Power Under Pressure (The Society of Steam)
Page 39
“We have lost so many good men: Peter Wickham, William Hughes, Helmut Grüsser, Nathaniel Winthorp, the Automaton, and Sir Dennis Darby.” She let the names of the fallen heroes echo away as she took a deep breath and cleared away any hint of tears. It was a skill that she had become far too good at. “And my father, Alexander Stanton, who I hope would be proud of me, even if he wouldn’t agree with me.”
She missed them all—perhaps not all equally, but she felt the loss as deeply. And part of her sadness came from the realization that over time she would miss them less. Trying to sort the affairs of the Stanton household while simultaneously rebuilding the Hall had meant that the last month was the busiest of her entire life. The moments that hadn’t been filled with work had been spent uncovering the intimate secrets of impending matrimony. Sally Norbitt had even come around to gossip and ask her entirely inappropriate (and much appreciated) questions about her new “Latin Paramour.” It seemed that marriage had only sharpened that girl’s interest in other people’s business.
“But rising from the ashes comes a new generation of heroes, just as committed and brave. I know that many of you think that we are too common, foreign, or colorful to replace the great men who once filled these halls.”
“Or too feminine!” a voice rang out from the crowd.
Sarah frowned. “And yes,” she said, pushing down the urge to find and punish the man who had made that comment, “perhaps that as well.” She was still the only woman, and although she had once imagined that Viola might have joined them on this stage, it was clear that she would never be a hero.
Emilio refused to tell Sarah exactly what had occurred when he confronted his sister in Darby’s laboratory. His only comment was that they would never see her again. Sarah had tried to press him on it, but it was clearly a subject that he would say no more about.
“But I have fought beside these brave heroes, and they would gladly give their lives to protect yours. While these may not be the heroes that all of you wished for, we are the men and women, who have taken on the mantle, and are willing to do the job.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to introduce to you, New York City’s newest team of heroes: The Society of Steam.”
In her mind’s eye she could still hear the thunderous applause that she had dreamt of since she had first discovered her father’s secrets in his hidden closet.
And while it might not have been as loud as she hoped, at least this audience was applauding. She knew that they hadn’t been accepted yet. No one would compare them to the Roman gods of old.
The other members of the team filed in behind her: Steamhammer, Ra, the Revivalist. It was a small group, but there would be more. She had already begun to interview new members, although no one had passed muster yet.
She wondered if Sir Dennis would have been proud of what she had built. It wasn’t the old man’s dream, but that had died with him. And, although she would never say it publicly, ultimately Eschaton was partly Darby’s creation—monsters creating monsters.
For now, the world was free of living machines and men who could throw lightning bolts. And in the meanwhile, the planet was safe, and so was a single glowing key that would allow the members of the Society access to fortified steam.
As the applause faded away, Sarah stepped forward for questions. She hadn’t expected the speech to convince anyone of anything. Her father had said that it was always easier to crack skulls than to change minds, and the events of the last month had proven it in ways she could have never imagined before she had taken over the Hall.
Suddenly, from the back she heard a shout. The murmur of the crowd rose up before she could make out the words, but as the boy ran up, he repeated his cry. “The Bomb Lance, ma’am! He and some others are robbing a bank in broad daylight.”
She had wondered what had happened to the old Irishman. Perhaps this time they would make him pay for his crimes! Sarah smiled and turned to the men behind her. “You heard them, gentlemen. For the people!”
Ra lifted up his alabaster staff. “For the people!” he shouted back to her.
The rest of them joined his cry, and they ran off the stage toward the battle, together.
Chapter 29: The Society of Smoke
CHAPTER 29
THE SOCIETY OF SMOKE
Jack carefully peeled the tip of his knife underneath the tip of his fingernail, cleaning away another speck of imaginary dirt. “Donny, I’m bored.”
“Yeth, thir.”
“I’m bored of picking pockets and stealing bread.”
“Yeth, thir.”
Jack tipped back his barrel and sighed. Besides a few petty crimes, they’d been doing little but bracing themselves for an attack by the police, or the band of heroic fools calling themselves “The Society of Steam.”
Tired of grooming, he threw the knife at the barrel in front of him. It knocked the previous blade out of place, sending it falling to the ground with a clatter.
He’d been at it for weeks now, carving a decent-sized hole into the barrel. Anyone stupid or unaware enough to sit on his target of choice would quickly discover that he wasn’t giving any warnings to anyone who got in the way, although so far he’d done no more than slice a few pants legs and draw a little blood.
Most of his blades were scratched and dull, and Jack himself felt like an unsharpened edge, having spent far too many days with Donny and the other Blades.
He’d always appreciated their hideaway, but now that he was trapped in it, all he wanted to do was get out.
