The Falling Machine (7 page)

Taking another step, she came to the top of a twisting stairwell that descended into darkness. Without stopping she grabbed the railing and headed down.

By the time she reached the bottom it was pitch black, and while the end of the railing told her that she had reached flat ground, Sarah still tapped her foot out on the floor in front of her to make absolutely sure that no more stairs were hiding in wait.

Finding none, she put her hand flat against the wall and stepped blindly forward. After a few feet her trailing hand crossed the bump of an igniter switch. For a moment she considered the idea of pressing it and banishing the darkness. It was a comforting thought—she had no idea what hidden dangers lurked in the darkness, real or imagined. But it had been ages since she had been down here alone, and Sarah couldn't remember which lamps were controlled by what switch. While she was sure it would light up the hallway ahead of her, it was equally likely it might illuminate the stairwell behind her as well. She didn't need a curious staff member investigating the lower levels—especially now, when she was so close.

Groping through the blackness, she reached the end of the hall and turned to the right. Sarah gasped as her left foot found empty air, then landed heavily on a step. She had forgotten about this second descent, and her slipper lived up to its name as it shot out from underneath her, sending her pitching backward.

Her left hand found the railing by instinct, painfully yanking on her shoulder as she simultaneously fell and tried to pull herself up. Meanwhile her right foot had managed to find some purchase on the next step, saving her from a fall. She felt a sharp heat rise up from the bones of her ankle as it smacked into the stone.

Managing to regain her balance, Sarah whispered a prayer to herself as she stood upright. Lifting up her right foot she swiveled it around. The pain quickly subsided, and it seemed as if none of the damage was permanent.

Ten feet beyond the bottom of the steps her hand found the cold, flat iron of what she knew was the door she had been looking for.

She reached into her bag and pulled out another key. This one was much smaller than the one that she had used to unlock the entrance, but no less mysterious and ornate. Although she couldn't see them, her fingers felt the ridges of strange metals that had been inlaid into the teeth at one end, and the wire that had been tightly wrapped around the flat head of the key at the other.

Starting near the top, Sarah slowly swiped her hand back and forth across the door's smooth surface until she found the keyhole. She slipped the key into place, and the door began to vibrate with an audible hum, the metal in her hand becoming instantly warmer.

She twisted the key around in a full circle, and from somewhere inside the frame a mechanism shifted, letting out a heavy clunk. There was a slow scraping sound from inside as bolts released themselves from the frame.

When the process was complete, the door swung open in an easy arc. It wasn't until she exhaled loudly into the darkness that Sarah realized she had been holding her breath the entire time.

Putting the key back into her bag, she stepped through and groped along the wall with her hand until she found the familiar round shape of one of Darby's gas igniter switches.

When she twisted it, what came to life was not the flickering yellow light she expected, but a white, almost glaring illumination. Unlike the gas lamps, which mostly spread their light upward, the incandescent globes illuminated cleanly in all directions, revealing a low-ceilinged chamber carved into granite rock, over a room filled with a series of small worktables.

She let out a small laugh as her eyes adjusted. The glowing spheres were cut into the walls, with a filament glowing so brightly inside of each one that they left marks in her vision when she looked away.

While Thomas Edison, over in Princeton, had been loudly proclaiming for years that he was on the verge of discovering a practical electric bulb, Sir Dennis had completed the same invention under the streets of Manhattan, and bothered to tell no one.

The laboratory was thirty feet wide, and stretched out in front of her for twice that distance until it reached a massive door at the far end. It looked like something out of medieval history—a gateway fit for a fortress.

It was made from massive wooden planks strapped together with bands of iron, and in front of it a series of thick brass bars rose up from the floor and disappeared into the ceiling. There was even an open slot in the floor a few feet in front of it, as if someone had attempted to construct a miniature moat.

Although Sarah had been in this part of the laboratory a number of times before, she had never gone beyond that door, or even seen it open.

Her eyes went wide when she realized that on the left wall, laid out flat on a steel slab, was the Automaton. A set of six of the electric lights had been placed all around him, and he seemed like a mechanical angel bathed in their brilliant glow.

