“And if the Bomb Lance had managed to successfully destroy Tom that morning on the bridge…”
Wickham finished her thought. “…Then whoever took it would have the only Automaton in existence.”
“They still have everything they need to make another.”
“No, they wouldn't,” Tom interjected. “The…Alpha Element around…Sir Dennis's neck didn't work.”
“I don't understand,” said Sarah.
“Tom is right.” Wickham turned to her. “Sir Dennis only wore that key as a reminder of the humility and the hard work he believed were necessary to succeed. The first prototype of the Alpha Element was a total failure.”
“What was wrong with it?”
Tom answered. “Sir Dennis never discovered the reason. In every way it was the functional…twin of the two that came after it.”
Wickham continued. “When it failed to create fortified steam, Dennis was devastated. Theoretically it was perfect—his math was impeccable—but it just didn't do anything. He thought there was a mistake in his theories. He spent several months searching through his equations, hoping to find the error, but it all worked out perfectly on the page.”
“So what did he do?” Sarah asked.
“If at first you don't succeed…He tried again.”
“And it worked?”
“Perfectly.” Wickham nodded. “That second one lives inside Tom's heart now.”
Sarah smiled. “Whoever wanted the key, and stole Tom's body, is going to be very disappointed when they discover it's useless.”
“Even more disappointed than Dennis was, I'd gather.” Wickham smiled slightly. “There are only three in the world. I've told the others that the main one, the one that I'm wearing, was hidden by Sir Dennis, and that we have yet to find it.”
Sarah felt shocked and thrilled at the same time. “You lied to the Paragons? All of them?”
“Right now, no one but you and Tom knows that I have this key, and it needs to remain that way. So as I said before, I am trusting you with a great deal.”
“But why lie to them? To my father?”
“Because if anyone still needs the Alpha Element, I want to make sure there's only one place they can find it.” He looked over to the Automaton. “I'm sorry for making you a target, Tom.”
“No need to apologize…Mr. Wickham.”
“But this news about your missing body is most distressing. I was reasonably sure you were safe down here. Now it has suddenly become very likely that whoever the thief was, he is also a member of the Paragons, and if that's true, we're all in a great deal more trouble than I thought.”
Alexander Stanton listened to the dying echo of his own voice, the final syllables ringing off of the mirrored interior of the stepped ceiling that led up to the roof and projected light in the chamber. Waiting for just a moment, he solemnly flipped over the last sheet of Darby's final testament and placed it facedown onto the top of the rest.
Quietly he picked up the water glass in front of him, took a long sip, and then placed it down onto the granite tabletop before speaking. “My fellow Paragons, it should be obvious to all of us that Sir Dennis harbored a radically different vision for the future of our organization than we had thought possible. He was, as we know, a man of infinite vision and blinding intelligence.” He looked at each of the other three men in the room in turn, holding his gaze on each of them until he was sure it was returned. “So rather than simply rejecting his request outright, I would suggest that we all take a moment to reflect on what he has asked of us, and organize our thoughts before moving forward together to decide on the future of the Society of Paragons.”
The meeting table they all sat around was a massive stone ring carved from a single slab of polished white granite. It was four inches thick and twenty feet across from side to side at any point. Inlaid into the surface were copper lines radiating outward to form a sunburst. And circling the four-foot hole at the table's center in gold block type was the motto of the Paragons: “To Protect Those Who Cannot Protect Themselves.”
Each of the men had been given a seat that reflected his chosen identity as a Paragon. Stanton sat at the head of the table on an ornate wooden chair covered in gold leaf. Carved smokestacks made up the arms and legs.
Alexander watched the faces of the other men in the room as they continued to work their thoughts around the full weight of what they had just heard. Even Grüsser, who had started out so eager to rush through the last words of their departed leader, now seemed at a loss. His jowls hung down from his gaping mouth, making him appear even more like a confused and hungry bulldog than he usually did.
Behind Alexander was a three-foot-tall marble dais built of three concentric rings of white stone. Bolted to the top of it was a chair constructed from wrought iron. It was black and skeletal, with a series of bronze spikes radiating in a semicircle out of the back of it like the rays of the sun.
Behind it, a metal rod rose straight up from the marble, ascending a few feet over the top of the chair before it bent at almost ninety degrees. At the end of it was a laurel wreath cast in pure gold. It hovered high enough above the chair that any man sitting in it would find the crown floating above his head like a halo. It was intended to define the leader's chair as a symbol of power that a man could occupy, but never own.
It had, since its construction, been Darby's seat, and it had remained empty since his death. The time had come to find someone else to fill it.
Stanton knew that Sir Dennis was prone to fits of idealism, but Darby had also been a man of wisdom and pragmatism. It had driven him to figure out the most practical way of achieving the impossible. How could the old fool have ever expected the rest of them to do anything but reject the choice of the Automaton for his successor?
The estate lawyer had delivered the will to him on the day after the funeral. When Alexander had finished reading it he had shaken the envelope it had been delivered in, hoping to find a secret message hidden inside.
He was convinced there was something else—perhaps a ruse to outwit his enemies. But if that were the case, and Darby had actually been one step ahead of whomever it was who wanted him dead, then the old man would still be alive, and there would have been no need for a will at all.
