The Falling Machine (8 page)

She let go of Tom, but stayed by his side as she spoke to Wickham. “Is it possible to simply ‘mimic’ thought?” she asked him. “Can something pretend to think and not be thinking?”

He pondered it for a moment, and then smiled. “I'm afraid that uncovering the answers to those kinds of esoteric philosophical questions is quite outside the realms of my expertise.”

The Sleuth strode toward the dark end of the chamber, his long legs giving him a gait that neither Sarah nor the broken Automaton could match. “My world is built from facts and the deductions I can make from them.” He turned his head and spoke loudly over his shoulder to them as he walked. “And currently it is one that is almost overwhelmed by a number of mysteries that have been much on my mind since the tragedy at the bridge.”

“Could you slow down, please?” Sarah asked him.

“Of course.” But his actual gait seemed to remain the same.

“Tom,” the Sleuth said. “First question: who was responsible for the death of Dennis Darby?”

Tom's voice rang out. “The…Bomb Lance.”

“For his
physical
murder, yes. No question there.” The Sleuth stopped at the massive gate and waited for the others to catch up. “But that's not the same as having a genuine reason to kill a man.”

Sarah tottered on her heels as she came to a stop. “He wanted the key.”

“Clearly that. And, unfortunately for all of us, he got it.”

“But why was it so important?” Sarah asked him. “What does it unlock?”

“Dennis had a penchant for complicated metaphors. Men, machines…” He tapped his hand against the clasp holding the sliding doors together. “Keys, locks…” The Sleuth let his words trail off and regarded Sarah silently, wrapping his long fingers around his chin.

She looked straight up at him. “You said you had some questions for me.”

“You understand, Sarah, that if I were to tell the others that you were down here it would never be for reasons of malice.”

Sarah felt a familiar queasiness rising up from her stomach. “I suppose it would be for my own good.…”

“Yes,” he replied. “That
would
be the reason.”

“If you were a young woman in this world, Mr. Wickham,” Sarah said with a slight sharpness in her voice, “I'm afraid that you'd end up hearing that phrase all too often. At some point I began to realize my ‘own good’ is an easy excuse that people use when they're telling you what to do.”

“I understand. If it makes you feel any better, it's something they say to young men as well, especially when you're the type who dresses up in costumes and gallivants across the city during the night.”

“I can see how that might frighten the horses,” Sarah replied.

He tapped a finger against his cheek and grinned. “Sometimes you truly are your father's daughter.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

The Sleuth pointed at the gate. “If, Miss Stanton, I open this door and show you what lies beyond it, you will become
involved
—irrevocably and absolutely. I will try to protect you from harm, but since I'm not sure exactly what is going on here, I can't promise you that you won't be entering a world of danger beyond my ability to keep you safe.”

Her mind flashed back to the brass reliefs on the front door: poor Prometheus tied to his rock as the gods went about the business of war. “The world of the Paragons…” she said slowly to herself. “But I'm the daughter of the Industrialist.”

“Yes, you are. The fact that you came this far on your own makes it obvious that your father has already allowed you to become involved to a greater degree than he should have. But there is still a great deal you don't know, and that ignorance may give you a modicum of safety. And if not safety, then at least some comfort.” His face was very stern, his forehead now furrowed into ridges very similar to those on his mask. “So I have two questions for you.”

Sarah nodded.

“Firstly, are you sure this is what you really want? I'm well acquainted with the satisfaction that comes from discovery. But I want you to understand that there are often unintended consequences and responsibilities that also come with knowledge.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. “This won't be a game any longer, so I want you to be sure.”

Sarah pondered for a moment. Even growing up as a child of privilege in New York City, it was impossible to be ignorant of the fact that most people in the world lived much sadder and more desperate lives than she had ever known. And while some might claim that it was destiny that put you into your circumstances, Sarah had always believed that it was mostly luck that had given her the life she'd lived. And yet she had always been determined to not let that hold her back.

She heard herself saying the words before she had even decided she believed them. “I…I am, Mr. Wickham.”

