“What will they do to me?” the girl asked.
He shook his head. “Lord Eschaton said that you wiww take on the pewsonawity of the metaw you choose.”
Although it was, scientifically speaking, nonsense, there was, he believed, also some truth to that description. Certainly every metal they had tried so far seemed to have a different effect, and his description appeared to have satisfied the girl. “Silver, then. Gold is for the wealthy and fools.”
He began to strap her hands and feet into the restraints. There would no doubt be more pain than she would expect. “Automaton!” he yelled, looking up at the machine man. “Make sure the chamber is filled with steam.”
The nearly completed rocket loomed over everything else in the laboratory now. It was at least three stories tall, the huge black engine hanging in its frame. They had managed, with great difficulty, to rescue the massive boiler from the ruins of the building where it had been constructed. It had been damaged in the collapse, but it showed little of it now.
An array of pipes and machinery sprouted out of the top and bottom of the massive metal tubes, leading down to the array of nozzles securely attached along the bottom of the frame. The cones alternated between large and small. The large ones were designed to give it enough lift to send it up into the sky. The smaller ones would make sure that the maximum amount of vapor was released into the air, in a mixture of smoke, steam, and metals that Eschaton had carefully determined to be able to transform the largest section of the population into something that would, they hoped, no longer be able to be called human.
“Tom!” the girl said, struggling feebly against her bonds. “I am sorry. I never wanted them to hurt you.”
The old man scowled. What was it about this animated man that made people treat a pile of cogs and wheels with the same respect afforded to a living, breathing human?
The metal man was in a cage of his own now, his body firmly strapped into place with leather and wood. Le Voyageur’s theory—that the mechanical man could be immobilized by a continuous application of electric current—had been proven true. After using it to disable the metal man during the attack on the junkyard, he had fine-tuned the process so that he could render the machine harmless, while still effectively producing the massive amounts of steam they would need to launch the apparatus up into the air.
“Lay back, Viowa. Tom can’t talk anymowe.” The current that immobilized him apparently kept him silent, as well.
If the experiment on the Italian girl proved successful, they would be able to launch the rocket at any time. Once the ship had reached the proper altitude, a burst of electricity would ignite the fuel inside and tear it apart, providing a spectacular finale for the rocket’s ascendance across the skyline as the gas settled across New York, bringing with it a new era of mankind.
Le Voyageur was far too old to survive the purification process when the time came. His last whiff of the black gas had led him to several days’ worth of sickness, and had almost cost him his life. Eschaton had offered him a chance to escape. “If you want to leave before the launch, I won’t hold it against you.”
The Frenchman had laughed at that, ending with his usual mocking cackle. “Your vision is too cweaw! I do not want to wun, having spent my wast days on this pwanet in the sewvice of such a dweam!”
Le Voyageur had worked with Eschaton before all this had begun, back when he had simply been Mr. Harrington, also known as the Clockwork Man.
The Frenchman had hired the young scientist to help with some of his more fanciful projects, and had demanded that they sit together and discuss their philosophies of machinery and construction before he would “allow” any of his designs to “fondowed” by the boy. Eschaton had still been sickly back then, before he had discovered his purification.
But despite his attempt to match their philosophies, he soon realized that Harrington’s vision and skill were greater than his own. In hindsight it had been a simple case of jealousy, but the two men had a very public falling out, ultimately pitting their battle machines against each other in the streets of New York. Le Voyageur smiled at the memory of how quickly that had earned the attention of the Paragons.
Once Darby and the rest of his band of do-gooders had come after them, the two patched up their differences in order to escape—cementing a bond of friendship that the old man would take with him to the grave.
Turning his attention back to the girl, le Voyageur unscrewed the cap from the end of the silver vial, and fit a needle to the end of it. As he plunged the syringe into her arm, the girl let out a yelp. “What are you doing to me?”
“Kiwwing you.” He rolled the cart toward the large brick chamber on the other side of the rocket. “But when you awe webown, you wiww become mowe powewful zan you evew imagined.”
