Dawn's Early Light (20 page)

As good a time as any. “Hand over the portable dynamo,” Wellington called out, “and present to us Mr. Edison.”

He hoped the “us” would be taken as more than just himself and a librarian. The rattle of bullets on the other side of their sheltering engine was all the answer he was going to get, and didn't bode well for his bluff. He fired off the remaining shots of his Derringer . . .

. . . and then realised Felicity was crouched tight against their hiding place.

“Feel free to join in,” Wellington barked at her, and the look he got in return did not fill him with any confidence.

“I said I had a weapon,” she confessed. “I never said I had a gun.”

“I could not care if it is a slingshot, now would be a good time to employ it.”

He glanced around the corner to see the Pinkertons creep free of their hiding places.

Wellington turned back to Felicity, who was reaching up her skirts and yanking free of her thigh a frilly, peach-coloured garter decorated by a small metallic cylinder. It looked like a Locksmith.

Felicity hurtled the garter at the Shocker. The
clang
echoed into the power plant.

The Shocker slowly turned in their direction.

“Right then,” Wellington said as the Shocker began walking towards them.

Frantically gathering up her skirts, Felicity muttered, “Working on it.”

From her other thigh, she tore free another matching garter. This one, however, had attached to it a small box. Flipping a sole switch on its side, lights flickered on.

“After North Carolina,” Felicity said, shoving Wellington aside to peer around their hiding place, “I took a Locksmith and modified it.”

“To do what? Explode?”

“To do this.”

The Shocker froze in place with Felicity's pressing of the box's green button. Her thumb then pushed at the small handle, turning the Shocker to face the remaining Pinkertons.

“And . . .” With a wicked smile, she pressed the red button.

The Shocker raised its right hand and waved.

“Tarnation,”
she swore as she pressed the yellow button.

From the Shocker's waving hand, a surge of electricity shot out, tossing the hired guns out over a row of dynamos as if they were rag dolls thrown by an angry child.

Wellington was about to commend the librarian on her ingenuity, and not her comely thighs, when a man dropped down next to them. Wellington cocked back his arm, preparing to use his spent pistol as a club, until he recognised the bloody moustache.

“Thank you for the assistance,” he gasped out, shaking the archivist's hand enthusiastically. “Henry Ford. Inventor.”

Wellington, remembering the importance of introductions, returned the handshake, then motioned to the librarian. “Miss Felicity Lovelace of your American government. I'm Mr. Wellington Thornhill Books, Her Majesty's government.” He thought that pretty much covered the situation. “That portable dynamo of yours—how portable is it?”

Henry went to answer when they heard from the other side of the power plant a door burst open. All three of them stepped out of hiding. The Shocker was still waving in the direction of the downed Pinkertons. The dynamo prototype Henry had been interrogated over was no longer in front of his rickety chair.

“Very,” he grumbled.

With a little grunt of frustration, Henry stormed over to the plant's control panel. One by one, levers were shoved by the inventor to maximum. He did not hesitate for a moment when he picked up a nearby iron bar and began smashing it into the control panel. Each strike was paired with a sharp cry from Ford; his attacks against the controls were fuelled by the energy of a madman. Eventually, Ford's angry cries became a dull roar that was eventually drowned out by the increasing scream of the dynamo array.

Wellington hastily did the calculations in his head, and knew that this overload Ford was unleashing would be quite spectacular. The dynamos were already spitting out long streams of sparks that struck nearby walls and bounced fiery rain against the floor. The inventor's desire to cause a delay or distraction for Edison was admirable, if not the actions of a man pushed too far.

Wellington grabbed Felicity under her elbow and dragged her past the still-waving Shocker and up to Ford, now stepping back to admire his maniacal handiwork.

“Work your magic now, Wizard of Menlo Park,” Ford howled, grinning at his revenge.

“Huzzah for you, Mr. Ford. Now, if you please”—and Wellington grabbed him as well—“run!”

As they pelted past them, the boilers began shuddering on their foundations, but it was the foreboding scent of electricity in the air that was most concerning. Even after they left the main array behind, every hair on Wellington's body was telling him something catastrophic was about to occur.

The door leading outside burst open just as the motortruck carrying Edison and Gantry rumbled away from the power plant.

“My dynamo!” Henry howled.

“This way,” Wellington shouted, motioning to his motorcar.