Stanton assumed that Wickham had read it previously as well. When the Sleuth had wandered off in the middle of his reading, he was sure of it.
It was possible he had even helped with the writing of it. The old Englishman had always been one of Sir Dennis's closest friends and greatest supporters, and there were rumors that what existed between them was more than just a platonic friendship. Neither of them had ever married, or really interacted with women in a serious manner outside of an ardent circle of older female admirers who would invite them around to tell their stories over tea and petit fours. He hoped it wouldn't come to it, but even the implication of impropriety was a useful tool, if it ever came to that.
“Ridiculous,” Bill Hughes roared as he broke the silence. “He can't have been serious.”
Stanton nodded in agreement. “It's no joke, Iron-Clad.”
Hughes's seat was unlike the rest. The fingers of his right hand cupped a large brass knob that poked straight up from the arm of his massive oak chair. He pulled it toward him until it made a soft click, and an instant later the gears and springs housed around the axle jumped into life, turning the wheels on either side of him and rolling him away from the table with a wooden creak so sharp it almost sounded like a screech. “It's pure garbage. And it won't happen! Not while I'm here.” He rose his left hand up in front of him and gave it a shake to drive home his point. But these days Hughes's hands shook most of the time, no matter what mood he was in.
Stanton couldn't help feeling sorry for the man. Ten years ago, when he had first become the Iron-Clad, he had been a veritable ox: six feet tall, broad shouldered, piercing gray eyes, his face completely framed by a mane of fiery red hair. A man who could practically knock someone over simply with
the aura of strength he projected. And whatever his will couldn't move, the mighty Iron-Clad armor would clear out of the way.
As recently as a month ago he had still been able to gather together enough willpower to rise up from his chair and show the world that he was capable of being that stunning figure again, if only for a little while. He had managed to stand for almost the entire funeral.
But the days where he could still gain the upper hand against the disease that was wasting him away were almost gone now. His withering muscles were slowly, but irrevocably, turning his massive size against him.
Now it was almost impossible for him to even pretend that he was anything but a prisoner of his chair. Every single movement was obviously an agonizing effort, and he could only stand for a few minutes at a time before he slumped back down into the mechanized seat that Darby had constructed for him. The strain was rapidly aging him, and his fiery red hair and beard were streaked with lines of gray.
Stanton wondered if Hughes ever considered the cruel joke that it was the same man who had been responsible for creating the armor that gave him the power of ten men who had also built him a chair that allowed him to act with barely the power of one.
Out of the corner of his eye Alexander saw Nathaniel rise up from his slouch. “May I take a look at those papers, Industrialist?” Turbine's chair had been carved to make it look like he sat on four columns of rising smoke with an angel at the top of each one, their arms stretched toward the heavens.
“Of course, Turbine.” Alexander picked up the pages, straightening the short stack by tapping it against the table a few times before he handed it over.
The nonfunctional “dress” version of the Turbine costume that Nathaniel wore was an off-white sweater with matching breeches. It was far more lightweight than the woolen body stocking that Darby had given him to wear when he was using his flying apparatus. It also lacked the interwoven metal threads that sparkled in the sunlight when the Turbine flew through the air, but the cut was definitely dashing.
Nathaniel's actual “flight jacket” hung heavily over a tall crossbar on the back of his chair. Cut from layers of asbestos and wool, there were dark streaks down the back of it where the column of fortified steam from his flying apparatus had soiled it. Stanton had told him that he would be glad to pay to have a similar-looking jacket constructed from lighter material, but Nathaniel had told him that he liked the authority he felt he gained from wearing the real thing.
Stanton rose up from his chair, the leather of his costume creaking slightly as it shifted around him. Perhaps his dresser was right—maybe he had started to gain a little weight recently. And grief could turn a man to skin and bones, or expand the waistline rapidly. If his sorrow had to choose a form he would rather it was the former, but it seemed the latter would be the outcome of the pain he felt from Darby's loss. All the responsibility that had been thrust upon his shoulders had driven him to consume more strong drink and rich food.
Less than a year ago he had still been the head of a major railroad. He couldn't begin to imagine how all this would have affected him if he had still had that to deal with.
It was obvious that selling off his shares in the company had been the right thing to do, but he missed the work terribly. As Alexander Stanton he had felt both comfortable and useful in his offices in Brooklyn. There were days when there seemed to be no problem he couldn't solve from that room. Crisis after crisis had reared their ugly heads, and he had smacked them all down. When he sold it, his railroad ran almost the length of Long Island.
But even before Darby's death the mantle of being the Industrialist had taken up a great deal of his time, and it was getting harder and harder to make excuses for his life as “The man whose gears grind for justice!”
And now, without a leader, the city was vulnerable to anyone who might decide to attack. And whoever it was who had killed Darby was still out there, waiting to strike again. Villains always had plans, and this plan was clearly far from over.
