The Falling Machine (21 page)

Wickham shifted his tone. “It wasn't your fault, Bill. I know you didn't want him to
die.”
Hughes was trembling. There were tears in his eyes.

Without warning he exploded out of the chair, closing the distance between them before Wickham could react. There was something in Hughes's hand, and he held it out in front of him as he grabbed the old man.

Wickham felt as if he'd been punched, but it was worse than that.

“You're wrong about that, Peter. I wanted Darby dead. If Lord Eschaton hadn't sent the Bomb Lance to do it, it would have been me.”

Wickham's vision was swimming, and when Hughes let go of him, he realized that he had no strength left. He tumbled to the ground, unable to feel his legs.

Hughes was still talking, tears rolling down his cheeks as he admitted to terrible things, but Peter Wickham could no longer make out the words.

The world was vanishing into a blast of pure white light. A figure emerged from the brightness, and he expected it would be Darby. Instead it was Tom who appeared before him, surrounded by a halo, his hand outstretched to lead him to the other side.

“Ironic,” he said to the figure. “It's all up to you now, you know.”

Tom said nothing, his face as impassive and immobile as always. Peter let out a little chuckle as he took his metal hand and rose up into the sky.

W
hether Nathaniel liked it or not—and the way things seemed to be headed, he most assuredly didn't—he was starting to wake up. And as he drifted toward wakefulness there were new and unpleasant sensations, each one of them overwhelming the one that came before.

First was a rhythmic throbbing pain in his head, as if someone were squeezing it from the inside.

Then came a raging thirst. It was a feeling so strong it was like the opposite of drowning, a desperate need for water made even more palpable by the actual, physical dryness of his throat and tongue. He tried to swallow, but couldn't.

Next was the chill. He had slept the entire night above the blankets in his bed, while the house had cooled down considerably. Not below freezing, but cold enough that his exposed skin was prickling and complaining, with a most noticeable ache rising up from his feet. And his left foot, he could now tell, was still most decidedly damp, making it uncomfortable in two unique ways.

The awareness of his state caused a shiver to spasm up and down his body, with his teeth chattering together every time it rolled past them.

It was a wonder that he wasn't suffering from hypothermia. Or perhaps he was, and it simply
felt
perilously close to a disastrous hangover.

He lay still for a few more moments, trying to wish himself out of consciousness and back into the gloriously unfeeling state of nonexistence that he had inhabited so blissfully just a minute before.

Then a new feeling appeared—one so strong that it drowned out all the others. It was a rushing sensation that rose up from his stomach like a locomotive.

Nathaniel's eyes popped open and he rolled over, his hands clawing desperately for the rubbish tin. It was a cloudy day, but still bright enough in the room that he could make out the form of the can in the gloom and pull it to his side an instant before the contents of his stomach ejected themselves into it.

When the first round of sickness subsided he leaned back and moaned softly to himself. An image popped into his head, a vague memory of forcefully challenging one of his friends to a raw quail-egg eating contest at the club the night before. He couldn't remember where the small, speckled eggs had come from exactly, or even who had won the contest, but clearly he was the loser now. Nathaniel heaved again.

Breathing heavily, he instinctually reached down to his trouser pockets for a handkerchief, but discovered that although he was still wearing his starched shirt, he definitely had no pants on.

He shivered again, which led to another series of involuntary heaving. The wretched excess of the previous evening passed before his eyes as it headed into the tin.

After the nausea passed away again, the front of his face felt as if it had been lit on fire from the inside, and everything was making the headache worse. “It is not,” he thought to himself, “a good day to be me.”

“Tomba!” he cried out. The word came out horribly slurred. His sinuses were stuffed with things he didn't want to begin to imagine. “Tomba!” he said again, trying to make that one word as clear as he could. Nathaniel wanted towels and water, but he certainly did not want to move. Certainly he could yell loudly enough to make the machine aware of his suffering.

And after the next round of sickness was done, he felt slightly better. The actual act of being sick seemed to take some of the headache with it, or perhaps he'd simply reached his maximum misery and the only possible next step was to feel better.

