Gossamer Wing

by Delphine Dryden

  “I don’t feel anything,” Martin informed him. “No click. No burning or pain. Seven years is a long time, Dubois, do you think your mechanism is rusty?”

  Kicking and thrashing, his eyes starting to bulge, Dubois slapped the device flat onto Martin’s chest and pounded his meaty fist against it. He dropped the thing with a clatter when Martin raised his hand to flip the forearm switch yet again, triggering the springs that clamped his claw down to a tight, irregular cylinder of diameter much smaller than the throat of a portly man.

  I should have made it last longer, he thought as Dubois’s twitching slowed to a halt. Blood washed from the ruined neck over Martin’s hand, and he let it die down to a trickle before he released the clamps and stepped away.

  The deadly calm was fading, a faint twinge of nausea rising in its place. Martin used a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the blood from the smooth surfaces of his arm before putting his coat back on and stepping out into the vestibule.

  Marguerite glanced at his hand, then quickly away. “I’m going out to have a smoke in the park with one of the other secretaries. I’ll be gone about fifteen minutes.”

  Martin nodded, and the girl rushed away, leaving him to exit the building unobserved.

  His mind whirled, flooding with possibilities for his next step. He had done it, he was free, but what now? It occurred to Martin that part of him never believed Dubois was bluffing. Some shred of doubt always remained, keeping him from planning too far ahead lest he suffer more disappointment.

  The weather seemed to have changed while he was inside, Martin noted as he stepped out into the open air. In the morning it had been quite cool and mild, but now he felt overheated. A sweat had broken out on his face. He strolled away from the building, hands hidden deep in his coat pockets, trying to ignore the sensation of dread that had taken root in his chest.

  A surgeon-engineer, he thought. Just in case, I should find one. A surgeon-engineer, or else a very good makesmith.

  Nineteen

  HONFLEUR, FRANCE, AND ATLANTIS STATION, BENEATH THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

  CHARLOTTE WANDERED THE cobbled lanes of Honfleur, charmed by the picturesque town’s transformation. She and Dexter had returned just in time for a festival, it seemed.

  “Is it really almost Whit Sunday?” Dexter had asked as they stared, bemused, at the colorful gauze and flower garlands festooning an ancient archway near a prominent church. “It doesn’t seem like Easter was that long ago.”

  “A lot has happened since then,” Charlotte pointed out.

  She had far too much time over the next several days to consider all that had happened. After another half-hearted attempt at conquering her fear of the claustrophobic submersible, she admitted defeat and returned to championing various uses of the Gossamer Wing to anyone who would listen. Two days later, Murcheson kindly suggested she might benefit from some fresh air and relaxation, and Charlotte reluctantly left the station and returned to Honfleur.

  More than anything else that had happened, the increasing awareness that her whole mission had been precipitated by a series of lies and misunderstandings depressed Charlotte. None of it had been true, all the way back to the British bluff about having a working doomsday device. True, it had won them the war. But the treaty, the peace, all she had done in France, even Reginald’s death, all of it was premised on falsehoods. Real people, people who thought they were doing the right thing, had died over this information but it had all been a game of grown-up make-believe.

  Around and around her thoughts raced, and when they weren’t chasing after Dubois and the bomb that never was and all that implied, they were circling her relationship with Dexter. She reviewed each encounter, all her words, until she was so tired of thinking about it all she felt like screaming.

  Dexter crept into the suite for a few hours each night, trying not wake her as he collapsed on the sitting room sofa, exhausted. By breakfast he would be gone, back at the station, his mind fully occupied with his . . . photophoroseismochorinator.

  “Multi-hyalchordate Phototransphorinating Seismograph,” Dexter repeated patiently when she asked him about his progress on one of the rare occasions she encountered him long enough to converse. “Hardison’s Multi-hyalchordate Phototransphorinating Seismograph. And it’s going quite well, thank you. We’ve finished laying the glass cables and calibrating the mercury triggers to respond to any minute seismic activity. Now it’s just a matter of making sure the central sensors light up when they’re supposed to.”

