The Falling Machine (13 page)

But for all his success as a capitalist, the actual abilities of the White Knight seemed to be minimal: he claimed some degree of strength beyond that of the average man along with “exceptional reflexes” supposedly gained through some combination of chemicals and electricity that had bathed him in boiling liquid and given him some degree of superhuman powers.

Alexander flipped through to the notes attached at the back. The Sleuth's research stated that if there had been an “incident” behind his origin as a hero, then it was far more likely the outcome of a whiskey still explosion than a scientific experiment. Alexander chuckled out loud at Wickham's remark that they might consider renaming him “Mr. Moonshine.”

And on closer examination there were a number of disturbing elements to his costume: a white cloth hood, a noose tied loosely around his neck, and two crosses on his chest. At best it was morbid, and at worst it smacked of the kind of association that could easily fuel charges of racism and elitism.

News of the white supremacy movement wasn't the kind of thing that Alexander had followed too closely after the war had ended. After the endless horrors of battle, he had, like most people, been content to concentrate on pulling the country back together and healing the wounds of a divided nation. He'd also been busy fighting crime and amassing his fortune.

But the Klan's crimes had been heinous enough that they had generated nationwide news and conversation in a postslavery world, and when the organization was finally shut down by the government almost everyone had breathed a sigh of relief.

Adding a Klansman into the mix would surely be a poor way to improve their standing in the popular imagination, not to mention how the newspapers might respond. The Paragons already had enough problems, with the working classes considering them to be an organization of elitists and upper-class snobs.

Altogether the White Knight seemed to be a rather dubious character, and had it not been for his heritage, and the fact that some upstanding members of the community had vouched for his abilities, he would have rejected the application without a second thought.

But now that he had made it this far, and the others seemed to think he was worthy of their attention, Alexander had to at least give the man a chance to state his case to them directly.

He considered his response for a moment, then pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote out a note to that effect, emphasizing that it would be necessary to see the man prove his claims of superhuman powers before they could even make a decision. He attached his note to the bottom of the stack and slid it back into the envelope.

The last application was simply marked “King Jupiter” on the outside. As he lifted the flap, a mechanical snap echoed through the room. Alexander leaped up from his chair.

A
s he fell, the Sleuth could feel the knife cutting into the left side of his chest. He had no idea how deeply it had penetrated, but it was clear that it had done some damage, and landing on it would certainly not improve the situation.

He twisted violently, managing to land flat on his back, and coughed out an involuntary “ungh” as the cobblestones smacked the air out of his lungs. He was dazed, but the thick padding of his disguise had absorbed some of the impact, and hopefully the majority of the damage from Jack Knife's blade as well.

The air around him was still cloudy with white smoke. The exploding glass balls had been Darby's concoction, based on the description Wickham had given of a device he'd seen a Japanese assassin use during his adventures in the Orient. The violent cloud of smoke hadn't managed to allow the Sleuth to make the spectacular escape he had intended, but it had given him a moment of surprise—and he was still alive.

He heard his cane clatter to the ground nearby, returning from its journey into the sky. From time to time Sir Dennis's attempts to “improve” something had been so effective that they were almost useless for their original purpose.

His ears were still ringing from the explosion, but he could hear the thumping of shoe leather against stone as the villain's lackeys jumped into action. If he had any hope of escape, he would need to get moving and find a weapon.

At least he knew the stick was close by, although it wouldn't be much use until it was in his hand.

Wickham rolled over onto his stomach and began to crawl toward where he thought the cane might have landed. He had only traveled a few feet before he ran into a pair of legs covered in threadbare herringbone cloth. Looking up he saw the dirty face of the youngest henchmen. The scruffy lad was wielding a short length of chain and smiling down at him. He was quite young to be missing so many teeth. “He's over here—uhhh!”

Wickham had wrapped his hands behind the young man's calves and pulled. The boy crashed backward, arms flailing, his head making an unpleasant smacking sound as it bounced off the paving stones.

Wickham felt a twinge of guilt, but he had no time to check on the condition of his opponent. Instead he continued to grope his way forward, managing to grab the boy's chain as he rose to his feet. It was not a weapon he was as comfortable with as his stick, but it would be more effective than bare hands. “Five left to go,” he thought to himself, but it didn't sound convincing.

The forms of the other henchmen were starting to swim out of the smoke as the cold winter air swept the smoke toward the sky. “He's got Donny!” one of them yelled.