“I don’t want power.” Her words were already beginning to slur.
“Then what do you want?” he asked her. It was hard to believe she didn’t want strength in one way or another. The only way for anyone to enforce their will on humanity was to have the power to threaten or dominate those who would impose their will on you. In a world of walking weapons, everyone would be free.
“Eschaton promised me revenge,” she croaked out.
“Did he? Against who?” He rolled the creaking cart to a stop in front of the smoking room.
“Everyone.”
Le Voyageur gave a slight cackle at that. It was certainly ambitious, to say the least. “You have a gweat deal of bittewness for one zo young. But I zink that youth aways wants to see the wowld faww so that they can stand taww.”
“Sarah didn’t. She wanted to save everyone . . .” He had added a large dose of morphine to the formula to dull the pain, and it was clearly taking hold of the girl now—her consciousness was beginning to fade.
He didn’t need to understand the Italian girl’s motivations to know she would ultimately discover that the results of the experiment were different than her expectations: transformation had a tendency to change the mind as well as the body.
But no matter. Le Voyageur had lived a very long time, and the one advantage of outliving all your friends was the wisdom that came from being the last man standing. During his long life he had come to discover that the dreamers who accomplished their dreams were transformed by them. Even his own body had been broken and twisted by the years spent working to create the machines he loved so much.
And while the gears and pistons that he spent his days crafting were most certainly not alive, that didn’t mean that they weren’t capable of taking a bite from their creator now and then. Even his damnable lisp had been the result of a flywheel accident that had only been a few centimeters away from tearing away his jaw entirely.
Perhaps it was that very unpredictability that gave the Automaton his charm.
Checking the gauges to make sure the mechanical man had followed his orders, he spun the wheel on the chamber door to begin venting the smoke out of the room. The next phase of the operation would be the most delicate, and the most dangerous.
He slipped on his rubber gloves and pulled the hood down over his head. A long hose led from the helmet to a pipe that carried in air directly from the outside. While none of the air in New York City could be considered “fresh,” it was close enough for his purposes.
The fan rattled as it vented the gas inside, and after a short wait he opened the outer door of the brick chamber, releasing a thick cloud of the caustic fortified smoke into the room. From somewhere behind him he could hear muffled coughs as the girl inhaled the diluted fumes. It would be nothing compared to what was about to come.
Stepping into the chamber, he saw the light glinting off Eschaton’s skin.
“Are you conscious, my wowd?”
The voice that responded sounded different than the man he had placed into the room the night before. “Jean-Jean, is that you?”
“It is me, my fweind.” He grabbed the cart and pulled. Eschaton had been heavy before, and now he weighed almost tw
ice as much. Still, after a few tugs he managed to get the table rolling. “Wet’s have a wook at you.”
He dragged the cart out into the laboratory. The light from the arc lamps glimmered off the living metal that now covered the man’s once-gray body. Continuous application of smoke and steam had bonded the plates of Darby’s living steel to Eschaton’s flesh. The metal was covered with a light grit, but he had expected a thicker layer of soot. Perhaps it had been absorbed by the metal itself. “Cuwious,” the old man mumbled.
The thick glass of his protective suit made it hard to see details, and le Voyageur desperately wanted to pull off the helmet and take a closer look, but even the smallest taste of the smoke might send him into a coughing fit. “West easy, my wowd.”
The girl had turned her head to look at Eschaton. “Ith he not beautifuw, my deaw?”
“He’s amazing!” The words came out in a long but understandable slur. “Will I become like him?”
“A wittle. Youw face wiww be made of metaw. You must wemembah to zank him for parting with some of his pwecious metaw so that you might become whowe once again.”
“I will.”
From somewhere behind him came the sound of screeching metal, and when he turned around to look he saw that Eschaton had torn out the restraints that had held him to the metal table during the transformation.