Wellington knew it was vital that they get to his automobile, not only to catch Edison, but for safety's sake. The overload Ford created was only moments away, and on their sprint to his motorcar, the light—and the surrounding shadows seeming to retract more and more around them—caught his attention.

The moonlight tower looming over his car grew brighter and brighter, an ominous hum from high overhead slowly becoming an undulating growl reminiscent of the wild cats Wellington remembered from his time in Africa. The boilers of his car had just reached full pressure when the lamp burst apart, showering glass, smouldering carbon, and white and gold sparks over everyone. They lurched forwards to drive into the brilliant glare of the next tower light, it too reaching to an inevitable death. As the moonlight towers were a network, every one of them would give way or simply wink out to darkness once the power plant failed.

“There!” shouted Felicity, pointing ahead of them.

Rumbling just ahead of their car was the truck carrying Ford's prototype dynamo. The street suddenly popped into view in a glow of scarlet, orange, and yellow as the Arc Light Power Plant erupted behind them. For a moment, it was only the burning building that provided them light as the towers around them dimmed and then went dark.

“Don't worry,” came Henry's voice from the tumble seat. “We have another power plant on the other side of town. It will take a few minutes for the towers to alight again.”

Wellington thrust the accelerator forwards as the truck continued undeterred by the destruction of the power plant. The farther from the inferno, the heavier the shadows grew around them.

Then, for what felt like a short eternity, the darkness consumed them.

“Dammit, I can't see them!” Wellington cursed.

“Why not turn on the headlamps?” asked Felicity.

Oh, how utterly daft of me,
he thought.
Of course!

Wellington flipped the switch for the headlamps, and then heard Felicity and Henry scream.

He removed his foot from the clutch, stomped hard on the brake pedal while yanking back hard on the hand level. They shuddered to a halt as, appearing pale in the light of the motorcar's headlamps, four Shockers stomped out into the street between them and Edison's truck.

He cleared his throat as the front-most Shocker lifted a single hand in their direction. “Miss Lovelace, Mr. Ford, would you kindly stay low? I think this is about to become a rather sticky wicket.”

A
t first Eliza thought it luck—good or bad depending on how the situation was exploited—when the moonlight towers outside started to dim and brighten at odd intervals. It was the most exciting thing she and Bill had seen all afternoon. They were just about to break into their third building of the evening when the explosion four blocks away ripped through the night. This could have been just the diversion she and Bill needed to continue through Edison Illuminating Company's headquarters undeterred, as attention would be directed to greater priorities.

“Goddammit, Johnny Shakespeare,” Bill swore. “We should have known better than to leave him alone with Felicity.”

“Wellington?” Eliza said with a fierce frown. “You think Wellington is behind this happenstance?”

“Lizzie, in our profession, there's no such thing as happenstance. 'Bout as possible as an honest politician on Capitol Hill.”

Eliza removed her picks from the door and jabbed Bill in the side before slipping them back in her belt compartment. “Could just have easily been Felicity, considering that girl's penchant for stumbling into trouble.”

“The good news is we should blend in,” Bill said, his eyes looking out the window to the open campus below. “Looks like those workin' the late shift are runnin' like cats hit in the ass with a boot jack.”

She had to think about that odd turn of phrase for a moment, then took it as a good sign. “Little blessings. Come on.”

Both secured their sidearms before joining a stream of line workers and what appeared to be scientists, if the lab coats were any judge of occupation. The rush of Edison employees were all headed for the main gate of the campus where security guards—Pinkertons, on a glance at their badges—were motioning everyone to run. She had just reached the large wooden gates when a Pink paused and locked eyes with her.

He had only taken two steps before Bill's meaty fist clocked the man hard, sending him to the ground.

“Our chariot awaits,” Bill said amidst the chaos, motioning to the open doors.

“And they say Americans lack a sense of chivalry.” Eliza chuckled, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the exit.

They were out in the open only for a moment before their world began to wink in and out of existence. “It's going to get very dark soon,” she commented to Bill, looking back at the glow of the fire, blocks away.

“All the better,” he replied. “All this light ain't good for the likes of us.”

Rounding the Illuminating Company to where Bill had arranged for Wellington to meet them, the moonlight tower in front of them flared into a blinding white light and then blew out, the sparks falling around creating the illusion of a strange, ethereal beauty against the dark of night, but the explosion had partially blinded Eliza's eyes as if she'd stared at the sun a moment too long.