He nodded solemnly and then continued. “Secondly, showing you what is behind this door means that I am about to break a number of sacred oaths. So, even as I am keeping your secrets I will now be asking you to keep mine. Can I trust you, Sarah Stanton? Are you someone of honor, integrity, truth, and righteousness?”

As she heard him speaking the words a jolt of recognition struck her. They were part of the oath that every Paragon took when they became a member. “I swear to fight for honor, integrity, truth, and righteousness,” She had heard her father say them many times over the years as he had inducted new members into the Society.

“…and that you will use the secrets and powers of the Paragons to protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Wickham continued, completing the oath.

“I…I will!” she stammered back.

He took her hands in his. They were surprisingly smooth and cool. “I can't make you a Paragon, Sarah. But I can ask you to live up to Sir Dennis's ideals. In the end I think that may be worth a great deal more.”

“I'll do my best, for you…and for Sir Dennis!”

“That's my girl.” He held onto her hand for another moment, his eyes locked onto hers. Sarah felt mesmerized. “If things should go bad, remember that an oath isn't just something you say—it's a promise you make to yourself so that you'll have something to rely on in those dark moments when you think you have nothing at all.”

“I understand.”

“I truly pray that you never have to.”

W
ickham kneeled down for a second, fumbling at something around his neck. When he placed it into the keyhole there were a series of rhythmic snapping sounds as the vertical brass rods that barred the door rose rapidly up into the ceiling, one after another.

“You may want to keep out of the way.” The old man put his hand on her shoulder and had her take a few steps back. After the last of the rods had disappeared, the door lurched forward as if it had been shoved by the hand of a giant.

Poised over the slot in the ground, the gate began to sink down into the floor. Sarah looked over the top of it as it descended and peered into darkness beyond, but only a few feet from where they stood the gloom gave way to total blackness.

It took almost a minute for the gate to disappear entirely. Only after the top of it was completely even with the floor did Wickham step through. He took a few steps, then reached out to the wall and dialed a switch. Along the ceiling in front of them two gas lamps clicked, then flared to life, followed by dozens more, one after another, the brightness moving out into the room ahead of them until a huge metal chandelier on the ceiling flared to life, the polished reflector behind it sending light down into the room.

As her eyes adjusted Sarah realized that they were standing behind a metal railing. The roof of the room continued out at the same level from where they were standing, but the floor was forty feet below.

She looked down and saw that just beyond it a cavern stretched out in front of them with machines the size of locomotives and larger spread out across it like the discarded toys of a giant child.

The Sleuth started walking down a cement stairwell that had been built along the sheer wall. “Darby was no threat to anyone, physically speaking. Anything he had could simply be taken from him. Question: why murder him?”

Sarah tried to ponder Wickham's query as she followed him down. But as she did so the images of Darby's death confronted her again in her mind's eye. “It's not…” She remembered the sound of the harpoon, the horrible wound, the blood, and the look of anguish on the Professor's face as he tried to calmly face his own death. “Maybe he just…”

“The Bomb Lance told you that he would let you live in order to send us his message, which, conversely, also means that he must have come there with the intent to kill everyone else. If we can figure the reason for the slaughter, it should—logically—lead us to who wanted him
dead
.”

Sarah was unhappy with the coldness of the Sleuth's tone. He was reducing the lives of men down to cold hard facts, but she let it pass without comment. She had never been the kind of woman to back down to a man simply because he was showing passion or anger. She wasn't going to let a lack of emotion scare her, either. “I've been thinking about that myself, and I have a theory.”

He stopped and turned his head around to face her. “Do you, my dear?” he said, cocking up his left eyebrow at her. “What is it?”

“That whatever it was they stole from him, they wanted to make sure that he could never make another one. No new body for Tom, no more flying suits for Nathaniel, or machines for any of the other Paragons.”

A screeching noise rose up from behind them, metal against metal. Sarah turned to look and saw Tom's hands grinding down against the railing as he used it for support. The descent was clearly difficult for his broken body.