As the new Eschaton rose, it was clear that he now stood taller than he had been before. Le Voyageur’s eyes widened as he saw a crackle of electricity shimmer across the metal body. “How do I look, Jean-Jean?”
The Frenchman smiled. “Most impwessive, my wowd.”
Eschaton brought up his arm to stare at it. “It seems that the bonding process has gone even better than we imagined.”
“If ownwy we couwd discovew ze secwets of Dawby’s miwacuwous metaw.”
“Given time, we will uncover all of his secrets, and so much more. I only wish you could be there to join me, Jean-Jean.” Eschaton held out his arm, and let out what could only be described as a lightning bolt. The Frenchman could feel the heat, and the sheer force of the energy it contained made his hair stand on end. It was both terrifying and fantastic. He felt a warmth growing in his heart that hadn’t been there in years. If this was to be his final voyage, it would also be his greatest!
“Now, there is one thing left to try.” Eschaton walked across the room, the metal that covered his feet ringing with every step. He stopped under the shackled Automaton, hanging from the wall. “What do you think, Tom? It wouldn’t have been possible to fuse this metal to myself without the steam you provided, and now I’ve used it to take the body that Darby had created for you.”
Eschaton banged his hand against his chest, letting out a series of deep “thunks.” “It is a miraculous gift that Darby planned on giving you, but I somehow think you still would have wasted it, making a mockery of life instead of celebrating it.”
Tom, slowly, but with clear determination, shook his head at the metal-covered man. “I . . . would . . . not . . . become . . . you . . .”
Eschaton turned to le Voyageur. “I thought you said he could no longer talk.”
“It seems zhat his detewmination is gweatew zan I imagined.” Or he simply had underestimated the power of the machine.
Eschaton reached in through the wooden frame that held the mechanical man in place. The wire “flesh” that had wrapped the Automaton’s metal limbs was now mostly torn away, leaving him a shining steel skeleton in a cage.
Le Voyageur had considered smashing the Automaton’s face, robbing him of the machine’s last pretense of humanity. But ultimately he found himself unable to do it. Despite his lack of belief in the metal man’s soul, the Frenchman still preferred that a talking creature have a visage, no matter how fake it might be.
Eschaton’s hand moved closer, and he let it hover over the Automaton’s heart. Sparks jumped from his fingers. “The last time we met I had to tear you to pieces to get to what you carry in your chest. Now I could simply pluck your heart out from you.”
“I . . . am . . . not . . . afraid.”
Eschaton smiled. “No, I didn’t think you would be. You don’t have the sense.” He pulled his hand back. “But rest easy for now. I’ll deal with you soon enough.”
“Don’t hurt him.” The girl’s voice was slurred, but her tone was still demanding.
“Hush, Viowa,” le Voyageur said. The last thing he needed now was to make Eschaton angry before he had been given a chance to understand his new powers.
Eschaton crossed the room and looked down at the girl on the table. Smiling, he brushed his hand across her head. “Look at you. You’re already so beautiful, but once you’ve been purified, you may be fit to stand by my side.” The caress clearly caused her pain, but she didn’t cry out. “But you’ll need to decide whose side you are on first.”
“Tom is more than that . . .”
Eschaton placed his hands together. “You would give us your brother and Sarah, but somehow you still have concern over an animated engine. Is his charm with women based on something maternal, or are there more carnal instincts in play?”
The Frenchman stepped forward. “I have found, my wowd,” he said, pondering the repercussions of Eschaton’s words, “that when it comes to the weakew sex, it is aways a mixtuwe of both.”
“Quite right as always, Jean-Jean.” Le Voyageur smiled at that. There were times when the two of them could work together almost like a single person, each driving the other to greater vision and insight. “It took me many years to realize that the greatest difference between men and machines is that any time you attempt to expose the secrets of humanity by tearing it apart, you always raise more questions than you answer.”
