The Falling Machine (27 page)

“‘A miracle,’ I thought! The building collapses, but somehow I'm still alive. The smoke makes me tough, I think, so I looked for you, hoping to take you back to him. But you'd escaped somehow.”

“I broke through the back wall.”

“Through the wall. Why didn't I think of that?” Eli lifted his hand weakly and waved a finger at the side of the bed. “Can you get me a glass of water? I can't stop sweating.”

Tom obliged, grabbing the badly chipped pitcher that stood on the wooden table and pouring out a full glass. He held it out to him.

Eli tried to lift his good arm, but it was clear from his wildly shaking hands that he no longer had the meager motor skills needed to hold anything. “I'm afraid I can't move so much anymore. My body keeps getting harder. I'm stiff like a thousand-year-old man….It's not so easy to talk, too, but for you I'll spare a few words before I go.”

Tom lowered himself down next to the sick man, slipping his left arm underneath the pillow to lift up Eli's head.

Eli groaned, and then grunted as he stiffly and slowly rose. “How do you like your new arm?”

“I liked the old one better.” Tom helped him up. When he was high enough Tom tipped the glass into his mouth. As the water touched his lips the gray coloring on his skin started to swirl and move, as if it were being repelled. The smoke parted for an instant, making a visible path on the surface of his skin as the liquid slid down the entire length of his throat. It stopped when it reached his stomach, and then closed up behind it. Eli looked down. “Can you see that, golem? It's some kind of miracle, all right—just not the good kind.”

“I can't see it, but I can sense it.”

“Strange, no? The smoke reacts to the water, even though it's in my skin. It's like a coat, but there's no way to take it off.”

Tom lowered Eli back onto the bed. The white lines along Eli's body twisted and flashed as he did so, like cracks opening and closing in his skin.

Eli glanced up at the Automaton's iron right limb. “How did you do that, with the arm?”

“I can repair myself.”

“But a whole new arm…”

“Since Darby died I have had to learn how to take care of myself.” Tom lifted up his borrowed limb and waved it around. “Given the…events since I last encountered you, this has turned out to be a useful…tool.”

“I heard about you beating up the Iron-Clad.”

“Did you build his…armor as well?”

Eli closed his eyes and rolled his head to the side. “Is this going to be an interrogation now? Because if you came here to get my secrets, golem, I can promise you that most of them—” The coughing started again. “Most of them, I'm taking to the grave.” He managed a smile.

Tom put down his arm. “I came here to find…Murphy.”

“That miserable Mick is long gone. When he figured I was going to die, he ran away. Then I thought, maybe the boss, he would save me. I mean he's been through the same thing. Maybe he knew…”

“Who is the…boss?”

It was intended as a chuckle, but the sound that actually came out of Eli's throat was a deep, rusty rasp, followed by a series of wheezes. “You still don't know, you poor sap? The mighty, mighty Paragons, greatest goyim in the history of the world, and altogether you know less than nothing. Lord Eschaton has your friends wrapped all the way around his little finger, and none of you even know a damn thing.” He started to laugh again.

“Murphy mentioned the…Children of Eschaton that morning when he killed…Darby.”

The horrifying wheezing stopped. “That's because he was
supposed
to tell you that. Give you a message.”

“Where is he?”

Eli began coughing again. It was the same as before, but a note lower. The intensity seemed to double with each exhalation, until finally it caught somewhere between a rumble and the smothered screams of a man being strangled to death. The white streaks began to move again, shaking and jumping across Eli's entire body.

Tom stood up and pointed his right arm at Eli. Steam began to pour out through the hole. He waved it back and forth, spreading the mist across the sick man's body. The instant it touched his skin the gray disappeared. At first it simply parted, and then it spread out, rolling back the darkness that covered his flesh like the sun burning through a morning fog. After a minute the taint had disappeared entirely, and Tom dropped his arm back down to his side.

The coughing slowly passed, and Eli gulped in the air, drawing it down deep into his lungs. He lifted up his left hand to look at it, and his eyes widened at what he saw. “You've cured me!”

Tom shook his head. “Doubtful. Even if the…poison is gone, your…brain is still dangerously enlarged, and the…sores on your skin may become infected.”

Eli ignored the words. “It's a miracle. A miracle is what it is!”

“Perhaps. If it is, will you revise your opinion of…fortified steam?”

Eli laughed. It was a very different sound than the rasping chuckle he'd made only a few minutes before. “Maybe that Darby was onto something after all.”

Tom reached over and grabbed the pitcher from the table next to him. He tilted his head backward, farther and farther until it almost leaned against his back. He poured the remaining water down into a tube in his neck.

Eli sat up. When he tried to move Tom placed his left hand on the man's bare chest, his fingers spread wide. It took only a small amount of effort to push Eli back down onto the bed and hold him there. He placed the pitcher back down, and his head slowly lifted itself back into place.

