Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (25 page)

"Of that I remain unconvinced." Her eyes strayed to the device as it trembled and shuddered. "I assume, then, that this is the bomb?"

"A brilliant machine," Nigel said, "both fascinating and terrifying in design."

"You intend to destroy the city, then."

"Only half," Nigel said. "Only half should be sufficient, if my calculations are correct. And they always are," he added.

"I have come here to convince you to give up this task, Nigel. I hoped to appeal to your sense of decency—"

"The stakes are too high for a sense of decency, my dear.

The stakes are too high for anything at all," Nigel said. "If it brings you some peace of mind, denounce me as a villain, but the actions I take now are wholly necessary. As for you..."

The initiates shifted, stepping forward to surround her.

Abigail's eyes narrowed.

"Do not fear, Abigail. You will be spared, as will Jeremiah, if he has the good sense to show up," Nigel said. "I have a dirigible ready to flee the city; the device will detonate shortly, but we will be well out of range."

"Always so bloody analytical," she said. "Always so bloody well thought out. Well, Nigel, there's something you haven't considered—an element you missed."

Nigel gestured to the initiates as they moved to seize her by the shoulders; at once, they stepped back. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me what I have missed. For I would certainly quite like to hear of it."

Abigail smiled grimly. "You forgot who you're dealing with."

Somewhere above them, there was a gentle thrumming; a buzzing that built to a maddening hum. Nigel frowned, looking up.

"We are not scientists, Nigel," she added, and now the hum grew to a steady, throbbing roar.

"What on earth—" Nigel began.

"We are
mad
scientists."

The ceiling of the Society's chapterhouse collapsed inwards as a massive mechanical spider slammed down feet-first directly behind Abigail.

Smoke and dust swirled up in a thick and stifling cloud as the initiates stumbled backward, climbing over one another to get away. Nigel narrowed his eyes and stepped back, trying to pierce the fogging shroud; a figure stood atop the machine, equipped with a dreadful looking device.

"You know," Jeremiah said, hunched over with the weight of the battery strapped to his back, "I've always wanted to do that."

Long coils of insulated wires ran up along his arms and to a set of electrified gauntlets. His goggles gleamed brightly in the room's fluttering gas lights.

Abigail leapt to his side, arming herself with a modified blunderbuss. Rather than having to be manually loaded, the rifle was equipped with a device that used the energy of the gun's shot to snap the next round into place. She swept the weapon's barrel about, squinting one eye to peer down its barrel as she aimed at Nigel.

"Now," she said, "if you would, please kindly disarm your bomb."

"This is absurd," Nigel said. "I've already activated the device. There's nothing left to be done."

"I mean, ever since I was a little kid, I've secretly wanted to crash into someone's secret lair like that. It's a shame I didn't have some clever line at the ready," Jeremiah said.

"Deactivate it," Abigail said. "Now."

"Or what?" Nigel suppressed a laugh. "You will kill me? If a man is willing to kill for something, he damn well better be ready to die for it. And I am."

"Maybe something like, 'so sorry to interrupt, just thought I'd drop in'," Jeremiah continued. "Oh! That's a good one. I must remember that one."

"Darling," Abigail said, sighing. "Focus, please."

"Oh, right." Jeremiah turned his attention to Nigel. "Come on, then. Turn the bloody thing off, eh? You've gone far enough with this nonsense."

"I am afraid I cannot do that," Nigel said.

Jeremiah frowned. "Nigel, please—"

A screeching howl emerged from the bomb; pressure escaped from the vents, spewing out great clouds of steam throughout the room. Nigel dashed to the side, reaching for an antique flintlock mounted on the wall; Abigail cursed and fired in a blaze of flame and pitch, riddling the room with buckshot.

Jeremiah darted forward. An initiate who had yet to flee tried to intercept him, but the engineer backhanded him with a galvanized fist, sending him crashing to the floor; he reached the bomb just as the dials began their wild and frantic spin.