The giant looked back to the girl, and le Voyageur watched, fascinated, as Eschaton’s metal skin shimmered with gray and silver. “I won’t destroy him yet, Viola, if that’s what’s worrying you. You’ll see him again.” He took a deep breath and caressed her head with his hand. “But I will transform him, just as I’m going to transform you. We must all prepare for the new world in our own way, just as I am going to prepare you.”
She nodded slowly through her haze, but the Frenchman wondered if it was out of understanding, or simply fear. Her body would be starting to die under the stress of the metal coursing through her veins. “It’s time fow you to begin youw journey, my deaw.”
Eschaton gave le Voyageur a slight nod. “Don’t be afraid, Viola. It may be painful, but I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”
Le Voyageur picked up another syringe and jabbed it deep into her flesh. The screaming began an instant later as the second, larger dose of liquid metal began the process of remaking her from the inside.
He didn’t need to imagine the fear of encroaching death that must be consuming her now as the poison attacked her organs. Age had already given him the privilege of that sensation on a daily basis.
As she struggled and squealed, the Frenchman wheeled the red-haired woman into the chamber. He didn’t imagine her crimson locks would survive the transformation, but there was no way to be sure until she came out again. “Now my deaw, you wiww feew some pain. But if you can, imagine what you want to become, and pewhaps youw dweams wiww come twue.”
He centered the cart in the room and walked out again, using the wheel on the door to seal the chamber. Grabbing the lever by the entrance, he released the fortified smoke into the room. Even through the brick walls and his mask he could hear her shrieking, louder and louder, until finally it faded away, the sounds choked out by the black gas that filled her lungs.
After checking the rubber seals of the door to make sure that none of the gas was leaking out, he pulled off the mask and took a deep breath. The air was clean enough. “Wemembew, Tom,” he yelled out loudly, “without you pwoducing the steam, it is vewy wikewy zat she wiww die fwom ze smoke.”
Tom gave no verbal reply to le Voyageur’s orders, but the clicking sound of Tom’s heart began to increase, responding to
the threat.
Lord Eschaton surmised that the steam acted as a medium for the smoke, allowing it to more completely, and more powerfully, penetrate the body. It also seemed to mitigate some of the more caustic effects of the smoke alone. It had proven true with Nathaniel, and in Eschaton’s case it had been the steam that had allowed them to further augment his own body, years after he had originally been exposed. If only they had been able to give Eli some of the steam, perhaps his death could have been avoided.
Le Voyageur made a few final checks of the equipment, reading the dials that had been placed into the wall. “She wiww, I zink, be one of youw gweatest cweations, my Wowd Eschaton.”
Eschaton was still staring at his newly metallic flesh. “Perhaps . . . But I wonder if, with the discovery of this new metal, we may have gone a step beyond what we even knew was possible.”
“What do you mean?”
The silver giant walked across the room. The white bolts that had once lived under his skin seemed to almost leap from his flesh now, turning it a glowing silver.
He stopped in front of a tall wooden rack.
Sitting atop it was a long scepter. It had initially been designed as one of the Frenchman’s “paratonnerre contraire” machines. This particular device had been designed to channel Eschaton’s living electrical energy, but the original prototypes had proven less then efficient.
Le Voyageur had shaped the top of it to resemble a large Omega symbol, sharpening the exterior edge so that it could be wielded as a blade if anyone came too close. Metal wires sprung from the shaft, with a series of clay isolators near the top that would allow Eschaton’s living energy to be concentrated and channeled at its targets.
“I pwomised I wouwd make it wewk,” the Frenchman said apologetically, “but I’m afwaid with aww ze othew zings I’ve had to do, it is not yet compwete.”
The cloth-wrapped wires hanging from the end flopped around limply as Eschaton picked up the spear and raised it into the air. “Not to worry, my friend, you’ve done excellent work!” Arcs of power seemed to swirl around his hand, reaching out from the silver surface of his skin and connecting with the exposed ends of the wires. “Now let me finish it for you.”
Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam) Page 30