uncle used to say that things that begin badly always end in worse.”

  “So you want me to stay here and be your pretty little junkyard housewife?”

  He felt an ache when she said that, as if she’d uncovered a hole in his heart that he didn’t even know he’d had. But he couldn’t say yes to that. “You want revenge, but you don’t admit it. Things that start in revenge, they can end very, very bad. You and Eschaton both do this for revenge: him against the world, and you for your father.”