  She felt redundant. Murcheson refused to let her take the Gossamer Wing up anymore, and in any case it was ruined for daytime flight by the dye. COULD MYSTERY BALLOON BE THE WORLD’S SMALLEST MANNED DIRIGIBLE? asked the newspapers.

  There had been no further hint of threat from Coeur de Fer or Dubois. Murcheson had sequestered himself in the station. He had been unable to pin the steam-car attack on Dubois as yet, but firmly believed Dubois was responsible. He considered the attempt proof that Dubois knew of his role with the Agency, and wanted him out of the way to facilitate whatever nefarious political move he and Gendreau had planned. Charlotte simply didn’t believe Dubois had ever taken any action on behalf of a greater ideal than his own profit margin, but she had no hard evidence to support her feeling in the matter. She thought Dubois had tried to kill Murcheson, and nearly killed her and Dexter instead, over business, and resented it because that was a circumstance she had never signed on for.

  Murcheson discounted her opinion on the matter out of hand, and his refusal to even consider it wearied Charlotte at first. Finally she pushed past the point of disillusionment and into a kind of fatal humor at the absurdity of it all, at Murcheson’s insistence that his trouble was the Crown’s trouble. She liked him, respected him still, but Charlotte finally accepted that the life-and-death make-believe hadn’t ended with the war, and would probably never end. It was the only way people like her father and Murcheson knew how to operate. They would keep this secret war going forever.

  Charlotte realized, then and there, that it didn’t necessarily have to be her secret war. Not anymore. She had a choice.

  She had a future in which to make it. And for the first time in years, that future rose up before her as an opportunity, rather than a duty.

  To her surprise, once she’d had this epiphany, Charlotte found herself beginning to enjoy the town and the enforced relaxation.

  Sipping bitter Turkish coffee and enjoying the salty afternoon breeze off the estuary, Charlotte sat outside an old half-timbered building and watched the meticulously detailed model boats bob along the water. A choir was singing traditional French sea shanties somewhere nearby, and families wandered past on their way home from the festival, exhausted children carrying buckets of shrimp they’d spent the day catching.

  Holiday, she finally realized. I’m on holiday.

  Her last holiday had been her first honeymoon, so she forgave herself for not recognizing it sooner. This was nothing like that trip, or even like her voyage to France with Dexter, all tension and anticipation. This reminded her more of her unplanned day in the countryside, when her soul seemed to calm once she resigned herself to the fact she had nothing to do but wait. She had done all she could.

  Charlotte saw the delivery boy bringing the evening paper to the newsstand down the street and abandoned her table only long enough to buy one and return. She flipped it open, and her jaw dropped as she translated the headline. The mystery airship had been forgotten, shoved aside by a more newsworthy story:

  ROLAND DUBOIS MURDERED! the paper blared. WEALTHY INDUSTRIALIST STRANGLED BY MYSTERIOUS ASSAILANT IN BRUTAL DAYLIGHT ATTACK.

  The police, it seemed, had named no suspects yet. Charlotte suspected immediately who the murderer was, but thought it unlikely the police would ever apprehend him unless French intelligence willed it so. Perhaps she and Dexter had been wrong and Coeur de Fer had never stopped working for the Égalité
French, after all. Or perhaps, after years serving the execrable Dubois, he had undergone a change of heart and done away with the villain.

  So that was it. Whether Murcheson was right or not, whether Dubois had been plotting with Gendreau to build a doomsday device and take over France or not, it didn’t matter anymore. Either way, Charlotte accepted, her part in the intrigue was over.

  * * *

  MARTIN’S HEAD THROBBED in time with his heartbeats. The fever that had plagued him on and off for days seemed to have taken permanent hold now. Even when chills overtook him and sweat poured from his face he could feel the heat, only banked, never extinguished, always ready to return even hotter than before.

