The Cold Beneath (2 page)
“Wait a moment, sir!” Lightbridge shouted after me as I made my getaway. “I assure you this is of the utmost importance.” When I was almost to the house, at least twenty yards or so from him, Lightbridge decided to give chase.
And that was when I heard the ticking.
I paused in my flight, turning to watch him bound across the garden, closing the small space between us with sure, steady steps. Each time he propelled himself forward, there was a distinct click, the sound of metal against metal within his movements. Anyone else would have missed the sound, or perhaps mistaken it for any number of possibilities. As he drew near, I fell still, staring at his legs with wide wonder, because I recognized the implications of that sound.
Lightbridge came to rest a few feet from me, the clicks halting as he did. He must have seen the curiosity on me, as he smiled and asked, “Would you like to have a look?”
I nodded, unsure how he could know what I desired, but unable to voice my concern. I knew what he possessed beneath his knees as I knew my own fears, but still, I wanted to see. With a hearty laugh, Lightbridge bent double to show me. There he stood in my garden, his pants rolled up to the knees as if he were about to splash around in my pond rather than change my life forever.
The sight of his lower legs was nothing short of marvelous. Beneath each thigh rested a clockwork appendage, screwed onto metal housings that were in turn surgically attached to what was left of his knees. The limbs were lightweight, each a mere fraction of their fleshy brothers, yet able to withstand ten times the stress and weight that real legs could take. The housing, gears and cogs functioned just as a normal calf and foot would, with the added benefit of increased top speeds and astounding flexibility.
Clockwork prosthetics weren’t by necessity uncommon; many an old soldier or gangrene victim bore some kind of metal appendage. Yet, despite the fact that they were employed all over the globe, it had been a number of years since I had seen them so up close and personal. They were everything I remembered. In short, they were durable, functional and beautiful.
Which I should know, because I invented the damnable things.
Yes, I fell into that elite group of maniacs who were supposed to trump nature’s design with manufactured remedies. It wasn’t a terrible notion, this idea that I could better the world through science. Mankind had been at the task for years before I came along; trying to cure diseases, improving the human body through modifications, even making great strides toward conquering death itself. In the end I learned such endeavors proved fruitless, as nature would have her way, no matter the cost. This revelation, however, was a long ways off. At home, with a stranger in my midst, I fell into awe of my own creation.
“Marvelous,” I said in a slow breath. “Simply marvelous.”
“Yes,” Lightbridge agreed. “That they are.”
I reached out to finger the intricate workings, fascinated at the level of detail and craftsmanship that went into this particular pair. But I stopped my hand before it could grasp the metal, instead asking, “How did you lose your legs?”
“They were taken in a skirmish. Darned near took my life too, but I was too wily for that. Of course it was years ago, and I’m not quite so wily anymore.”
The clinician in me demanded more details. “Blasted away or severed?”
“Severed, surgically. I took a bullet to each kneecap, which ruined their usage. The ensuing infections did the rest. The doctors tried their best, but they tell me I’m lucky to have any leg left at all.” He took on a pained look, as if the memory were quite unpleasant, which I’m sure it was.
I then realized how rude I was acting. “I apologize, sir. My questions must seem vulgar.”
“Not at all. I am only too glad to answer any question for the man who got me back on my feet.” He smiled again. “Or rather some feet, as it were.”
Surprised by his knowledge, I did my best to keep a mask of indifference. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He tipped his head to one side, a single eyebrow raised in sly rejoinder. “I’m implying that you are the father of modern prosthetics.”
My blood ran cold at his words. “I hesitate to correct you, good sir, but Elijah Goode holds that title.”
“And I put to you that Goode was your mentor for a number of years. I also know that you spent the better part of those years perfecting the design of these very legs. I know, undoubtedly, that he stole your design and had them on the market two days before your own scheduled presentation.”
I almost fell to the ground; his implications weakened me in the knees just that much. How could he possibly know so much about me? About my work? “Sir, I do not find your allegations amusing. I will have to ask you to leave. Bradley!”
“I assure you I meant no harm.”
Ignoring his pleas, I continued to call for my manservant. “Bradley! Bradley, for heaven’s sake, where are you when I need you?”
Lightbridge pressed on. “I am here as your admirer and an indebted human being. Before I was given a set of these, I was doomed to a lifetime of stomping about on wooden stumps. I have no intention of revealing your associations with these marvelous fixtures. Though, in truth, the world should know the extent of your genius.”
Every ounce of tolerance within me recoiled as my patience snapped. Sneering, I closed the short distance between us, almost standing upon him as I had my say from behind clenched teeth. “The world isn’t interested in genius, only in who puts on the bigger show. Professor Goode nearly ruined me and my name all for the sake of those … those … things you’re wearing. I labored under him for years, and he repaid me by putting his name to my hard work. Yes, I made the prototypes. Yes, the idea sprang from my mind. But now I want nothing to do with the things. Do you understand me?”
“Now, that’s a real shame, son. Because I find myself in need of someone who completely comprehends how they work.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong man. Goode is still in London. He is hard to pin down, but I’m sure you can catch him between social calls.” I turned away again, with every intention of leaving him alone with his clockwork legs and unbearable attitude. “Bradley! Come here at once!”