He yelled out Tom's name a few more times. He unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled off his undershirt and blew his nose into it. He gasped and moaned again as things not meant to pass through his nose did.

He waited for another minute to see if he would suffer any more illness. When it seemed clear that his stomach had ceased its rebellions, he rolled away from the tin.

Settling back onto the bed, Nathaniel turned his head and stared at the wallpaper to his left. Between the long lines of velvet were thousands of colorful curlicues and other flourishes. They started to swim in front of him, and just as the fleur-de-lis pattern transformed into a marching army, he slammed his eyes shut before they could complete their assault on his constitution.

With the world shut out, the forgotten events of the previous evening played out in his mind's eye. He saw flashes of the dinner party at the club in honor of his friend Alfred, who was
finally
taking that trip to Europe he had been going on about for so long. The memory was followed by a montage of what appeared to be a series of engravings, each one toppling over to reveal the next behind it. They all showed him with another drink in his hand, finally giving way to the quail eggs being broken over his mouth, his head tipped back to receive each one.

After that was the barely conscious trip home in the hansom cab, the long crawl up the stairs as he tried to disrobe with a bottle of bourbon in his hand. Then yet another argument with the damnable machine, and finally, “Sarah…”

He let out a sigh. Perhaps the words they'd exchanged last night were irrevocable, perhaps not. Maybe this would convince whatever part of him it was that made him such a fool for her that it was time to put her behind him. There were certainly eligible women who were actually interested in a wealthy young man of good breeding. “And none of you will ever be Sarah,” he said out loud. Followed by, “No! No, no, no.”

Opening his eyes, Nathaniel pulled himself upright, then swung both feet onto the floor. After a few seconds, once he felt he had managed to gain his equilibrium, he stood up.

As he rose from the bed it dawned on him that one foot was still covered by a boot while the other was not. The traitorous footwear threw him off balance, and he tumbled forward to his hands and knees, landing perilously close to the unspeakable steaming bin nearby.

Kneeling there like a dog, various aches and pains dancing through his body, an image rose up in his head of a packet of headache powder. He could see it lying there, his salvation waiting for him in the bathroom closet.

This was a very motivating vision, even more so as he had managed to do
something
painful to the palm of his right hand when he fell that the medicine might also help with. He rolled over, came up to a sitting position, and grabbed his booted foot.

The boot was attempting to resist his desire to get it off of him, and when it finally did come free, it did so all at once. Nathaniel rolled backward, and there was a “thunk” as the dreaded tin tipped over, leaking its horribleness out onto the floor.

He moved faster than he would have thought possible only a few seconds before, successfully managing to rise up and head away from the oozing mess. He grabbed the blanket, stripping it off the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders as he stepped out into the hallway.

He cried out for Tom a few more times as he wandered down the upstairs hall toward the water closet, but if the machine was in the house then it either couldn't hear him or it was simply being obstinate about doing what it was supposed to, like a stuck lever on an old boiler.

Reaching the bathroom, he stepped onto the tile floor. His already-frozen feet complained to him even more bitterly as he padded across the cold white ceramic to the medicine cabinet. By the time he reached it and pulled it open he was no longer sure if he could feel his toes. He dug through the shelves, shoving aside various tonics, tinctures, and grooming products until he pulled out a packet of Dr. Hansen's headache powder and a clean glass.

He traveled back to the sink and filled his cup. Opening the paper parcel he poured in the contents and stirred it for a moment with his finger to encourage its dissolving before knocking it all back into his throat in a single shot, leaving a white trail of undissolved medicine inside the glass.

As he bent down to fill the cup for a second drink he caught his reflection in the mirror in front of him. “Good Lord, Nathaniel, you look like hell,” he said to himself, and smiled.

His eyes were red rimmed and puffy, and the deep red of the blanket thrown around his shoulders only managed to heighten how pasty and white his skin appeared to be. His dark brown hair, usually well coiffed, was sticking out at all angles.