  Still, it could be an infection. It could be something treatable, removable. He’d been nearly as sick at least twice before as his body reacted to the metals and other foreign substances attached to it during the implant process. He was lucky, he knew, that the arm had lasted as long as it had, that it hadn’t rotted off entirely as often happened with such extensive implants after a few years. Martin’s body seemed uniquely amenable to the grafting, but even he had suffered from it on occasion.

  The fever is making you stupid, he warned himself. He was still determined to follow through with his recent decision. A surgeon-engineer could take the arm off, but a highly skilled makesmith might be able to locate the poison vial within the workings. Failing that, a makesmith could still perform an amputation if he had to. Without the arm, the poison vial would be no danger, the infection would heal. So Martin’s overheated brain insisted, ignoring the quiet voice that said the vial might be anywhere in his body, even inside his skull with the ear implant . . . or the poison might have spread too far to stop it now, no matter where the vial was.

  No, it must be the arm. Take the poison out, even if it meant taking the whole arm off, and the world would be right again. His nightmare could actually end. Dubois was dead, and the secretary’s delay in “finding” the body had been sufficient to help Martin escape detection. He could be free. He could even make a life.

  You’re already dead, that maddening little voice whispered, but Martin doggedly continued down the corridor of the hotel, leaning on the maid’s cart for support as he pushed it before him. The maid would never miss it, because he had made sure to take it at a time when the housekeeping rounds were well over for the day.

  A convenient corner in the hallway would provide him all the cover he needed to await the Makesmith Baron’s return, because the man was obviously no agent and would never think to scan the entire hall before approaching his room. Martin had been watching him come and go from Murcheson’s factory for three solid days now, and knew Hardison would also be tired and off guard when he returned from whatever he was doing there. Martin no longer even cared what that was.

  He would take Hardison to the place he’d prepared, convince him to remove the arm, and then kill him. One final life taken, to save Martin’s own. It would be simple, and Martin reassured himself he would be up to it despite his weakened state, as long as Hardison obliged by being tired and inattentive at the crucial moment.

  * * *

  DEXTER RUBBED HIS eyes, leaning against the back of the lift gratefully as it rose. The attendant smiled politely then ignored him as usual. Dexter was glad for any silence that didn’t result from a room full of people waiting for his next instruction.

  The project was thrilling, captivating, but after four . . . five? . . . days of nearly nonstop work, he was too drained to continue without a decent night’s sleep and a large, uninterrupted meal.

  He wondered, as he stepped from the lift, whether Charlotte would be in the suite, and whether she would be glad to see him so early in the evening.

  Relatively early, he amended. It was almost nine o’clock, but perhaps they might still have time to share dessert. Dexter tried not to think beyond that but he was tired, not dead. He hadn’t really intended to neglect her entirely these past few days, but his work at the station simply hadn’t allowed him the time to see Charlotte or talk with her, much less attempt anything more intimate. When their paths did cross for a few minutes they were increasingly polite with one another, and he could feel the wedge slipping between them as though it were a physical object.

  He had made such a mess of things with Charlotte, but they would be returning to the Dominions soon. Her work for Murcheson seemed to have concluded. The danger was over. Perhaps it was time to broach a discussion of the future, even if she had rebuffed his previous attempts? Even if it wasn’t time for that, he still wanted her. That much hadn’t changed, and he wasn’t above attempting to take advantage of the situation during their last few days in France.

  Dexter had to laugh at his own presumption as he fumbled for his key. He was so sleepy already he could barely keep his eyes open to find his way to the room; he’d probably be lucky to make it through dinner, never mind an attempt at seduction.

  The maid’s cart squeaked behind Dexter and he sped up his search so he could clear the corridor and let her by. He patted his pockets one at a time until he finally located the key. As he lifted it from his pocket in triumph something pricked the back of his neck, making him flinch and slap at the sting.

  His last thought as he crumpled over, falling into the cart that seemed to have positioned itself to catch him, was to wonder why he hadn’t just knocked on the door so Charlotte could let him in.