“Goode isn’t living in London anymore.”
“Well, that’s nice to know. Bradley!”
Then the man said something I had dreamed of hearing for many a moon.
“Elijah Goode is dead.”
I turned in a slow semicircle until I was facing Lightbridge once more. There was little I could do to hide the shock I am sure dressed my face. “What did you just say?”
“Goode is dead. He passed away almost a year ago.”
“How … why … when …” I stammered in my surprise.
“Heart attack,” Lightbridge explained with a shrug. “Not even men of science can live forever, I suppose. Though they try well enough. Don’t they?”
All of my strength fled me as I sank onto a stone bench, wrestling with mixed emotions. Part of me was devastated by the news of the death of my old mentor, the man who taught me most of what I know of biomechanics. Yet some darker part of me wanted to dance and sing now that the old geezer finally got what was due him. I know how terrible it sounds, but when Goode stole my work, he made a mockery of me and my family name, driving me not only from the scientific community of London, but from my very house and home.
But again, that is neither here nor there.
Lightbridge, perhaps made uncomfortable by my reaction, apologized. “I didn’t mean to shock you.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not your fault. Forgive me. I’m just … it’s an awful lot to swallow.” I also wondered why no one else had informed me. Goode dead a whole year, and I had yet to discover it. Of course, I was not partial to newspapers or gossip circles, so perhaps I brought such silence upon myself. “I supposed I thought he would live forever.”
“We always do.” The man made himself comfortable to my right, returning his pant legs to their proper places as he did. “If it makes you feel any better, I only know about his death because I sought the man out for his genius. Imagine my surprise to learn that his greatest contribution to medical science was stolen from one of his juniors.”
“And who filled you with such rubbish?”
“His widow,” Lightbridge paused to crack another wide grin, “Geraldine Goode.”
While on the subject of Goode, I half expected the name of his widow to come about. Yet even prepared as I was, to hear the name spoken aloud forced a grand amount of hurt and ache upon me. For the last ten years, not a day passed that I didn’t roll that very name about in my mind. Geraldine the beautiful. Geraldine the betrayer! I won’t waste time going into details about her here. Suffice it to say that my prototype wasn’t the only thing Elijah Goode took from me. The smile with which Lightbridge mentioned her suggested this man knew more about me than I was comfortable with.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
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The Request
Against my better judgment, I would like to take a few brief moments to speak of my own past. Then perhaps, as the story unfolds, you can understand why I made certain decisions, as well as fell into dire mistakes.
I, Philip Corinthian Syntax, am the only son, as well as only child, to a modestly wealthy family with a long and proud lineage. While I would love to blame a terrible childhood for my recent
years of antisocial behavior, the opposite is true. My parents Maxwell and Sophia Syntax—God rest their souls—lavished upon me both affection and comfort the likes of which I wouldn’t understand until long after they departed this life. As a tyke I desired little and wanted for even less. Perhaps this grace of both economic and emotional support in my youth was what allowed my intelligence to bloom without hindrance.
Gifted was the word my scholars applied to me in those early years. After giving me their undivided affection for so long, I returned my parent’s investment by becoming the first Syntax to graduate valedictorian, as well as enter university before my fifteenth birthday. This was the last duty I would fulfill as their son, however, for my parents both passed away in a carriage accident while returning home from dropping me off to begin my second year of college. Their coach driver took a hairpin turn far too fast, and after a three hundred yard drop into a rocky ravine my parents were no more.
The morning the headmaster called me into his office to inform me I was an orphan, I nearly expired myself. My parents were the very measure of my entire life’s worth. What would I do without them? I took the news hard, but as the further events of my life unwound I would come to take it even harder. At the time, though, I had the fortune of someone with which to share my sorrow. Yet later, when I needed her most, she would abandon me as well.
Everyone abandons me in the end. Even as I write this, I worry death will forget about me also. I worry he will leave me behind—as he has done to those just beyond my door—alone in the quiet of the Arctic Circle, to freeze but never die, to suffer and never find peace.
I now believe that it was my parents’ death that tipped me toward the dark ideals of the power of science over the good of the heart. I drowned my bitter resentment for this so called God—this divine force that dared to snatch away a young man’s entire family in one fell, unloving swoop—in the dependable facts of science. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a peaceful physician. It was his dream that I should learn to heal God’s creatures. I decided to abandon this idea. Instead I would improve them. If He couldn’t keep His own fragile designs from breaking upon the rocks, then I would find a way to make it happen. I would improve upon the human being. Make him better. Stronger. More durable. I began this by designing the clockwork appendage.
After which I was rewarded with another backhanded slap from the Almighty.
Yet, we as a species are an immature lot when it comes to our triumphs, with some of us all but pompous about any small success. We crow and strut over every goal, no matter how tiny. Modern man is confident that he can cure all the troubles of the world, given enough time, enough dedication, and, of course, enough intelligent minds bent to the task. Meanwhile we forget our gentle past, our long lost connection with the very forces that created us.