The mechanical man had been completely stripped. The plates that usually covered his body were removed and neatly stacked on a nearby table, leaving his insides clearly visible. Rows of meshed cogs slowly rotated, glinting as the lights reflected against the serrated edges of the turning gears.

As she walked up to him, Sarah could see that Tom's arms and legs had been shackled to the surface of a steel slab. Close up it was clear that no one had bothered to make any real attempt to repair him beyond his new face. His right arm was still damaged, with the rods scorched and bent from the dynamite.

Almost without thinking Sarah pulled out her handkerchief and gently began to try to polish the soot off of his damaged arm, but it was tattooed into the metal.

In the quiet of the laboratory she could hear the rhythmic ticking that came from his heart, a brass sphere in the center of his chest. It was suspended inside a metal cage in the middle of his body. Gear-tipped rods sprang out from it in every direction, their teeth resting against a series of larger cogs in his chest. Those, in turn, moved the other cylinders, gears, and rods spreading out across his body.

A pipe on the right side of the heart let out an occasional hiss as a rotating gear pulled open a spring-loaded cap at its end and released a small puff of steam into the air. Underneath was a large bolt with a wing nut at the end of it.

The heart of the Automaton was the one piece of his anatomy that Professor Darby had gone to great pains to point out to Sarah when he had first invited her down into the lab. “This,” he had told her, pointing out the device, “is everything that makes the Automaton what he is. Inside of it is something that I call the ‘perfect gear.’”

“But however does it work?” she had asked him.

Darby had given her a look, one that she had never seen him make at any other time in all the years that she knew him. It was a boyish grin, and for a moment she could see him as he was when he was thirty years younger—a clever young man still facing a world full of secrets to uncover. Then he rolled his eyes. “I have some thoughts, of course, but I don't actually know.”

Resting her hand against the cage, she could feel the rhythmic pulse of the machinery as it turned inside of the Automaton. She felt the stinging squeeze of tears as the memories and emotions of the loss of Darby welled up inside of her.

“Miss…Stanton,” came the words in the Automaton's singsong tones, “is that you?”

She jumped back slightly. Somehow she had convinced herself that the machine man had been unconscious, even if he was never truly “conscious” to begin with. “Tom?” Her throat felt thick, and the words came out slightly choked. “It's Sarah!” She took a moment to swallow and try to clear her voice. “I'm here. How are you?”

“It's good to speak with you Miss…Stanton. It has been a few days since I have had a visitor.” At least someone had bothered to repair his ability to speak. She supposed that was the minimal work needed to make Tom presentable for the funeral.

She reached over and began to pull out the long pins from his shackles. “What have they done to you, Tom?”

The Automaton tried to lift himself up, but was trapped by the restraints. Sarah opened them easily, and Tom folded himself up until he was eye to eye with her. The harsh glow from one of the electric bulbs shone down directly into his chest, turning his torso into a mosaic of spinning light and shadows that somehow made his injuries look much, much worse. “They have
done
nothing. I was simply told to wait down here until the…Paragons decided what it is they should do with me.”

“Strapped to a table? Alone and broken in the dark? That's monstrous.” She popped open the leg restraints. “Why don't you stand up?”

Tom began to try to move his legs. From somewhere deep inside of him came an unfriendly grinding followed by a dangerous-sounding metallic ping.

Sarah put her hand on his arm and tried to help, but it felt as if she were attempting to provide aid to a boulder. “Does it hurt?”

“I do not, I think, feel pain in the same way that you do, Miss…Stanton. It is simply uncomfortable.”

She touched his chest near his shoulder where the harpoon had pierced him, and the touch dislodged a small tin box that had once held a spring. It bounced noisily across the floor. “I'm sorry, Tom! What can I do to help you?”

“No apology is necessary. I am fully capable of self-repair given the right materials.”

Sarah's eyes widened. “Did someone tell you
not
to fix yourself?”

“Yes. The order was given to me by your…father.”

The anger rose up inside of her, and she clenched her hand into a fist. “This is unconscionable! I demand you repair yourself immediately!”