But there were posters of Jack Knife everywhere. They weren’t a bad likeness—perhaps even a bit flattering. But having his face plastered on half the lampposts in the city meant that if he dared to step outside the maze wearing his favorite jacket, he would have more than likely found himself wearing irons before he’d gone a single city block.
At first he’d considered the end of Eschaton and his mad plans a bit of a relief. Simply hearing about the boy and the metal man fused together into a single monster had given him nightmares for weeks. He could only imagine the full extent of horrors there would have been if Eschaton had managed to bring about the world he had been intent on building.
He was also, against all wisdom and common sense, proud to see that the man who had once called himself Anubis was now part of the Society of Steam. Seeing him succeed as Ra, despite their differences, gave a man hope, even if he had no real idea what he was supposed to do with it once he had it.
But he was tired of waiting, and as mad as Eschaton’s plans had been, for all their flaws, the Children of Eschaton had been a brotherhood. It had been good to feel that there was someone watching your back.
“Well, look what we have here,” said a voice in a familiar Irish brogue. “The skinny Brit is a woodcarver now! I never thought I’d see ya come to this.”
Jack swept up and around. The man was still Murphy, but if you didn’t already know his face he seemed like a different man. He’d been cleaned up: his beard was trimmed, his tattered clothes replaced by a fine suit. He leaned against a cherrywood cane. “Well look at you, all fine and dandy, ya damn Irishman,” Jack said.
The Bomb Lance nodded, raising a hand to the rim of his bowler hat and tipping it forward. “Thank ya kindly. It’s rare for me to get a compliment.”
“It’s still bloody miraculous you even survived.”
“I told you, Jack, it’s the planners who pay the price. We murderers always get away with it in the end.”
A few of the Blades had already begun to gather around, as eager as Jack for anything that might bring some interest to a dull day. Donny held out his hand, a smile on his gap-toothed face. “Mithter Murphy! It’th tho good to thee you!”
“You too, lad!” They clapped arms around each other and slapped backs like old friends.
“What bringth you here, thir?”
“Well, Donny, it’s funny you should ask.” Murphy looked over at Jack with a stare of importance. “I have a new boss now.”
“And who’s that?” Jack asked.
“Someone who’d like to bring a bit of mayhem back to this old city of ours.”
Donny’s smile grew wider. “That soundth amazing. We’ve been terribly bored thince Mr. Ethcaton died.”
Murphy winked at the boy. “I can only imagine.”
Jack shook his head. “New boss? I haven’t heard anything about him. Is it someone I should know?”
“Oh, I think you’re going to like her. She calls herself the Harlot.”
“A woman?” Jack said with surprise. Wasn’t it bad enough that it had been a woman who had defeated Eschaton? “And she’s sent you out to do her dirty work for her? Is that right?”
Jack felt something sharp prick him in the back. For an instant he thought he might have been skewered, but although the blade had broken the skin, whoever it was hadn’t gone a touch deeper than was needed to draw a drop of blood. “No,” said a woman’s voice in his ear. It was clearly Italian and slightly seductive. “This Harlot is capable of doing her own dirty work, especially where men like you are concerned.”
Jack felt the pressure leave his skin, and he turned around to see this new villain. She was impressive at first glance, dressed from head to toe in white crinoline and black lace. A string of wire-and-cloth roses formed a circlet around her head that held up a dark veil covering her face. He couldn’t see her clearly enough to tell whether she was beautiful or ugly underneath, but there was something hidden there. “A masked woman? Why don’t you show yourself?”
She laughed and lifted a fan. It clanked slightly as she opened it, and he could see that the razor-tipped edges were red with his blood. “We all have secrets, Jack. Some of us more than others.”
Jack felt anger rising in him. “And what plan do you have for us? Do you want to change the world, as well?”
“Nothing so bold. All I want to do today is rob a bank. Maybe get your men some better clothes.” She laughed and snapped the fan closed. The blood spattered against the cobblestones. “Changing the world can wait for a bit.”
Jack stared into her veil, trying to read the mystery. He’d already barely survived one madman’s scheme. For some reason, and despite what she said, he had a feeling that whatever this woman had in mind would be far worse. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“Everyone scorns the Harlot.” She gave a little laugh and took a twirl.
“Well,” he said, hopping down from the barrel, “I could use a new jacket. Someone just poked a hole in this one . . .”
Chapter 30: A Message from Above
CHAPTER 30
A MESSAGE FROM ABOVE
“Life is short,” Darby had once said to him. “And yet it is the nature of man to make it move faster all the time!” Gabriel smiled at the memory. He had travelled over the length and the breadth of the planet thousands of times now. Sunrises and sunsets occurred over and over again with surprising rapidity.