Realizing that his cover was almost gone, he wrapped his left hand around the other smoke ball in his pocket.

“Give it up, old man.” Jack's broken accent echoed off the brick walls that surrounded them. “I'd rather take you alive than dead, but I'll have you either way.”

Wickham doubted that there was any hope of appealing to the villain's thin mercy. The man was terrifyingly accurate with a knife, and if the lethal intent of his previous attack was anything to judge by, the offer to spare him was a lie.

As final shreds of white mist cleared away he saw his cane—it sat directly in between him and Jack. The tip of it was somewhat scorched by the explosion, but otherwise it was little worse for wear. A couple of feet behind that, and slightly to the right, stood another henchman. The look of surprise on his grizzled face made it obvious that he hadn't realized just how close his prey was until the smoke was gone.

“Now watch, boys,” Jack said, letting out a single barking laugh. “If you can get the blade to stick in deep between the eyes sometimes they'll dance a jig before they drop.” He pulled his hand back toward his ear, ready to throw.

The plan that flashed into the Sleuth's mind in that moment was born of an instinct that had been trained through half a century of practice, fueled by a sense of desperation that was only a few seconds old. He dropped into a run, moving one step to the right so that he could put the henchman directly between himself and the lanky psychopath. With his second step he hurled the glass ball up into the air, sending it up with a prayer that Darby's tendency toward being dangerously overzealous when it came to explosives was consistent.

With his third step he dropped downward into a crouch. The last thing Wickham saw before he stared down at the ground was the look of annoyance on Jack's face as the marksman hesitated, unwilling to risk hurting his own man.

As he landed, Wickham's hand hit the ground, his palm perfectly centered over the cane. He tucked his head and let his momentum carry him forward, ramming into the henchman and grabbing his stick at the same time. The man tumbled over like a wooden skittle.

In the next instant there was a loud crack as the smoke bomb finished its arc and landed on the stones nearby. Now it was his enemies who were surrounded by a white cloud.

The Sleuth rolled into the smoke and began to rise up. There had been a time when his acrobatics would have been smooth and graceful, but his old bones protested at being put through such punishment, and Wickham needed the cane to steady himself; he gasped as his sense of balance began to give way.

Then his momentum overcame the instability of his roll, and he landed on his feet, although he wobbled slightly.

Unable to see anything but white, and knowing that the thin man would already be swinging his knife in front of him, hoping for a lucky hit, Wickham did the same. He swept the chain around him in an arc, hearing the satisfying slap as metal connected with flesh.

He gave it a downward yank and was pleased to feel that whatever appendage he had managed to wrap the chain around followed his motion. Clearly his opponent had some fighting skills, but the Sleuth had been trained in the art of using a man's skills against him.

Still clenching the chain, he spun to the right, following behind with a sweeping blow of his cane. The hard wood caught Jack square in the face, and Wickham could feel him collapsing to the ground.

Part of him was still shocked at how easy it all was once he was in motion. Even if the memories of those years of intense training in faraway lands had faded, the knowledge he had gained was permanently etched into his body and mind.

Seeing Jack's form in the clearing smoke, Wickham jumped onto the man's back and raised up his cane, intending to deliver a blow to Jack's head strong enough to knock the fight out of him for a good long while. “Now let's see
you
dance a jig.”

As he began to bring his arm downward, he felt five meaty fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his wrist. They plucked him into the air like a feather while a second hand grabbed his cane and ripped it out of his fingers with what felt like an unstoppable force.

He was roughly spun around, the action causing him excruciating pain in his shoulder and neck. As he finished the rotation he found himself face-to-face with the Ruffian. “That,” Brandon Kurtz huffed from beneath his ridiculous mustache, “is enough.”

The round man peered down at his friend on the ground. “Are you all right, Jack?”

The thin man let out a muffled groan that sounded like it was supposed to be words, but made no actual sense.

“It's good you left him alive. I'd be very angry if he were dead. I am a man of the Bible, Mr. Hogan.” The Ruffian let go of his hands and transferred his grip to the old man's neck. “‘And if the revenger of blood find him without the borders of the city of his refuge, and if the revenger of blood
kill
the slayer; he shall not be guilty of blood.’”

Wickham felt as if his throat had been caught between iron gears. It was clear to Wickham that if he didn't escape in a matter of moments he would end up dead. “That's from Numbers,” the large man said in a matter-of-fact tone.