He grabbed a brush and ran it through the tangled bush a few times, but his hair seemed to be actively resisting any attempts to get it under control.

Unscrewing the taps again he splashed ice-cold water on his face. It stung, but at least it managed to bring some color into his cheeks.

As he scraped his teeth clean with a rag Nathaniel tried to decide what he would do next. “A bath, definitely a bath,” he said to his reflection.

With Tom missing and none of the regular house staff due to be in until later in the day, Nathaniel would need to go downstairs and light the water heater himself if he fancied actual hot water to bathe in.

He didn't relish the idea of journeying all the way down to the kitchen on a cold morning, but if he could actually survive down there he might well do with something to eat. “Something simple,” he said to his stomach's rumbling reproach. “And a drink,” he mumbled to himself. “A hair of the dog to get me back on my feet.”

Taking a deep breath to fortify himself for the journey ahead, he plodded into the hallway and navigated the main staircase in a series of slow, woozy steps.

Taking a moment to steady himself at the bottom, he took a left turn across the marble floor of the entryway into the main hallway, gaining momentum as he went.

It was still mostly dark down on the main floor. The only daylight in the hallway was what came through the glass of the French parlor doors. When he reached them he glanced over to his right, took a look into the room, and stopped.

It was Tom. He was bent over above…
something.

He narrowed his eyes. He knew what it was, but couldn't quite be sure….Then it suddenly came into shocking focus—a body, prone on the floor. And the Automaton's hands were searching through the unconscious
(dead?)
man's coat.

What remained of Tom's clothes were completely ripped and burned. His pants were shredded, and his jacket hung on him in tatters. Almost all the exposed metal on his body was blackened and scorched.

There was the remnants of a leather glove over his left hand, but the right limb had been replaced entirely with some sort of misshapen, metal bludgeon.

Whether it was the powder finally starting to work, or the terror of seeing the metal man in this bestial state, the pain in his head seemed to vanish completely.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, even more details began to emerge. Blood was pooled underneath the figure on floor, and the dead man had a mask dangling around his neck and a long leather jacket. It was Wickham. “The Sleuth,” Nathaniel gasped. The man was clearly dead.

The Automaton's head swiveled up to face Nathaniel. His face was mostly gone, and whatever had burned the rest of him had also done its work on the porcelain, leaving none of its features visible except for a single, badly scorched eye.

Nathaniel jumped back. “No!” he yelled without thinking. Clearly having heard him, the Automaton rose up smoothly and turned toward him. Despite what appeared to be grave damage, any traces of the limp that he had had over the last few weeks were completely gone, and he took a long step toward the doors. Tom was trying to say something to him, but it was muffled by the glass and the pounding roar that had filled Nathaniel's ears.

Looking to slow down the Automaton, he grabbed the tall bookcase standing next to the parlor doors. It wobbled as if it was ready to come toppling over, as so many of the shelves in the mansion seemed to be constantly threatening to do, but actually getting it to fall was taking more effort than he had imagined it would.

He clearly heard Tom call out his name. Realizing that the machine would be on him in an instant filled Nathaniel with a surge of energy, and the shelf went over, spilling Sir Dennis's precious books down onto the floor in a satisfying cascade.

He just hoped it would at least slow down the mechanical monster long enough to give him a chance to reach the study.

Nathaniel was sprinting now. When he reached the end of the hallway he turned right and ran into the rear study. It was a small writing room, no more than twelve feet in either direction, with a massive desk up against the window and built-in shelves on the other three walls. They were filled with the knickknacks and curios that Sir Dennis had gathered together from his adventures around the world, including a number of weapons taken from villains that the Paragons had defeated. None of them, unfortunately, were still in working order. Darby had always taken great pleasure, as he had described it, in “taking the tools of villainy and stripping them of their power.”

“Always too damn clever,” Nathaniel muttered to himself as he slid his index finger under the second shelf from the top. He drew it across the wood until he felt the familiar bump of the hidden switch. When he pressed it, a section of the shelving swung open in response, revealing a secret passage.