“I will need supplies. Perhaps you can open those?” He pointed at the sliding doors of the cabinet next to the table.

Then she heard another voice. “Let's think on that for a moment, shall we?” It sent a shock through her that made her jump. “I'm not sure that going directly against your father's wishes would be the best course of action at the present time, Miss Stanton.” The voice was male, clearly older, and spoke with a commanding British accent.

Sarah spun around, then immediately took a small step back. Dressed in his full costume, and standing only a few feet away, the Sleuth was an intimidating figure. A black mask covered his face from the forehead down to the tip of his nose. The molded leather was shaped to give the appearance of a deeply furrowed brow, like a man eternally in concentration.

Hanging from the bottom of the mask was a thin curtain of black leather that obscured the rest of Wickham's face. Whatever menace that it might have projected was mitigated by the thick gray hairs that sprung out from the back of his head.

The rest of the Sleuth's outfit was striking in its quality and detail, although it took Sarah a moment to tear her gaze away from the eyeless face.

He wore a black leather greatcoat over a wool vest stitched with a pattern of magnifying glasses in silver brocade. Underneath it all was a simple charcoal-gray shirt. His pants were a pair of gray-and-black striped breeches that accentuated his long, lean legs. Pointed boots rose up to meet them.

“I'm sorry if I startled you, Miss Stanton.” He pulled the mask down and let it hang around his neck. Underneath, the face was as long and sharp as the rest of him, the skin stretched tight around the skull, steel-gray eyes looking out from deep sockets. “I certainly didn't mean to.”

“If you don't want to scare people, then why would you wear such a frightening mask?” she asked him, putting her hand to her chest. She felt the rapid beating of her heart underneath it.

“Well, it
is
good to startle your
enemies
, my dear.” Wickham smiled. “Striking terror into their hearts and all that.”

Tom managed to rise up a little farther and spoke. “It is good to hear your voice Master…Wickham.”

A sudden realization struck Sarah. “How did you know I was here?”

He let out a soft chuckle. There were rumors that the Sleuth had been quite the charmer when he was a younger man, and even though it was clear those days were long behind him, she could see the rakish youngster peeking out through the practiced veneer of the calm, collected elder. “It wasn't much of a mystery for me to notice a young lady sliding her bustle down a hallway, even if she was doing her level best to do it quietly.”

Sarah felt a stab of panic rise up through her. “The others?”

He shook his head. “No worries, Miss Stanton. I am the only one who knows of your current adventures in the Hall of Paragons. Uncovering things that are trying to stay hidden is my specialty, after all.” He took a look down at the Automaton, peering into his body where the light shone through. “The other Paragons express their considerable power using far more…direct means.” He slipped a magnifying glass from a hidden pocket inside his coat and focused it over Tom's shoulder, where the tin box had been before Sarah dislodged it. “I excused myself and left them to listen to the final words of our fallen leader. I'm sure they'll find them most upsetting.”

Sarah closed her eyes. “Thank you for not saying anything.”

He reached a hand down into Tom's torso. “Don't give me your gratitude yet, Miss Stanton.”

Sarah felt a second tingle of fear run through her. “You wouldn't tell….I mean, there's no reason to…”

He carefully and slowly pulled out his hand. A small cog, badly scored and bent, was trapped between his middle and index fingers. “There are some questions that need to be answered before I can safely say I'm willing to keep your secrets.” He pointed across the room toward the doors. “Follow me, both of you.”

The grinding started up again as Tom rose, but this time he was able to move off the table. He took a tentative step forward, swaying dangerously before planting his next foot on the ground.

The Sleuth nodded approvingly. “Simply creating a machine capable of mimicking human locomotion is an astounding feat, and yet Sir Dennis managed to build one that could mimic the mind of a man as well.”

With each step Tom took, he seemed to teeter on the edge of disaster, but he managed to place the alternate foot down without falling. Sarah held out her arm. “Thank you, Miss…Stanton, but you cannot carry my weight, and I am afraid you will unbalance me if you try.”