Wickham made a face that seemed halfway between sadness and disgust, and then let it vanish as he turned back to Sarah. “That's very good, Miss Stanton—very logical. I agree that must be a part of it.”

While there were a number of large machines all around them, the object they were walking to was huge—even in comparison to all the rest. Two massive frames of iron stood on either side, each made from two pillars rising up three stories from the floor to meet at a point at the top. Held up by an axle in bewteen these enormous A-frames was a flywheel so large that it sank down into a cement-lined pit in the earth between them. And rising up on either side were two great pistons, each topped with a massive slab of curved metal suspended in the air at the top of the structure, hanging motionless as they waited for the power that would send them into motion.

A set of wrought-iron stairs on the left side led up to a walkway suspended twenty feet in the air that ringed the entire machine. For all its massive size and weight there was something about its design that made it look almost ethereal, like a skeleton of an industrial beast

It was also familiar. Sarah had seen a machine like it four years ago when her father had taken her to the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. It was called a Corliss engine, and it had been one of the stars of the show—a modern marvel of efficient steam power. The engine had provided electric current for the entire exhibition, bringing to life a variety of industrial machines that were used for producing screws and the like. This version was clearly Darby's attempt to improve on that original design, and she could only imagine what it was capable of.

The old man pointed over to another object standing several yards away. “And do you have any idea what that is?” It was a sturdy-looking iron box fifteen feet long and seven feet high. Clustered around the far end were four tall tanks that looked a bit like mourners hunched over the end of a coffin.

Out from the top of each tank a straight metal pipe rose upward. After a few feet the pipes angled together into a single tube that then made a hard right angle when it reached the ceiling. Steel fasteners held it fast to the roof as it snaked from one side of the cavern to the other, until it finally dropped down straight into the middle of Darby's Corliss engine. “Do they collect energy from the engine?”

Tom reached the bottom step. “They do the opposite,” he said. “That box is the…fortified steam generator.”

“Just so.” The Sleuth pushed forward. “Follow me, Miss Stanton, and pay close attention. I'm about to reveal one of the Paragon's most closely guarded secrets.”

As a child Sarah had often been reminded that “curiosity killed the cat,” usually after being found somewhere she didn't belong, or after returning home with dirt smeared across one of her dresses. She could hear her father saying the words to her now using the stern voice he reserved for expressing disappointment.

Of course he wasn't the only person who compared her sense of inquisitiveness with that of a deceased feline. Nathaniel had often reprimanded her for sticking her nose into places it didn't belong, warning her that one day it was going to get bitten off.

But knowing a rule and following it were very different things, and although Sarah had known that Nathaniel and her father would be
very
displeased with her current actions, she was not going to miss the opportunity to help the Sleuth unravel a mystery. And clearly, whatever this machine in front of her actually did, it was well worth knowing more about if it truly was a “guarded secret.”

Up close the apparent simplicity of the design of the box was revealed to be a by-product of the surprising amount of strength built into it. The entire exterior was constructed from flat sheets of thick boiler-plate iron, held together with quarter-inch rivets. Cut into its surface at regular intervals were a series of small glass portholes. Each one was covered with a sliding brass plate held in position by a pin and a wing nut, allowing it to rotate down once the nut was loosened. She found one that was already hanging on its hinge, and peered inside. The smoked-glass plug was at least an inch thick, and she could see nothing through it. She turned her head and looked up at the Sleuth. “A steam engine?”

Tom replied, “It is not, technically, an…engine. A…boiler would be more precise.”

She looked over the machine again. “Then I'm afraid I'm confused.” She pressed her hand up against it and felt the cool metal. “There's no firebox.”

Tom, limping his way across the floor, managed to catch up with them. Wickham pointed at the metal man as he drew closer. “Tom has no flame inside of him either, but somehow he manages to find the power he needs to move.”

She supposed at some point she must have wondered what it was that gave Tom his power. She had taken to assuming it was some kind of spring wound up inside of him, although she had never been told that was true, nor seen anything to support that theory. Exposed to the light of reason the idea of the Automaton being a man-sized wind-up toy suddenly seemed ridiculous. “Then I'm afraid I don't understand.”