“He had—
one
—job!” she heard Bill shout.

The odd grey, purple, and black splotches appearing in front of her eyes finally dissipated, and she finally saw what Bill was railing against.

Wellington's fabulous motorcar was nowhere to be seen.

The Detroit skyline was abruptly stained again with red flame, a ring of thick pearlescent smoke spreading wide and high into the air above them. As annoying as it was knowing he had disobeyed her, the senior partner and primary on this liaison, a little stir of pride filled her. That was quite an impressive explosion; and whether intentional or not, Wellington had, upon reflection, followed her orders to the letter.

“You were right, Bill!” she admitted, her smile wide and as bright as the moonlight towers struggling to stay lit. “It is Wellington!”

“How do you know?”

She pointed above them. “He sent us a smoke signal.” Eliza couldn't help but laugh now. Maybe she had rubbed off on Wellington a little, after all. “Come on, Bill,” she said, drawing one of her pistols. “We've got to hoof it from here.”

“Hell with that,” Bill huffed. “Think you can manage one of those?”

Behind Eliza, a motortruck, similar to the ones they had seen ferrying objects and people in and out of Edison's factory during their afternoon surveillance, sat motionless and silent.

“Of course,” she lied, holstering her pistol.

“Well, as you folks like to say,” he chortled, running for the truck, “tallyho.”

Eliza glanced over to the glow in the distance. Four city blocks. How hard could this be?

Pulling herself into the cabin, her heart sank. Eliza had hoped to mimic the actions she'd observed when Wellington drove, but this truck had none of the elegant simplicity of his motorcar. This dashboard was an array of clunky levers and knobs with no clue to their purposes.

Where to begin here?

“What are you waitin' for, Lizzie?” Bill asked. “An invitation?”

“Just a moment!” she snapped.

There was something spinning in the motor when Wellington pushed the starter. Something spinning. So for this monster . . .

She looked under the steering wheel column and found the crank.

“Gotcha!” she said as she started turning the handle.

Within seconds, the boiler gauge jumped to life and the truck began to shudder.

Wellington's car had three pedals, just like this one. He pressed the centre pedal upwards to accelerate. She began to slowly bring the pedal up higher, and higher. The engine was snarling angrily, sending thick steam everywhere.

“Lizzie, we ain't moving,” Bill stated.

She wanted to punch him again.

The handles on the wheel, she suddenly remembered, were also key. She vaguely recalled Wellington mentioning “opening the throttle,” which was just under her right fingertips. It only moved perhaps two inches under her feather touch, but those two inches were enough to slingshot the two of them in this metallic leviathan out of David's sling.

“Wall!” Bill screamed.

Eliza jerked the wheel and threatened to tip over the truck, but on account of the narrow alley they were thundering down, their vehicle bounced hard back on all four wheels. They burst out into the open street, and this time Eliza turned the wheel more slowly, which turned them in the direction of the burning building.

“Clever, this,” Eliza said brightly.

Then the moonlight towers around them went completely dark.

This would be the longest four city blocks of her life.

“I think this motorcar has headlights,” she said, “somewhere.”

“Think you can fi—
TRUCK!
” Bill screamed again.

She saw the twin pair of headlamps appear in front of them, perhaps coming around a corner she could not see in the pitch darkness. Both cabs clipped one another, and the wheel jerked hard in Eliza's hands. She allowed the wheel to turn one way, then when it went slack, she turned it the opposite direction. The moonlight towers were now growing brighter, and she found herself in the middle of an intersection, taking a turn far too wide than would have been acceptable had it been daylight. Their motortruck was now facing what appeared to be a power station, the source of the fire.

It was not the burning building however that caught her attention. First she saw Wellington's car, slowly moving in reverse, and then the man himself, standing up in the driver's seat. Felicity was apparently holding the wheel steady as they slowly retreated from the four Shockers spanning the street. He was taking aim . . .

. . . with that damn unreliable Nipper gun.

“Bill,” she called, shoving the clutch upwards while opening the throttle a few inches more, “jump now!”

“Are you—”

“JUMP!”

Bill was out of the cab, hopefully safe with no broken bones, and she just had to hope this truck would have enough momentum.

“Come on, Wellington. Trust me on this . . .” she whispered, as she centred the motortruck for the space between the inside Shockers.

She saw Wellington lower the Nipper, then draw aim on her.

“Oh, you clever boy.” She chuckled just before throwing herself free of the cab.

Eliza landed hard against the road, but she rolled into it, as if she were jumping from a moving cart. The fall was half that of jumping from a hansom or carriage, but the landing still hurt. A lot.

The low, powerful thud reverberating in her ears reminded Eliza of an explosion underwater. This had to be the Nipper. She looked up to see the odd blue wave of energy strike the coasting motorcar, blowing apart the vehicle. Parts of the vehicle flew in all directions, ripping into the surrounding automatons as if it were made of straw and paper. They tried to continue walking, but instead collapsed into nothing more than scrap metal.

“Eliza?” Wellington called out. “Eliza, answer me!”

“All's well,” Eliza groaned, pulling herself up to her feet. “Could use a driving lesson or two.”

“Make that three,” Bill muttered from behind her.

The motorcar rumbled forwards now, coasting to a stop where Bill and Eliza stood. “Get in. Henry Ford in the tumble seat. Introduce yourselves,” he spoke quickly as she and Bill climbed into the back with a battered and bruised stranger. Before she or Bill could say anything in reply, they were all thrown back into their seats as the motorcar sped off.

She looked around her quickly and wanted to scream in frustration. “He's heading back the way we came,” Eliza exclaimed.

Bill drew his Peacemakers and clicked his tongue. “I hope your partner knows what he's up to.”

Her pounamu pistols were also out and at the ready. “Wellington has . . .” She wasn't going to express any doubts in him now. That much was certain. How could she describe this to Bill without him losing his temper, or his faith in them? “. . . hidden depths.”

The stranger—Ford was his name?—leaned forwards and shouted over the surrounding din, “I told your partner to drive back to the Illuminating Company.”

“Wellington, a bit more of an explanation . . . Who is this?” she demanded.

“Henry Ford, an inventor under Edison's employment,” he said over his shoulder.

Eliza looked the poor man over. “I had no idea science could get so . . . physical.”

“He's invented a portable, highly efficient dynamo.” Felicity was the one who replied. “That's a kind of power device.”

“I know what a dynamo is, Miss Lovelace,” Eliza snapped.

“Edison now has it,” she continued undeterred.

“Edison's here right now?” Bill asked. “In Detroit?”

“Yes,” Felicity said, glancing over at Wellington with a broad smile, “and it is up to us to prevent his escape. Correct, Wellington?”

This librarian always did love to have all the answers. She was not impressing Eliza at all. Not in the least.

Their car rumbled into the campus, Henry Ford tapping Wellington's shoulder and guiding their motorcar through the campus.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Ford shouted, directing them to a four-story building similar to a warehouse. “Here. He's here.”

“How do you know?”

“I was always barred access to it,” he grumbled, “but I would catch ends of conversations where if something were to go ass-end up, Tom and his hired guns were to meet here.”

“Welly, keep the car running,” Eliza said, looking up at the surrounding structures. “We need to be ready at a moment's—”

The garage suddenly blew at the door's joints, the door itself not sliding up or down so much as it collapsed on itself. Henry was screaming like a wild man as a gigantic craft—something appearing as a boat turned upside down, a baffle running the length of the hull and inflated to a solid shape. They could see in the cockpit of this creation Edison, Gantry, and a handful of Pinkertons. Hovering a few feet above the ground, this compact, personal yacht sported Edison's touch in the electricity dancing wildly between the baffle and the ground. The craft slipped by them in a lazy, leisurely manner but then launched forwards as if released from invisible tethers, leaving their motorcar in a swirl of dust, dirt, and ozone.

Then the shooting began.

“Drive,” Eliza shouted as she returned fire.

Bill joined Eliza in the firefight as their motorcar roared through the campus once more. “Keep them shooting at you,” he shouted to her. “I don't want to wait for the local police to show up. I bet Edison has them in his pocket.”

“I've got a limited water supply,” Wellington said on turning a corner and coming in view of the main gate. “Where exactly am I going?”

“The train station!” It was Ford. “He's headed to the Arizona Territories! Flagstaff! There's a twilight hypersteam Edison mentioned booking before he and his Pinks started ‘negotiating' with me,” he said drily, motioning to his face. “That hovercraft of his serves only as an emergency egress. Not what you would call subtle.”