The little man struck out with his fist. It made a loud crack when it connected with Tom's mask, which was followed by a very human yelp of pain. “Damn it, golem. What's the matter with you?”

“Flesh versus metal usually has a clear winner.” The Automaton's arm didn't move or flinch as Eli tried to pull it away from his chest. “Now tell me about…Lord Eschaton.”

“Do you even know what Eschaton is?”

“Yes. It is a…Greek word. It means ‘last.’”

“Close. It means ‘the end.’ The end of everything. You, me—the world! Everything you know!” He grunted as he tried again to pull the metal arm away. Tom pushed harder, sinking the man deeper into the straw mattress.

“And why would you want that? Wouldn't the end of the…world be the end of you as well?”

“Maybe? Maybe we're reborn in this new world.” Giving up fighting the metal arm he reached over and rubbed the stunted limb on his right side. “And what did I have to live for, golem? I'm not like your fancy rich friends in their uptown apartments. For a freak like me this world has not very much. What
I
wanted, I wanted to be left alone and to build stuff. But instead I got grief.”

“The woman…downstairs said you were once close to becoming a rabbi.”

“Hattie? So she wishes…I've got nothing to say to God anymore.” He rose up a fist and shook it toward the ceiling. “You hear that, Yahweh? You're a children's story! People should tear down your churches and burn all your books!”

“But you don't…wish to die.”

“Lord Eschaton has a plan for after the world ends. What's next is something better.”

“I need you to tell me how to find him.”

“Go to hell.”

Tiny black dots started to grow on Eli's skin. “Just a name or a…location. Give me one of those and I will be…lenient.”

“I don't need your pity, or your mercy.”

“I helped you after you tried to…destroy me.”

The dots were growing larger and faster—joining together to create dark patches across his skin. Eli coughed and held up his arm. A look of horror grew on his face as the gray returned. “What's happening to me?”

“I told you that it was…doubtful I had cured you. You are still dying…Eli.”

Eli reached up and grabbed the back of Tom's metal arm. “No! You're a Paragon. You've got to help me! I can't go through this again. I don't want to die!” He let out a moan, then a scream.

“I'll try…Eli. But I need you to tell me how to find…Lord Eschaton.”

Things were progressing rapidly now. The gray had covered Eli completely, and the white lines once again danced like living things across his flesh. One of them twitched across his chest, pulsing brightly. The smell of burnt skin rose into the air on a puff of smoke. Eli screamed. “You've got to help me, golem! In the name of God!”

Tom poured more steam out from his arm. The gray parted, but this time it didn't recede. “It's no use. Please tell me what I need to…know before it's too late.”

Every word Eli spoke came out of him as a croak. He jerked and twisted as his muscles began to violently spasm and constrict. “Tomorrow…The arm.”

Tom held up his borrowed right limb. “This arm?”

“Schmuck! No! Arm…at the square!”

“I don't understand.”

There was a wet snap as one of Eli's ribs gave way under the pressure of his own contracting muscles. He screamed, and his mouth stayed open, pulled wide as every tendon in his neck contracted and refused to relax. Smoke-colored tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and then rolled down across his face.

“I need more!…Eli!”

“Garden…Liberty…” he said, and then froze. His muscles locked into rictus, freezing him as a screaming statue. Tom placed his hand on Eli's chest. The heart beat once more with a thunderous boom—then froze.

After a minute the white lines faded and turned to black.

T
he sun had dropped below the horizon an hour before, and the clouds that had blanketed the city for the last few days had finally parted. For anyone who cared to look, the glowing remnants of the day were still visible, outlining the western edge of the city skyline in a rusty orange. Smoke and steam billowed up from the buildings, filling the night air with twisting columns of white. Frosted hotel windows all around glowed with yellow lights from the people who huddled inside them.

But this was still New York City, and despite the treacherous roads and the cold, traffic continued to move up and down Broadway. As the final few wagons headed back downtown after a day of deliveries in treacherous weather, the tired iron-shod hooves of the draft horses clip-clopped against the icy cobblestones.

The temperature was already well below freezing, but it still had farther to go. The bitter cold was gripping the city, refreezing the snow that hadn't melted during the day, leaving behind patches of ice that temporarily memorialized the remnants of the human activity that had passed through it. Full of frozen ruts and footprints, the sidewalks were now treacherous terrain.

Madison Garden was empty now, free from the constant activity of the shoppers and tourists that filled it during the daytime.

Only a single pathetic figure, dressed in rags, sat on the benches in Madison Square, rocking slowly back and forth.

