Tesla's Revenge

by Renee Sebastian

  “Sirs, why do you believe there is, as you say, a new type of deader?” I asked. There were two types of the undead. The first was a true deader, created by a Necromancer. They were fast, intelligent, and very dangerous. People with magic in their blood, called Users, could be made into deaders. However, by contrast the people without any magic, nicknamed Ordinaries by us Users, could be made into a revenant, commonly known as a zombie. They were mindless, slow, and difficult to control, not to mention they were prone to rapid deterioration. The latter was only dangerous en mass. The former, however, was deadly with a controlled intelligence. They also maintained their bodies considerably longer.

  “Miss Darling, these risen dead don't appear to be controlled by anyone, yet seem to be intelligent enough to linger near loved ones. Miraculously, they don't appear to be exhibiting the same kind of preference in diet that the usual dead suffer from.”

  “Maybe they were not newly raised at all, but rather are near the end of their duration?” Mr. Grey offered.

  Mr. Van Moot continued, “Possibly. We suspect this to be some sort of new aberration President Edison has provided for our amusement. Regardless, we must investigate.”

  Mr. Harbuck said, “In addition, a suitcase has been retrieved from the general vicinity of the outbreak and due to its contents, we have reason to believe Tesla is alive.”

  “The Nikola Tesla?” I asked.

  Mr. Remington took over and said, “Indeed. He may very well be an immortal, if our in house agent’s report of the contents is correct. Tesla would be an invaluable asset to S.O.A.R. If you discover his whereabouts and are able to share words with him, it would be of the utmost importance that you try and recruit him for S.O.A.R. This case is considered a priority within the organization.” He gave me a lewd scowl and then continued, “You both know very well the dangers of being an immortal in this day and age within the Edison dynasty.”

  Dorian asked, “What were the contents of the suit case?”

  “We were able to retrieve several jars that are fully connectible to an AC power source. Who else besides Tesla would have imagined using such a device as this?” Which was entirely logical since all the industrialized nations had made the use of AC power illegal for nearly two centuries?

  Mr. Harbuck got a dreamy look in his face and added, “We feel that this may somehow be connected to how he has kept himself alive all these years.”

  Mr. Van Moot said, “We have several first hand reports of the newly risen that we will provide you to review during your journey. Your departure time is in approximately one hour. You may utilize any of the resources that S.O.A.R. has to offer you that you didn't bring yourselves.” He sneered at my plain and common looking carpetbags.

  “Sirs, with all due respect, this is not the usual wet assignment I am usually brought in for.”

  Mr. Remington added, “Yes, yes, we are fully aware of your qualifications, Miss Darling. We feel strongly that both of your respective special abilities and qualifications would make the perfect team to investigate both objectives, both the outbreak and Tesla. On this, we are all agreed upon then. Both of you are integral for this mission. We need quality officers in the field handling this.”

  Then he looked pointedly at me and said, “Both of you will collaborate and work as a team on this endeavor.” He must have seen my obvious distaste of working with a partner written across my face, because before I could protest, he said, “Miss Darling, your continued assistance with S.O.A.R., means your continued protection from the government.” Then he leveled his gaze heavily at both of us. Mr. Grey nodded once.

  I stated quietly, “I work alone.”

  Mr. Harbuck said, “I understand your reservations Miss Darling, in regards to your last partner, but in this case, due to its sensitive nature, we need a male counterpart. You will be accompanying Sir Grey on this assignment. So unless you are prepared to report your existence directly to President Edison, in person I might add, you will be going to Westington with Sir Grey to investigate.”

  I thought over my options. I could go into hiding and have myself become the objective of some other agent to exterminate. I could leave the country and start over again, but in truth, I had grown to love this America. It was a much better place for a woman to live in, rather than New India or even Britannia. Reporting in to the government was suicide for me now, because if they didn't kill me, outright, I would probably wish myself dead. What was one assignment with a well-dressed, annoying toff?