  * * *

  THE CLOCK ON the sitting room mantel stood at two minutes to nine. Charlotte sighed in irritation at the noise in the hallway, the squeaking of the cart and the clumsy thumping as the housekeeper fussed with her equipment. After a moment the wheels squeaked away, however, presumably making toward the end of the hall where a corner and an alcove hid the entrance to the service lift.

  Nine o’clock.

  Charlotte tried to focus on the horrid novel she was reading while she waited for Dexter’s return, but something bothered her into looking at the clock once more.

  It’s nine o’clock.

  The maids don’t service the rooms at nine o’cl—

  She ran to the door, yanking it open to an empty hallway. A few steps away and around the corner, she saw the service lift was already in use. No maid or cart was visible anywhere in the corridor.

  Charlotte dashed back to the suite, missing the hint of brass on the colorful oriental runner. Her bare toe struck something, however, and she looked down as the object skittered into the baseboard with a tiny metallic chink.

  A key. Their room key. Dexter’s room key.

  “Dexter!”

  She ran for the window to signal Murcheson’s men, blood rushing in her ears even louder than the ocean.

  * * *

  MARTIN CRANKED THE window down, his need for fresh air trumping his fear of a passerby overhearing a sound from his unwilling passenger.

  “I knew you would tax my supply of tranquilizers,” he said hoarsely.

  Dexter grunted through the gag, and Martin felt the steam car jolt as the large American tried to kick his way out of his bonds.

  “I’m very good at knots, my friend. Try all you like. Brute force is not going to help you here.”

  Another series of grunts. It sounded as though the rat was attempting to scold him around the gag.

  Martin chuckled, feeling better than he had in days. He felt purposeful, in control, even hopeful.

  Febrile euphoria.

  Whatever the reason, he appreciated the respite from heat and pain and despair. He had fully convinced himself, in the days since Dubois’s death, that he was not in fact ready to die. Feeling so close to death was unsettling.

  Martin’s imagination ran over the events of Dubois’s last moments, lingering on the way the man’s stubby fingers had pushed the button on his triggering device over and over. Nothing happened.

  The blare of a horn made him jerk his head up, and he yanked the wheel to correct t
he steam car’s course across the narrow bridge. He had been inches from sliding into oncoming traffic.

  A whimper from behind him assured him that his passenger had noticed the lapse in attention as well.

  “Sorry, my friend. I am not as well as I might be. But you can help me with that, and soon I will be better than ever.”

  * * *

  “CAN’T YOU MAKE this thing go any faster?”

  Charlotte clutched the seat in front of her, urging the driver to push his own limits as well as those of the steam car. Bad enough they were not following Dexter and his abductor, they didn’t need to drag their feet not doing it.

  “You’ll report here,” Murcheson had ordered when Charlotte and the two agents outside the hotel notified him. He’d stated in no uncertain terms that only one of the agents was to follow Coeur de Fer, while the other was to bring Charlotte directly to Atlantis Station for further instructions.

  Charlotte knew a team was already being assembled, and that the trailing agent would radio Murcheson with whatever information he could. She still would have rather gone after Dexter herself, instead of arriving in the second wave.

  The agent watching the front entrance of the hotel had seen Charlotte’s frantic signal with a hand torch at the window, and met her in the lobby as she reached the bottom of the stairs, practically flying down the last flight. They joined the agent in the rear of the building just in time to see Coeur de Fer drive away, traveling around the corner from a side street in a steam car.

  The second agent hadn’t paid attention to the unattractive maid with the laundry cart, naturally. He hadn’t seen Coeur de Fer put Dexter into the steam car, but the key and the abandoned cart suggested an abduction. The radio was fired up and Murcheson contacted as the first agent lit out in pursuit of Jacques Martin.

  Charlotte had thrown off her dressing gown and pulled on the most practical garments she could find in a hurry, a pair of the new breeches in a soft fawn, some short walking boots, a simple linen shirt cut like a man’s and the white leather jacket she’d once worn to pilot the Gossamer Wing. She’d neglected a hat, and her hair was still in the long braid she wore it in for sleeping.