Nathaniel started to mumble out loud as he read the damning paragraphs over again. He spoke softly at first, but soon enough the mumbling gave way to coherent speech. “‘After his heart has been fully installed into the new body that I have prepared for him, I request that the Automaton replace me as the leader of the Paragons.’” Nathaniel shook his head. “‘This may seem like an outlandish request, but he will be a benign and logical authority, unswayed by the passions, jealousies, and other petty emotions that might cause weaker men to abuse the power that we have amassed here.’”
Hughes sneered. “If we made a damn machine the leader of the Paragons, we'd be a laughingstock.” His voice was stronger than usual, although the progress of his disease had let some of the more uncivilized tones of his younger days creep back into his speech, undoing the work of half a lifetime of elocution lessons. “It just don't…doesn't make any sense.”
“Ja ja.” Grüsser harrumphed. “I zink ve can all agree zat ve will not be making der Automaton our new leader.”
Nathaniel flipped back and forth between the pages of the speech, squinting at each word as if it might change to reveal its secrets. He looked up at Alexander. “Is this the original?”
Stanton shook his head. “A copy, made by my assistants.”
“And you're sure this is what he wrote?” He held up the pages. “Word for word?”
He nodded. “Word for word.” That was a lie, of course. “The people working for me never make more than a single mistake.” And that was the truth. They always did exactly as they were told.
Stanton hoped that these events would finally force Nathaniel to grow up and shed what remained of the dewy righteousness of youth.
Like the naïve forthrightness that his daughter Sarah clung to so desperately, his stepson still held onto the hope that somewhere beyond the calculus of human greed and raw desire lay a simple truth—an ultimate good worth fighting and dying for without compromise. Stanton imagined that Darby's death, along with the thick scar forming on the boy's thigh, had been the first clear message that the world would never be that black and white.
Helmut Grüsser leaned back in his seat, stroking his waxed mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “So, Herr Stanton, ze matter of fact remains zat despite der most unusual vishes of our departed founder, vone of us must now be chosen as der new leader. Und I assume zat you sink dat der most qualified person for zat job ist you.”
Stanton tried to hold back the sudden flush of anger that rose up like acid from his gut. Grüsser had plenty of bad habits, but blurting out things in inappropriately plain language at inopportune times was one of his worst, and most reliable. “I'd be happy, Submersible, to become the new leader of the Paragons—if that's what we decide…together.” The man's brutal and impolitic directness was clearly a large part of the reason he was wearing a ridiculous costume at this table in Manhattan, rather than sitting as a powerful lord back in Prussia. Not a bad consolation, perhaps, but a step down nonetheless.
“I only say vat it is ve are all zinking.” The little German popped up from his chair and then clicked his heels together. “You have my vote, Herr Stan…Industrialist. You vill be a fine leader.” He collapsed back into his seat.
Nathaniel put the papers down and was opening his mouth to respond when he was cut off with a dull smack as the flat of Hughes's hand slapped down onto the polished white granite of the table. “Damn it, Submersible, we haven't called for a vote yet! And where the hell is Wickham?” The man could still make noise when he wanted to, despite his infirmities.
Now that both Grüsser and Hughes had mentioned the vote this matter needed to end quickly. “Off solving another mystery, no doubt,” Alexander said.
The Sleuth's clear tones floated across the hall. “On the contrary, my dear Mr. Stanton, I'm afraid I'm discovering far more mysteries than I've even begun to solve.”
“It's so very nice of you to take off some time from conjurin’ up conspiracies to actually join us,” Hughes gru
mbled. “After all, we're only about to figure out the future of the Society of Paragons.”
The Englishman pulled out his chair and leaned his hands on the large eye that made up the back of it. “And am I correct in supposing you've decided that Sir Dennis Darby's last wishes are not to be respected?”
The moment of confrontation that Alexander had long been expecting had finally arrived. He didn't look forward to these power struggles; he never had. But as he had said numerous times to his staff, disagreement is always the first step in the art of negotiation. “And I suppose you've arrived just in time to tell us why we should make the Automaton our new leader?”
Wickham slid into his seat with a single smooth motion. “You may believe that he went mad in the end, but I think that we never went far wrong following Darby's vision while he lived.”
Hughes jumped in. “If the old man went a little bit crazy, well, it happens to everyone, eventually. But that doesn't mean we're gonna hand over the Paragons to his favorite toy.”
The Englishman dropped his cane onto the table, letting it clatter as it bounced across the polished stone. “I'm just wondering if it isn't worth actually having an honest discussion about what Darby's intent for us might have been, rather than just dismissing it outright.”
Nathaniel's voice was low and sharp. “The Automaton is an object. A thing. Do you think it actually cares about us?”
A look of shock crossed the Sleuth's face. “You can't be serious, my boy. Tom saved your life up on that bridge. He's saved all our lives at one time or another.”
“A gun or a knife would have saved me, too,” Nathaniel said with a sneer, “but we're not talking about making a revolver our new leader. Men use machines, not the other way around.”
“Now now, I—”
“Let me speak!” Nathaniel's voice grew louder. “That thing practically tore my leg off trying to ‘free’ me. It's lucky I can still walk at all!” He stared straight into Wickham's eyes for a moment. “And I'm not a ‘boy’ anymore, Wickham.”
The Falling Machine Page 8