Only an occasional cheer—a muffled roar that rose from inside the arena at the north end of the park—could be heard punctuating the silence. Nearby, the flickering light of the gas lamps reflected dimly in the copper surface of the Torch of Liberty. The gigantic disembodied arm stood in the middle of the promenade, its hand holding the flame up just high enough to reach above the leafless, snow-covered trees. A sign at the base of it explained that it would be a gift to the people of America and that one day the torch would be raised high above the New York Harbor, but that there was a great deal of money still needed in order to begin the work to assemble the massive statue.

Underneath it stood two men. “Not really a gift if they're asking for other folks ta pay for it,” said the shorter man. He was dressed in a worn tweed greatcoat, his misshapen kepi cap pulled down tightly to protect him against the cold. Sitting on the frozen ground next to him was a large carpet bag, held shut by a brass latch.

The other man was much taller, pushing past six feet by a good few inches, raised up even higher by the heels of his polished black boots. His clothes spoke of wealth and power, the brocade patterns in his long black coat tracing out the Greek omega symbol over and over again in a fine gold thread. His face was hidden—wrapped up with a scarf so that only his eyes were visible between his coat and his hat. “You shouldn't mock their goals, Murphy. It's no small thing to plan a great endeavor.”

“As you know, Lord, nothing ever happens without a solid plan.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “I don't think Eli will be meeting us here tonight.”

“No, perhaps not. I was hoping…” He nodded. “I was hoping that Eli might have survived.”

Murphy scanned the park again. “It was an accident.”

“Death by Automaton….It was an accident that took years to perfect.” He clapped his hands together. “I would have called it providence had it turned out differently. To discover some proof that I'm not the only man able to survive the process would have been a great relief.”

“Maybe if you'd gone back to help him…”

“There is no cure, no medicine that would have saved him. Live or die—that is all there is.”

“Then it is what it is.”

A few yards away from them the ragged figure stood up from his bench. A liquor bottle dangled from his left hand and he stumbled toward the street with a weaving gait. His back was hunched, with a severe hump poking up from his right side. His wandering motion made it appear as if he was heavily inebriated, but he took another pull from the bottle.

The Irishman nodded in the vagabond's direction. “Maybe we should ask that one if he's seen anybody?”

The tall figure turned his head to look. “He appears fairly close to death himself. But go ahead and ask him if it will settle your conscience.”

“Aye!” Murphy yelled out. “You! Come over here.”

The figure stopped, looked up at them for a moment, and then began to sway in their direction. The bottle slipped free and landed on a clear patch of concrete. It shattered into glass fragments, instantly indistinguishable from the ice all around it.

As the vagabond moved closer it became clear that he was also well bundled up against the cold. He had a large piece of cloth wound around his head, but it was not nearly as stylish as what the tall man wore. He stopped a few feet away and held out his hand. “Coin for a war veteran?” The voice that rose up from the pitiable figure was horse and ragged, but each word was spoken slowly and deliberately.

“My master and I are looking for a friend of mine. I'm wondering if you might have seen him.”

“What did he look like?”

The Irishman stepped forward. “Oh, you'd notice him. His skin would be black. Not brown like a negroid's, but gray.”

The figure shuffled for a moment. “No. Ain't seen no one like that around here.”

“You're sure?”

“Yah.”

Murphy dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “All right, old man. Go find yourself someplace warm to sleep.”

The vagabond's gloved hand reached out and grabbed the man's wrist. The coin clattered to the ground. “What the hell?” He tried to pull his arm back, but it was held fast. “Let go of me!”

The ragged man lifted his head and let the Irishman look into his false eyes. “Hello…Murphy. I've been…looking for you.” He swung the man around him, letting him go after he'd completed three-quarters of a circle. The Irishman retained his balance long enough to stumble backward a few paces before his feet lost purchase on a strip of ice. The air was forced out of his lungs with a tremendous grunt as he landed flat on his back.

The force of the maneuver dislodged the cloth from the Vagabond's face. His metal mask was now clearly visible. “Your friend…Eli is dead.”

The tall man smiled when he saw Tom's face. “The Automaton? But this is too perfect. I've been trying to figure out how I was going to track you down. With you being on the run from your friends I had assumed you'd
stay
in hiding until I at least threatened the Stanton girl. This makes everything so much easier.”

Tom reached up and pulled away the rest of the cloth. The material fluttered down to land on the snow. “You are…Lord Eschaton.” His voice had returned to its usual musical timbre.

“Yes, Tom. And it's good to hear you call me by that name.” He held out his right hand. “And even better to see you again.”

Tom didn't respond to the gesture. “Again? Do I know you?”

“No reason you should remember me. But I was there at your birth—the midwife at the beginning of your marvelous life.”

Lord Eschaton reached out with a gloved hand and lifted up the right side of the Automaton's jacket until it slid off his shoulder, revealing the bulky iron arm hiding underneath. “Eli mentioned that you had figured out a way to incorporate new materials directly into your body. That's a most impressive trick—far from your creator's original design.”