  Mr. Remington must have seen the resignation in my face, because he smiled like a shark and said, “Who knows, this may be the start of a great and permanent partnership at S.O.A.R.”

  I bit my cheek to prevent a retort and simply nodded my head in false compliance.

  Chapter 3

  Cyclocranes

  “Everything has its proper place.”

  -Wendy Darling

  From Dorian’s Journal of Memorable Quotes to Live By

  The only chore I had to do before I left for the ship was to leave detailed instructions for my herbalist regarding my garden. I had a paid service that I used for when I knew I was going to be gone for indefinite periods of time. Mr. Grey decided to remain behind to examine the armory the Society maintained. Since I didn't need any additional weapons, I made my way to the cyclocrane, christened the Persephone. I was promptly assigned to a ship's officer who escorted me through the loading dock.

  Many people were rushing about with tanks filled with the frozen ammonia needed to give this ship flight, a sure contributor to the acid rain. By contrast, ordinary domestic dirigibles were filled with neon. Besides being a lighter than air gas, it provided a glowing cavity which not only prevented nighttime mid-air collisions, but made for an entertaining display for the civilians on board.

  Our ship, in contrast, was made for stealth and speed. Her sleek torpedo shape made her one of the fastest in the air. The black crow insignia on the side of the ship shadowed the Society's own personal insignia, but it also doubled as a front for their legal business logo. Some would say they were hiding in plain sight, but it made for a more than adequate cover. They were, in fact, one of only three fleets that had been licensed to transport magical cargo in the Republic. Most people didn't want to be responsible for the damages when something that was ill contained went poof or pow under the wrong circumstances. The Society's pockets were deep enough to allow them the freedom of movement the company provided when things did occasionally go wrong, which made for a marriage of convenience.

  I was escorted quickly through captain's entrance, in order to avoid the passenger logs located at the main entrances. Although this was mainly a cargo ship, there were bound to be a few passengers on board who were also seeking privacy from public transport, and with enough coin, they could make it happen. We passed through the navigation room, and then we entered a wide hallway, in shades of gold and red.

  After passing several hallways, a couple of holding bays, and an athletic room, we took the next left. After passing a few more doors, I found myself outside a portside bunkroom, numbered 121. There was a small purple argon lamp on a long, bolted-to-the-floor, metal desk. On the other side of the tiny room was a suspended tiny bed that was bolted to the wall of the cramped room. A fine lady dressed in full bustle wouldn't be able to turn completely around without hitting the bunk or the table. But today, that was not a problem of mine, since I was not dressed as a fine lady.

  “Ma’am, here are your accommodations. I hope you find your time here satisfactory.” Then he looked me over. I had left my gowns at home. This was work and it called for working clothes. I wore charcoal gray riding pants with a starched black shirt and black riding boots. All were convenient for hiding the blood splatters. This I knew from experience. Even still, most women did not casually dress in clothing worn by men.

  He leered at me and said, “We don't get many ladies such as you passing through. The mess hall is back down the main hallway. Just take a left and then another left.
Can't miss it. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you,” I looked at his nametag, “Officer Nelson.”

  “Thank you, ma’am . Good Day.” He tipped his cap and left.

  I took a deep, cleansing breath and placed my two carpetbags on the bunk. I opened up the first bag. Inside were a couple of changes of clothing, duplicates of what I was already wearing. What took up most of the bag was the black, koskin duster that was specially made for me to conceal most of my weapons. Beneath my duster lay my toiletries, hoodwinks, a couple resplug replacement cartridges, and a personal money purse filled with one hundred gold dollar coins and some greenbacks.

  Most things, however, I would charge to the Society's account using a charge ring they issued me. It was a magically sealed stamp that I could press with my signature onto a magically charged plate. The funds would then be verified and transferred by wire between the merchant and S.O.A.R.'s banking institution.

  Nevertheless, every once in a while, I would find something, while working for S.O.A.R., that I wanted to purchase for myself. It was those times that I didn’t want a paper trail. I normally kept the money in one of my duster pockets. The last item was nestled in a side pocket of my bag. It was a small, but well-worn copy of Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis that I reread during down time on missions.