The Sleuth reached up and boxed Brandon's ears, then slid his hands inside the other man's arms and pushed outward. It would have broken a normal man's grip easily. And although the tension around his throat loosened slightly, it was not significant. His vision was already starting to swim, blackness creeping in from around the edges and narrowing the world.

Wickham's bag of tricks was empty, and he could feel what little energy he had left draining out of him. A hissing roar began to fill his ears. He knew that it must mean that his body was preparing to die.

The thought of his own end filled him with a feeling of sadness, but something like relief welled up inside of him as well. He had spent decades fighting against death—never giving up, even when there was no hope. But perhaps now was a good time for him to go. He would see Dennis again….

“Let him go.” The booming voice was loud enough for Wickham to hear it even through the veil of darkness that was closing around him.

The grip relaxed. Although the unstoppable egg of a man still had his hands wrapped around the Sleuth's throat, they were loose enough that he could draw a breath, and the light of the world began to creep back into his vision.

Brandon seemed confused. “But Jack wanted him dead!”

“And I want you to
let him go
!”

The choking hand released him suddenly and completely, as if a spring had been disengaged. Wickham landed hard on his ankles and then collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Something felt out of place inside his neck, but it wouldn't kill him.

“Jack and the boss, they both want him dead. That's why I brought him here.”

“No one told
me
that.” The voice was coming from beside him now, and the Sleuth looked up to see where it was coming from.

What he saw made Wickham imagine that he must be hallucinating, or worse, had died without realizing it. Where a man's head would normally appear was the snarling face of a jackal. It was an image he recognized from mythology: “Anubis,” he muttered to himself.

As his vision cleared he realized that the demonic vision was real, but shaped out of black leather. The mask was similar to the one he would be wearing if he had ventured out as the Sleuth instead of in this pathetic disguise—although in the end the padded shirt had managed to save his life. He patted his chest and found the knife still stuck into it. When he pulled it out there was a jolt of pain as the tip of the blade tore free from his flesh. The edges of the knife were barbed, and it dragged a good deal of blood-soaked padding out of his shirt as it went. He slipped the blade into his pocket.

“Jack is in charge here, not you, dog-man,” Brandon said, sounding a bit confused.

“And neither are you,” Anubis replied, following it up with a solid whack from the long metal rod he was holding in his hand.

Wickham couldn't help but be impressed by the costume, and he'd seen a few in his day. The man was dressed from head to toe in a bodysuit made from what appeared to be black kid-leather.

Strapped across his chest was a set of armor constructed from thick bands of boiled hide and steel. Bolted to the center was a large ankh that glittered like gold. For the Sleuth, whose powers relied on subterfuge, it seemed dangerous and impractical to wear such a large chunk of precious metal on the center of your chest, even if it was his most armored feature.

Bringing the costume together was a simple white loincloth held up with a silver belt. It was clearly more ornamental than practical, although the contrast was quite striking. The entire design brought together Egyptian and Roman elements to form something that recalled ancient times but provided practical protection as well.

A few feet away Jack was starting to wake up. As the thin man lifted his head up from the ground there were a number of oozing cuts and red bruises across his face.

The villain turned and looked directly at the Sleuth. His daze seemed to vanish as his gaze caught Wickham's. “I won't miss this time, old man!” His right hand slipped into his coat, and when he drew it back out again he held another one of the barbed knives from his bandolier. He flicked it straight at Wickham with a single snap of his wrist.

Wickham could see the knife coming toward him as if time had slowed down. He knew that he needed to move out of the way, and quickly, but he was still dazed from his brush with death, and the desire to move his head and the actual ability to do it were somehow disconnected.

Before the blade could impale him there was blur in front of his face, then a spark and a ping as the knife ricocheted off the metal rod and flew off in a new, harmless direction.

“Damn you, Anubis!” said Jack, grimacing as he used his hands to try to wipe away some of the blood from his face.

“I won't have the death of another Paragon on our hands. It will bring twice as much trouble down on our heads.”

“Lord Eschaton said he was to die,” the round man interjected. “Do
you
want to tell him we didn't do what he asked?”

Jack shook his head. “And what more trouble could he bring dead than alive? He's seen our faces; he knows where we're hiding. What's worse than bringing the rest of the Paragons down on us?”

Wickham started to back away. If there was any chance that he was going to get out of this alive, it wouldn't come from waiting for the mercy of Jack Knife or the Ruffian. And honestly, even he found the argument in favor of his death far more compelling than the meager defense his savior in black had put up so far.