“I am able to reason beyond my basic functions.” Tom shrugged the coat off and let it drop. “I can learn new things.”

“Remarkable…” Lord Eschaton began to walk around him. “But
how
do you manage to do that, Tom?
Where
exactly do you remember it?”

Tom continued to turn so that he could face the taller man at all times. “It does not need to be explained….I just…am.”

“Cogito ergo sum
, Tom? By all accounts you've bridged the great gap between thought and machine. No wonder the Paragons are terrified of you—something greater than they can comprehend.”

Lord Eschaton began unwinding the scarf from around his head. “But I know your real secret. I know what it is that truly separates you from humanity, beyond even your clockwork body.”

Tom cocked his head to the side. “And what is that?”

Underneath the silk, Lord Eschaton's skin was gray—darker in shade than Eli's had been, and completely free of any white streaks. The top of his head down to his nose was covered by a form-fitting leather mask. “You don't think with your head; you think with your heart.” His words spilled out into the cold with his steaming breath.

The mask's features were blank and smooth, painted with a black gloss so thick that it almost seemed to gleam in the gaslight. Painted onto the center of it in gleaming white, in the same broad strokes that had been used on the fortified smoke cylinder and the tenement wall, was the Omega symbol.

Tom took a step backward. “You've been tainted by the…smoke.”

“You said you visited Eli.”

“He died in…agony.”

“That's a shame.” Eschaton pushed his face closer to Tom's. He smiled broadly, his lips pulling back to reveal the whiteness of his teeth shining out in stark contrast against his darkened gums. “I'm sure you were a great comfort to him in the end.”

“He told me where to find you. What do you want with the…Paragons?”

“Always straight to the point, when it's what you want. A trait you've taken from your creator.”

Lord Eschaton took a step back and continued. “All right, let's get to it, then. What I want from them is exactly what they want for you: destruction. They are an obstacle to my plans.”

“Plans for the end of the…world.”

“Indeed.” He swept his arms out to his sides, holding his palms up in a grand, theatrical gesture. “This great city, this industrial era of man—it's all reaching its end. With or without me, it's just a matter of time.”

“There is a great deal left for us to…discover.”

“Us?” Lord Eschaton let out a chuckle. “How long do you think it will be before mankind has managed to infest every corner of this planet and squander all its precious resources? Five decades? Ten?” His voice gained volume with every word. “By the end of the year this park will be lit by electric light from a steam engine powered by coal. Then it will be the city, and one day the world. It will burn brighter and brighter until we have squeezed out the world's last drop of fuel.”

“It is called…progress. Humans discover to survive.”

“More Darby nonsense. I thought you said you were capable of learning, but it turns out you may not be much more than a fancy telegraph machine tapping out the words of a dead man.”

Lord Eschaton drew in a deep breath of the cold night air. “Yes, progress, but where is it leading us? This is a broken world, already overflowing with humanity—armies of poor and starving wretches are allowed to live and breed based on the needs of keeping a few rich men satisfied.”

Tom shook his head. “Sir Dennis said that the greatest success of…technology is that ultimately it…eases the lives of all men.”

Eschaton furrowed his brow. A single white line snapped into existence straight down the center of his face. “And yet thousands more are born into poverty every day.” He took a moment and smiled. “I only want what Darby wanted. It was the proper
solution
that he was always afraid to grasp.

“I don't just want a more efficient world, or a faster one. Those are meaningless dreams. We ride trolley cars across the city, and steamships over the ocean, but none of these things truly make our lives
better.
And there are so many more of us now. “

He reached up and pulled the glove off of his left hand. “I want a future for the human race where we can make scientific pursuits that lead not just to quantity, but to quality.”

“And to do that, you believe you must…destroy.”

Lord Eschaton clapped his hands together, the leather smacking against his smoke-black palm. “Just so! We must immanetize the Eschaton! The time has come to destroy this world so that the better one may be born.”

When he opened them, his hands contained nothing, but he pantomimed a small planet cradled above them. “The new world will no longer be built on fear and war, or any of the products of man's hatred and the rising tide of humanity. It is a world that will be built on nobler pursuits, and it will have room for more than just humans. It could be a place where an entire race of intelligent machines might find a home.”

From a few feet away Murphy stirred and moaned.

Tom cocked his head to the side. “Tell your…man to stay down. I will have no problem finishing what we started at the…bridge.”

Eschaton nodded. “Do as he says, Murphy, at least for a little while longer. Tom and I need to finish our conversation.”

Murphy groaned out his reply.

Tom turned his head so that his glass eyes were facing Lord Eschaton again. “What you are…proposing is wrong.”

“And what does the concept of right and wrong mean to a machine? What ethics lesson about the fundamental nature of humanity should I take away from something that isn't even human? What can I learn about life and death from something that has never been alive?”