There was no air up here, and no ether. There was nothing but the dark and the light, and the Earth far below as he spun around it over and over again. The sunlight would glow inside of him, making him warm and alive. The darkness froze the steam in his veins, sending him back to sleep.
And below him all those people! All those lives! Darby had been right. It was obvious now. But the old man had also been impatient. He had wanted to do in a single lifetime what should have taken many. He had tried to fix the world, and instead spawned a creature bent on destroying it.
Gabriel wouldn’t die up here. His steam was slowly running out, but he would simply sleep in the cold and quiet. The part of him that was machine would survive until mankind was ready.
One day they would break the shackles of the planet that held them. They would rise up on a column of smoke and steam to find him waiting.
And he would be there for them, ready to help them remake the world.
Acknowledgments
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s been five years since I first began my journey with these characters, and the story of my own life over the two years since the first book came out has seemed almost as epic, although blissfully devoid of supervillains. But even without a superpowered nemesis, nothing in my life has been as constantly challenging as finally telling the origin of the Society of Steam.
And for those of you who are tempted to write a trilogy as your first series, remember that it won’t be until the third book that you’re supposed to be writing an ending.
You can’t take any epic journey without great companions, and having recently discovered that gratitude is an antidote to fear, I’m going to unleash a big dose of thanks to those who made this last book possible:
Lou Anders, who made it all possible.
The Pyr graduating class of 2012: Clay & Susan Griffith, Sam Sykes, Jon Sprunk, Lisa Kay Michalski, Meghan Quinn.
Gabrielle Harbowy, for knowing me well enough to smother 4,000 words in their sleep and make a stronger book for it.
Jenny Cullum, who has willingly taken on the job of officially saving my ass on a daily basis.
My bestest friend, Ken Levine, who will probably never read this book, but helped me with it anyway.
Ted Naifeh, who is always generous and patient as long as he can compare everything to Batman.
Ken Vollmer, who read the whole damn thing when it wasn’t ready to read, and then told me what parts needed fixing.
Ashley Murphree, who taught me that life is a river, and we fish gotz to swim right meow.
Rosanna Scimeca, who is way too talented, so she went to New York.
Joan Bowlen, who broke my heart precisely along its fault lines, and then stuck around for the aftermath.
Chris Bennett, who is always willing to chat.
Peter Zimmerman, who continues to help me discover the joy of new music. Also Fleetwood Mac, for some reason.
Douglas Rushkoff, who has always enjoyed my non-Euclidian view of the universe and has always told me to just write.
Nicholas Stohlman, who is not only a ridiculously talented artist, but is willing to share.
Shanna Germain, who manages to bring class and poise to anything and everything she touches.
Jonathon Swerdloff, who advises me on matters of the heart and agrees with me on almost nothing else.
Laurenn McCubbin, who never calls me first, but who I know still loves me.
Doctor Barbara Killian, who isn’t afraid to put her medical skills to work in strange places.
Bruce Scanlon, who will be reaching enlightenment any day now, and Kathy Guidi who is closer than she thinks.
If I missed you, and you deserved to be in here, I apologize.
And thanks to everyone who has followed me this far. I hope you enjoyed the grand finale.
Andrew Mayer
San Francisco, October 2012
About the Author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANDREW P. MAYER currently lives high atop Potrero Hill in San Francisco, California, where he often stares out across the city and wonders just how it is that he ended up back here.
When he isn’t dreaming up new worlds of his own, he works as a digital media strategist, helping people to create and re-create their virtual realities.
He has also recently started to play his ukulele again. People of the planet Earth, beware!
Table of Contents
Full Title Page
Frontispiece
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1. Spiritus Sanctus
Chapter 2. A Walk in the Park
Chapter 3. In Gratitude
Chapter 4. Under a Dark Cloud
Chapter 5: The Body of a Man
Chapter 6: The Transformation of Fear
Chapter 7: The Heart Should Be Home
Chapter 8: Manifesting the Unwanted
Chapter 9: The Mechanics of Emotion
Chapter 10: Up the River
Chapter 11: Iron and Glass
Chapter 12: Roundheels
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Chapter 13: Mistrials and Tribulations
Chapter 14: All Turns to Ruin
Chapter 15: A Final Judgment
Chapter 16: Destiny, Delivered
Chapter 17: The Impossibility of Flight
Chapter 18: Steeling the Flesh
Chapter 19: Brothers and Sisters
Chapter 20: Declarations of Lust
Chapter 21: Shaking the Foundations
Chapter 22: A Confrontation of Opposites
Chapter 23: No Joy in Revenge
Chapter 24: Sibling Rivalry
Chapter 25: Purification
Chapter 26: The End of the World
Chapter 27: A Short Evolution
Chapter 28: For the People!
Chapter 29: The Society of Smoke
Chapter 30: A Message from Above
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover