Dawn's Early Light (7 page)

He went to retort, but paused in mid-step. He then pulled gently on Eliza's arm, and guided her towards an easel. The announcement written there lightened his mood considerably. Perhaps his first official field assignment would yield a promising diversion or two:

We are proud to bring you

Edison's Electrical Extravaganza

SATURDAY!

The Amazing

THOMAS EDISON

and his discussion of

ELECTRICITY

IN THE HOME!

EIGHT O'CLOCK

Reception to follow event

“Reginald?”

Yanked back to reality, Wellington turned to look at Eliza, who was casting her gaze between him and the poster. He hated how transparent he was when around her.

“But it's our honeymoon,” she proclaimed, then adding, rather louder than necessary,
“Dear.”

Yes, no mistaking it. That was a warning.

“I understand that, Esther, but this is Thomas Alva Edison,” he returned.
Please, Eliza,
he pleaded internally,
please understand.
“Appearing here! In the Outer Banks of North Carolina! During our stay here at the Retreat! What are the chances?”

“But there is—
so
—
much
—for us to do while we are here,” Eliza said, her character remaining intact but glimmers of annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Our time in the Carolinas will simply blink by.”

“We have five nights in the Carolinas, my sweet,” immediately tumbled off his tongue. It frightened him a bit how calling her “my sweet” came to him so easily. Not that he minded. “And yes, I promised to show you all the sights of this quaint beach resort, but you know”—and she did know—“how much I enjoy the sciences. This is just for one night. When else would such an opportunity like this present itself? Not only to hear the proficient inventor speak but to actually meet him in person?” he asked, motioning to the reception announcement.

Eliza's mouth twisted into a grimace. “Really, Reginald, I fail to see what is so fascinating about a man carrying a death wish. He is tampering with forces of nature, believing he can control the elements and bring them into fine establishments such as this?” She clicked her tongue. “No thank you.”

He was not going to give up on this so easily. “But, Esther,
darling
, this is a once-in-a”—and his voice dropped to almost a whisper as he muttered—“bloody”—then shot back to full volume on—“lifetime chance to meet one of the greatest scientific innovators of our time.” He was begging. He really didn't care. “Please?”

“Well, I certainly have no intention of attending with you, Reginald,” Eliza answered.

A throat cleared behind them. “I would love to attend.”

Both Wellington and Eliza turned slowly. Felicity's face lit up with a friendly smile as they made eye contact.

“My own husband”—here she gave a wide sweep of her arm to indicate Bill standing nearby—“does not really have a mind for the sciences. Would you mind, sir, serving as my chaperone?” She took a deep breath before going on. “Seeing as we are two newly wed couples vacationing together in North Carolina that would not be improper.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Wellington caught Eliza rolling her eyes. Heartbreaking as it would be to miss out on such an amazing opportunity, she was absolutely right: duty and charge must come first.

Wellington was therefore surprised to hear himself say, “I would be delighted. I'm certain my wife would not mind.”

Eliza flinched at his side. Wellington gave her a pat on her hand, but refused to look at her directly. He knew what would be waiting for him if he did.

Felicity grinned and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Your kindness knows no bounds.”

“Yes,” Eliza seethed, “you could say his generosity steals all sense from him at times.”

A shrill whistle cut through the din, its piercing note causing a few of the women to let out a chorus of little shrieks. They all spun about to see Bill removing two fingers out of his mouth as he leaned casually against the front desk.

“Felicity,” he called across the silent lobby to her, “you okay with a queen in your room, or are you wantin' a king?”

“A king if it is available, Bill,” she replied, giving him a forced smile.

When she turned back to Wellington and Eliza, her smile was a hint tighter than it should have been. “We're checked in under our real names. That's what happens when I let the field agent with the penchant for firearms make the hotel arrangements.” She sighed. “Pity. I was hoping to travel incognito my first time in the field.”

“Shall we take a look at our accommodations?” Wellington asked.

“Yes, let's,” Eliza said, gently pulling him closer to her. “We have a lot to discuss, dearest.”

Those were the last words Wellington heard from Eliza as they found their way to Room Ten. Despite the chill, the staff had opened the room's windows so the sea-scented air greeted their senses, along with the crashing of the nearby surf.

“So,” Wellington muttered as his eyes took it all in, “this is how the field agents live?”

While not as spacious as Eliza's apartments back in London, the suite here at Swan's Retreat was most well appointed. The Atlantic breeze casually toyed with the sheer draperies hanging from high above a receiving parlour. Wellington's eyes continued from where they stood into the main bedroom off to his left. His eyes also noted a second bedroom, perhaps for children or other relatives, to the right. Between both rooms, a door led outside to a small deck where one might watch a sunrise or simply enjoy moonlight on the ocean's surface.

All this luxury sprawling before and around him became inconsequential as Eliza's anger abruptly shattered its serenity.

“Really, Wellington?
Really?!
”

“Esther,
darling
,” Wellington stammered as he looked about the room wildly, “do lower your voice!”

“Oh, stuff it, Welly. I suspect at Swan's Retreat they don't wire the suites with recording devices nor do they spy on their guests. You probably have to pay extra for that.” Eliza paused, pursing her lips together as her hands came to rest on her hips. Her fingertips wiggled against the fabric and creases of her skirts. She was not mad, Wellington realised. She was livid. “So before our luggage arrives, let's just get this out! I don't know who I want to shoot first—you or that annoying Lovelace woman!”

“Now, have a care. Felicity is quite charming, in her own, rather unique, way.”

Eliza's eyebrow arched slightly. That tiny gesture never failed to terrify Wellington.

He adjusted his necktie. “It is harmless. I see no danger in two patrons of science and technology partaking in a lecture, colleague to colleague.”

She nodded, her eyes narrowing on Wellington. “Colleague to colleague? Is that what you call it?”

Eliza was making no sense whatsoever. “Whatever are you on about?”

Her head jerked away, and her tone became very cold. “Never mind. You think I am being foolish.”

“That is not what I said,” Wellington insisted. “I am merely trying to understand why you are taking such umbrage. I did not ask you to attend, as I am well aware you are about as interested in the works of Thomas Edison as you are in those of Verdi.”

“Might I remind you, Welly, that we are on a mission? That means sightseeing and local entertainment is considered a distrac—” Eliza's words caught in her throat. She was now looking him over head to toe. “Just a moment, we are on a mission.”

“Yes,” Wellington agreed. “And you are stating the obvious because—”

“Because I am looking at your suit, Welly, and I can tell you are not armed.”

Bugger. She noticed.

“I am armed,” Wellington insisted.

Her brow knotted. “With what? A Derringer '81? We need something with a bit more stopping—it's not the Derringer, is it?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

Eliza screwed her eyes shut. He could see muscles twitching in her jaw. “Please, Welly,” she began, “
please
tell me it's not one of Axelrod and Blackwell's experimentals.”

Wellington felt his throat go dry. “She calls it the Nipper.”

“The Nipper?!”
Eliza screamed. “This is your first field mission and you are armed with an experimental called the Nipper?
What were you thinking?!
”

“I was thinking”—and Wellington couldn't stop himself from saying it—“baby steps. Yes, I am skilled with sidearms—”

“You're a bloody marksman of most lethal abilities, you are!”

Perhaps it was the trip. Perhaps it was the presence of that bombast Wheatley, but now Wellington could feel his own dander start to get up. “I am not going to discuss this with you any further! You can have the master bedroom. I am a man of simple means, as you know, and I will manage just fine in the guest bedroom.”

“The guest bedroom?” Eliza folded her arms in front of her chest.

“Yes. I think that would be best. Besides, as you have said, we are on a mission, so the fewer distractions the better, yes?” When her shoulders fell, Wellington's exhaustion took the place of his anger. This was growing tiresome, and just a bit silly. “So what have I cocked up this time, Eliza?”

Eliza went to open her mouth, immediately closed it with a snap, then whirling about, picked up her skirts, stormed into the master bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

The archivist-now-field-agent stood there, staring at the door, waiting for it to open again. However, the door didn't budge. Wellington couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard a muffled, aggravated scream over the omnipresent sound of the waves of the Atlantic.

“Hysteria,” he muttered to himself as he picked up his suitcase. “Has to be.”

D
unes shift. Coastlines, under the elements, change. The sky is full of fleeting moods. So too the usually pretty face of Sophia del Morte, which was currently marred by a frown. She now stood on the sandbank, looking out to sea, her dark eyes underneath an equally dark hat scanning the horizon with eagle-like determination. This looked like the right place.

From the inside of her corset she withdrew the detailed map of the Outer Banks that the Maestro had given her. These details included coordinates, something Sophia trusted. If she were off her mark by the smallest distance, things could go disastrously wrong. That he should place his own fate so securely in her hands made even this seasoned assassin quiver with delight.

She had travelled by an exceedingly fast charter vessel, the
Mercury
. It was hardly comfortable compared to the Maestro's massive airship, the
Titan
, but she had required speed above all. He had been most emphatic about where to be and at what time. Even with the swiftness of her charter, she'd arrived in Newport News, Virginia, only to immediately run from aeroport to train depot, catching the one train that could take her to some poor excuse of a town in North Carolina, then grabbing a coach—again, chartered by the Maestro—that whisked her to the edge of the eastern seaboard overnight. She was exhausted but still focused.

An airship as huge as
Titan
would draw notice everywhere it went, no matter if the port was a major terminal or one barely used. Here, on this lonely strand of beach, there was no need to worry about being observed. Sophia could not wait for the reunion.

She flipped open the rear cover of her timepiece, revealing its compass face. According to the Maestro's coordinates, Sophia needed to move a little farther west. She hitched the haversack up a bit tighter against her back, hefted the Lee-Metford-Tesla Mark IV higher on her shoulder, and followed the agreed-upon bearing. She was thankful for the choice of garments, her trousers and stout boots making easy work of the treacherous footing. She half ran, half slipped down through the sand and low grasses, her nostrils full of the smell of salt, which she always equated with the smell of fish—dead fish, in particular. Then there was the sudden grinding of grit in her mouth. Even though she had her black jacket buckled against it, kept her head lowered and her mouth shut, she just knew that in the evening she would need a thorough bath to get the sand out of every nook and cranny.

Many people loved the beach, and Sophia del Morte was most assuredly
not
among them. Her profession had taken her to many unpleasant places before, and this barren wasteland of waves, wind, and dunes was merely another. She understood the Maestro's reasons for choosing this site, but why couldn't his ideal location have been within reasonable distance of a pleasant hotel or perhaps a vineyard? Sophia sighed, turned, and spat out more sand that had worked its way into her mouth, and resolved to forebear it, and most certainly not whisper any complaint. She had only made that mistake once.

The compass in her hand chimed. She pushed her dark lenses up the bridge of her nose and looked around her, a slow smile spreading across her face. Yes, this barren stretch would be ideal. Her smile faded however when her eyes followed the coastline to where she would make ready the Maestro's arrival.

She was not alone.

Two men in their rolled up shirtsleeves were working feverishly on some sort of contraption. It was a round cigar-shaped object about as tall as Sophia herself, and held in a cradle made of iron. She was curious by nature; and perhaps if she'd been on any other case she would have endeavoured to find out what they were up to, but the fact was they were stymying her plans.

This would not be born.

So engrossed in their work were these two gents that they never noticed Sophia's approach, even though she was making no particular effort to be quiet. Standing only a few feet behind them, she tilted her head as she considered their invention in more detail. Strapped to the outside of the cylinder were a number of wires and tubes that, Sophia hazarded, contained various fluids, gases, or both. Not a large amount, but they were held in some sort of array that would mix them together. From the base, a small amount of steam was slowly seeping free, only to vanish into the Carolina breeze.

Or perhaps it wasn't steam at all, because it looked thicker and heavier than the surrounding air. In fact, the dense mist seemed to
fall
from the apparatus. Now, Sophia was completely mesmerised by the device.

One of the men, the one with less hair, had some small hatch open. “Do you think the thrust calculations are closer this time?” he asked while fiddling around with the invention's inner workings.

The other, the possessor of a fairly decent handlebar moustache, after passing him various tools, returned his own attention to various pressure gauges along the contraption's hull. “They better be. We don't have enough fuel to try again until next month,” he replied, and then gave a guffaw. “Unless we get a few more repair jobs from the Detweilers.”

The balding one returned the chuckle. “The Dangerous Detweilers of Dayton. Their mishaps alone could fund
three
launches.”

True to form of socially inept
schlockworkers
, neither of them were going to notice her anytime soon—a situation Sophia was not accustomed to. There was simply nothing for it, but to state the obvious. “A very interesting-looking contraption,” she said with what she had been told was her most disarming smile.

The men spun around as if she had already stuck a knife in their backs. She must have made quite an appearance because their mouths literally dropped open. Now, she held their undivided attention. Perhaps they were not used to a woman carrying a rifle, or perhaps they just had very ugly women in this part of the world. She would not have been surprised. The number of American men on the Continent seemed to indicate to her that their women were not worth staying home for.

“Our apologies, ma'am,” the moustached one began, “we didn't notice you.”

“And that's saying something,” the balding one added, his smile unexpectedly alluring.

Charming as the bald one was, she opened her pocket watch and was reminded of what little time she had remaining. It had to be now. Sophia waved her hand at the device. “Intriguing as your experiment here is, gentlemen, you must give this area of shore to me. Now.”

The two men wiped their hands on their pants and straightened, seeming to work together as one machine. Their once separate demeanours—the balding one being a touch flirtatious, the moustached man actually blushing ever so slightly—slipped away before her eyes, replaced with hard, stern looks.

How precious.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the balding one said, “but I believe we were here
first
. If you were looking for some peace and quiet, Kitty Hawk offers plenty of spots to choose from other than this one.”

“But
this
is the spot I desire,” Sophia replied, her fingers splaying slowly around the shoulder strap of her Lee-Metford-Tesla.

Sophia could almost hear their outrage warring with their good manners. Then, after standing in this awkward silence, the balding one spoke again. “Look, you're just going to have to wait. We have a launch to tend to, barring any catastrophic failures.”

Flicking into sight like a serpent's tongue, a concealed blade sliced through the tight space between the men. A loud
clang
ran through the air, immediately followed by the angry hiss of half a dozen slashed lines coiled around the device. The men leapt back, yelping in horror as various fluids, many of them either catching fire on contact with one another or creating more of the heavier-than-air mist, spewed in every direction.

“You mean, like that?” Sophia asked. When she brought up her throwing arm a second time, another blade appeared, catching the sun as she slowly turned it in her hand.

They looked upon her anew in that moment, as if she had only just appeared. Their eyes bore into her with the same intensity they had devoted to their now-bleeding experiment, and the silence, once feeling awkward, had now turned ominous, marred only by the occasional fizz or crackle from the damaged machine. Sophia used this moment to look for vulnerabilities she could exploit. She'd rather not waste precious time, but you could never tell with men. Sometimes intellect would surrender to masculine pride, driving the male of the species to foolish acts.

These men however seemed to be exceptional.

The bald one used his hands, now encased by heavy gloves, to tip one end of the device's cradle up. The moustached gentleman immediately ran to its falling tip and caught the device before it hit the ground. “Come on, Orville,” he snapped, the leaking cylinder now suspended between them like a bleeding soldier suspended on a stretcher. “Wind's too strong for an accurate altitude test, anyway. Let's get back to camp, and leave this
lady
to her thoughts. And herself!”

Sophia allowed the man his slight. It was evident their flight of fancy had been toiled over for some time, only to be ruined in seconds by her. If these “Dangerous Detweilers of Dayton” were as profitable as the men had insinuated, perhaps they could return with a repaired model. She waited until both men had disappeared over a sand dune before unslinging the rifle and haversack. The long, heavy string of contacts she withdrew resembled a necklace of diamonds, cut emerald style, their flat silver surface smooth and slick under Sophia's fingers as she adjusted them into a wide circle perhaps ten feet in diameter. She paused in her arrangement of this array only to check the time. It would be close, but she would be ready.

The last item from her pack introduced to this apparatus was the flickering power source snatched from the Culpepper airship just before its fatal descent over Essex. The device would have passed for a deck prism as the power source was secured on a flat circular base and surrounded by triangular planes. On closer inspection, though, it was not reflecting light, so much as creating it.

The Culpepper twins had been quite clever in the power source's development, but they were nowhere near the true application of their
electroporter
.

Sophia went to the centre of the circle created by the leads and secured the power source on its stand. Once connected to the array, the prism began to hum, growing louder and brighter as it did. Even after she cleared the circle, she continued to step back. The noise—more of a vibration from the array that she felt in her very skull—turned Sophia's steps into a graceful backwards jig. Her hands pressed against her ears but could not cease the thrumming in her head. Instead of collapsing into a ball, she screamed against the assault, determined to watch the sky and see this incredible creation of science do its work.

The thunderclap drowned her scream out as the circle of silver threw brilliant whips of immense energy upwards into the sky, scattering crying seagulls in all directions. A few of the more curious beach birds found themselves trapped by these tendrils, falling dead from the sky once released. She knew this power intimately, having seen and experienced it while the machine had been under the control of the Culpeppers.

Now this control of light, space, and time belonged to the Maestro—just as had always been his plan.

Sophia threw her hand over her eyes as the light grew too bright for her to bear. She was no longer screaming as the thrumming vibrations had now transformed into a rumble, a rumble that split the air suddenly with an almighty crash.

When Sophia finally tasted the salt air and returned to reasonable thought, she found herself on her back, pushed into the dunes from the amplified electroporter's concussive force. She now looked into the sky at the wonder hovering above her.

Though she knew this would have been, provided the device was a success, the sight of the
Titan
overhead made her breath catch. Its droning propeller rose above the sound of the waves pounding on the sandbanks; and while the envelope itself was storm cloud grey, sunlight managed to catch the hanging gun positions. All in all, the Maestro's yacht was a thickset, pugnacious-looking airship, prepared to deal the world a bruising.

Sophia smiled as the
Titan
turned to port and then lowered to disembarkation level. Her heart began to race as she saw the hatch in the belly of the airship slide open.

A ladder unfurled and, on the lower rungs striking the ground, a tall form climbed down it double-time. It was Pearson, the valet. As he dropped to the sand, Sophia felt a little niggle of disappointment. No smile greeted her from the valet's stern, drawn face; no sign at all that she had even done a passable job.

Still, it was not Pearson's goodwill she desired. She waited impatiently as he guided the massive airship lower until, with a single swipe of Pearson's hand, the
Titan
's multiple anchors dropped, burying themselves deep into the Carolina sand. From where the rope ladder had dropped, a gangplank extended as the leviathan of the air continued its slow, controlled descent.