  The second bag contained my weapons. I laid out the Black Widow with freshly dipped darts across my bunk. Each movable-point dart had a small tungsten tipped cap on it, to prevent accidental poisonings. The opposite ends had small, color-coded feathers that I had inserted. The color indicated the type of serum on each tip and the intensity of the color indicated strength of the dosage. I had blue for sleepy-time darts, red for paralysis, yellow was for the stimulants, purple ones compelled people to speak the truth for a short length of time. The truth serum was really only effective on Users. If used on an Ordinary, they could still lie while under its influence, but usually gave themselves away with facial twitches when they did lie. The black color was, of course, for death, and the orange ones went boom. The orange ones were my favorites.

  The Widow itself was about two feet long, and all along its body were little clasps to hold each dart that I chose to store with it. I would encircle the dart with the safest ones near the mouth blowhole and the most deadly ones were stored nearer to the expelling end. I kept a few spare darts in a concealed pocket in my duster. I pulled out all of them and spent a few minutes arranging them by color. It put my mind at ease. Once they were all in line and accounted for, I gathered them back up and put them back into their slot on the Widow. Lastly, I placed the extras back into my special pocket.

  There was a silver alloy stiletto for each of my wrists under specially made straps. When I shook my arm just so, the blades would slide down, and I could grip them for maximum damage. I even kept a Magsteel whip, which could double for a short rope, if there was anyone who needed tying up. Magsteel was magically enhanced steel that held the spells of Metallurgist Users that made it exceptionally strong. I also carried my identical pair of Iver Johnson pistols on my person at all times.

  The last weapon I had brought with me was a standard issue Westinghouse gun. It was, in theory, created by Nikola Tesla, but his business associate, George Westinghouse, bought the patent for the coil technology and created a gun with it. It utilized electromagnetic currents naturally emitted from the earth's core and coiled them around a metal spring. When the spring had enough energy, you could discharge it with the zap not unlike a small lightning strike that could stun or possibly even kill someone if there was enough stored energy accumulated. On some models, you could even split the charge with the flip of a button or concentrate it for a lethal strike.

  Using the Westinghouse was not without its own set of problems. It took about thirty seconds to several minutes to recharge between uses, so I always kept my pistols loaded and ready. A more serious issue was that they were usually only issued for police or important officials. That didn’t stop the rich from getting a hold of one as well. However, I was none of these things, so if I were spotted using one, there would be an inquiry. That is, if I got caught. The very last of my items included a lock pick set and a specialized combination bomb diffuser and detonator, depending on how you used it. You just never knew when one of those would come in handy.

  Once my guns had passed my inspection, and I had secured my stilettos, I slipped my Iver Johnson pistols in my two side pockets. I placed the rest of the weapons back in my bag and slid it under the bunk with the other bag. Then I climbed onto the bunk to lie down for a light rest before dinner.

  ···•Ͽ Ѡ Ͼ•···

  The sun had just set when I heard a rapping on my chamber door. The turbines had woken me from a light slumber with their spinning about an hour ago, so I knew we were already en route.

  “Mam, dinner is about to be served. Your presence is requested at the captain's table tonight in one quarter of an hour. I am to be your escort.”

  Since I was being fetched, I deciphered that there was no choice in this matter. The captain must be curious about his unofficial passengers. Of course, if I were the captain, I would insist on meeting all passengers, as well, so I could not blame him. It was his job to know what dangers were present aboard his ship. I swung my feet down and arranged myself as best as I could. Most practitioners of magic abused glamour spells all too frequently these days. That kind of magic was not my style, nor my gift. It was the all-natural me they were about to receive, like it or not.

  I followed the cabin boy through the hallways until we reached an oval, metal door that had a high profile against the wall, not unlike a vault door.