The Sleuth nodded, then smiled. “Perhaps it will become clear when I show you how the machine works.”

Pulling off his right glove, he used his bare hand to slip open the second button down on his gray shirt. He reached under his tie with his left hand and pulled out a dull metal key on a chain. “Does this look familiar to you, Sarah?”

She stared at it for a moment; then her eyes went wide with recognition. “That's the key! The same one Sir Dennis was wearing! But…the Bomb Lance stole it!” She reached her hand up toward it and then drew it back. “If you have it, then…”

“I did nothing sinister to get this, I can assure you. It is simply a copy of the other.” He pushed open a small clasp and slipped it off. “One of only three that exist in the world.” He put his ungloved hand on her shoulder. “And I must trust that you will let no one else know that I have it.” The intimacy of the request felt almost…fatherly, although her own father rarely ever took her into his confidence. When Alexander Stanton wanted something from someone it was expressed as a statement, never an inquiry.

Wickham lowered his gaze to catch her eyes. “I hope you understand the magnitude of what I'm telling you.”

Realizing that she had been lost in her thoughts, she quickly glanced up at him and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Wickham! I'll guard your secrets with my life.” As the words came out of her mouth Sarah felt like a character from one of the boys’ adventure magazines that she had “borrowed” from Nathaniel when they were growing up. She had suddenly become young Jim Hawkins heading off to Treasure Island with a map in his hand. “But why did he want that iron key? What does it open?”

He held the dull metal closer to her, his index finger and thumb wrapped around the ornate metal head. “Not iron my dear: lead.”

She looked closer. “Another one of Dr. Darby's magical door openers?”

“What would lead you to that conclusion, my dear?”

“Lead is too soft for a normal key. It would twist apart the first time you tried to use it.”

“Just so.” Grabbing the top of the blade end he tugged upward. The lead covering slid away, revealing a slim rod of a brighter metal underneath. It gleamed brightly, but Sarah realized it wasn't a reflection. The key cast out an unearthly light of its own.

She stared at, mesmerized. “It's like a mirror….”

The Automaton was standing next to her now, and his voice surprised her. “Please…Sir Wickham. The exposed metal can be dangerous.”

He slid the lead cap back onto it and handed it to the metal man. “Place it into the machine, Tom, if you would be so kind. We're going to give Sarah a demonstration.”

Tom took the key and nodded.

Sarah pursed her lips. “I have more questions now than when we started.”

“Have patience, my dear. The lion's share of solving a mystery is piling up questions until there can only be a single answer for them all. It should begin to become clearer very shortly.”

On the end of the iron box nearest to them was a thick iron door a foot across. It was held in place by a hinged bolt locked into an iron claw, and screwed down against the end of the machine. Tom put his hand up against a large brass wing nut that held the bolt in place, and he gave it a hard turn.

Once it was free it spun smoothly and quietly, rotating quickly up along the bolt until it reached the end of the thread. He shifted the bolt to one side and opened the hatch.

Sarah attempted to peer into it, but there was a sheet of black rubber blocking the view. “What does it do?”

“Just a little more patience, my dear, and then I'll explain,” Wickham replied.

Tom removed the lead cap from the key and placed his arm through the rubber curtain. When he withdrew his limb the key was gone. He closed the hatch and screwed the bolt back down.

The Sleuth took her hand and walked her over to the darkened windows on the machine's side. “Darby once said to me that he thought steam was what time was made from—the invisible hand of God that pushes man into the future. He believed that it was steam that allowed the angels to fly, and that one day, if harnessed properly, it would free men from all labor and war.

Wickham let out a sigh, and for a moment he looked very old. “He had visions beyond any man I've ever met. And he made so many of them come true. But I'm much more cynical than he was, I'm afraid. I told him that I thought steam was a demon born from fire, and that it will only work for mankind when caged behind iron walls. Even then, it's always trying to find a way to slip free from its prison and kill its master when his attention wanders.…”

Tom opened a panel on the side of the machine. There were a series of small levers inside, and he pulled them down, one by one.