  The boy cleared his throat and said, “Mam, the captain has requested everyone wear a mask.” He pulled out of his coat pocket a simple white, satin mask with clear sequin embellishments that was meant to be worn over the top half of my face. It seemed odd that the captain endeavored to make my acquaintance, but forced me to conceal myself. I chucked it up to the queer and mysterious ways of captains.

  Ironically, my hair would give me away every time anyway. It was more blonde than red and was of a texture that was fine and board straight, just as my mother's had been. It was such a force of nature that it would simply never stay in the up styles that were ever popular. When on assignments, I traditionally adopted for a braided style rather than exert the effort it needed to tame it. After all, it was for the best if it didn't get one of my darts tangled in it. It was also a heinous chore getting blood and gore out of it.

  I slipped on the mask and then the boy opened the hatch. I stepped up and over the six-inch lip of the port door into a rather grand room that doubled as the ship's safe room. Every ship had one Magsteel room that had every square inch encapsulated in the metal, so that it was much akin to a submarine's claustrophobic, command central, for emergency evacuations.

  The red and gold theme seemed to spew over into this room, as if it were a gaudy snow globe filled with gold flakes that had been shook a little too hard and left to settle. A diamond cut crystal chandelier that was too large for the room, hung so low that some of the crystals actually touched the food on the table below it. Tacky. The table was the only other large object in the room, but that was more than enough, since it amply fit the fifteen people seated around it.

  I surveyed the guests artfully arranged about the room. My eyes came to rest on Dorian last and surmised that no one was more than a threat than he, himself. Satisfied, I strode into the room.

  The table was of a deep mahogany, which must have been a Brazilian wood whose tabletop was overflowing with gold candelabras, porcelain plates with gold-tipped edges, and enough food to feed the entire crew and us I'd wager, for a week. The room was already filled with different patrons seated around the monstrosity, with only one empty seat, which I took to be mine.

  As I wove my way to my seat, I took note that the ladies wore white masks and the men wore black. No one even looked away from his or her dinner conv
ersations as I made way to my seat. Sloppy. Well, that was the way I liked it, a wolf among sheep.

  I was seated farthest from the captain who wore a black uniform with gold braiding, crisscrossing his chest with no mask to conceal his face. He sat farther away from the table, so I could see his languorous form that draped itself over his tall chair. He had a meticulously trimmed mustache with a full head of graying auburn hair. He wore what I figured was a rapier for decoration, since it wasn't sheathed. I concluded that he was all show. How boring.

  I sat down, and kept my eyes averted from any wondering gazes. I next removed my gloves and dipped the tips of my fingers into the bowl filled with water and rose petals. After drying them off, I proceeded, quite arduously I must add, in order to ignore my dinner partners.

  Of course, he would be seated next to me. He leaned in close, so no one else could hear and whispered, “My, my, Miss Darling don't you have elegant hands.”

  In reply to Lord Grey, I retorted under my breath, “All the better to strangle you with, my dear.” I knew no one except Mr. Grey would hear me over the other's laughter and stimulating banter that surrounded us.

  He struck his walking cane twice on the floor and replied, “So true, I have had quite a few women say that to me, but none so quickly as you.”

  I smiled a secret smile, but kept my gaze straight ahead of me upon the food displayed on a garish, golden platter. The roasted pig looked quite succulent, but I could not smell it, because, curiously, all I could smell was the faint odor of linseed oil.

  Mr. Grey leaned in so close that his mouth was very close to my ear as he whispered, “But I am quite intrigued with your tattoo, that is impersonating as a mole near your thumb. What is it of exactly?”

  I was saved from responding, by the Captain striking his glass with, of course, a golden spoon. He then stood at attention before us and made his little speech. “Welcome, guests of the Persephone. As we make this journey to Stockton, Virginia together, I plan for you all to have a safe and speedy journey. We will be making several stops, the first being Westington. As we traditionally transport cargo, with limited guests, I hope that we will all respect each other’s need for privacy during our travels and only partake of each other’s company during these evening soirees.