Nigel reached the flintlock, spinning about and taking aim for Jeremiah; Abigail descended upon him in a wild fury, swinging the blunderbuss down as if it were a hatchet. It cracked across the side of his skull, sending him reeling to the floor.

"Jeremiah!" Abigail cried, running to join her husband.

"Can you turn it off?"

Jeremiah had thrown the iron gauntlets down and was now studying the valves intently. As he looked up from them, Abigail saw the dark look that passed over his face.

"The only thing that could stop the reaction at this point is another opposite reaction," he said. "And we don't have the tools or the time. It's progressed too far. In only a few minutes—"

"Then we have no choice," Abigail said. She drew his father's invention from her pocket.

"I'll do it," Jeremiah said, reaching for the modified watch; Abigail glared at him and kept the device out of his reach.

"I will do it," she announced.

"But William needs you."

"You can look after him," she said. "Barring that, your mother can help," she said. "And besides, I may be able to return."

"I told you, my father never got the blasted time machine to work right," Jeremiah said. "We have absolutely no idea if either of us can come back. Or if we'll even survive. Or if it'll even work like we think it will," he added.

"We have to do something," she said. "And I refuse to let you do it alone."

"And I refuse to let you do the same."

"Then what shall we do?"

Jeremiah paused. Behind them, the bomb groaned and creaked as the pressure mounted.

"We must do it together," he told her.

At long last, Abigail submitted; she held out the watch to Jeremiah, who took it into his own, drawing her close.

"Hold my waist tightly, Madame," he told her, and then they lifted the pocket watch high above their heads.

And then, all around them, time began to slow to a crawl...

~*~

~*~

When Snips finally awoke, she was surprised to find herself in a rather comfortable bed, stashed away in Mr. Watts' manor house. She could tell it was Mr. Watts' manor house because the far wall was missing—instead, she had a lovely view of the distant trees and a sweeping waterfall that flowed down and splashed across the edge where the floor ended.

She blinked groggily and moved to sit up; at once, a blossoming flare of pain erupted in her left side. Deciding to take her body's advice, she dropped back into bed and tried to piece together all that had happened.

Before she got very far, she discovered she was not alone.

"Good morning, Miss Snips," Miss Primrose announced, stepping into the room. She was dressed in a fresh gown, as conservative as ever. However, a new bandage was attached to her forehead and her right arm was in a sling. "I trust you are doing well?"

"Hat," Snips croaked.

"Oh, yes. I forgot," Miss Primrose said, reaching to the front of the bed. Snips' favored hat sat on top of a bedpost; she quickly nudged it over. Snips snatched it up greedily and shoved it on her head.

"What happened?" Snips asked, finding her voice was rough from lack of practice. "How long was I out?"

"Only for the rest of the night," Miss Primrose explained.

"You've suffered a few mild injuries, nothing too grievous.

Apparently, you had a mild concussion."

"William—" She began. "There was something on his chest. I can’t recall the details, but—is he all right?"

"He is," Miss Primrose said, nodding. "It’s actually quite an amazing phenomenon, Miss Snips. His heart is a machine."

"Figures," Snips said, and then she laughed, looking down at herself. Her previous attire was long gone; in its place was one of Miss Primrose's ivory nightgowns. Snips glared furiously as she drew the covers up over it. "Uh, do you have my old clothes?"

"Yes, but they are in a wretched state at the moment," Miss Primrose said. "At the very least, I insist that you allow them to be properly cleaned before wearing them once more."

"Where is William?"

"Downstairs. But please, Miss Snips. Rest. You've been under considerable strain," she said.

Snips closed her eyes, laying back against the pillow. "I didn't get a chance to tell you what I found out last night—"

"Neither did I," Miss Primrose said, looking down at the floor.

"Mr. Eddington didn't kill Copper—"

"Count Orwick has closed the case—"

Both spoke simultaneously; both gave the other a start.

When they had calmed down a bit, they explained each other's discoveries in turn; Miss Primrose's realization that Orwick wanted them to continue the case in an unofficial capacity, and Snips'

discovery that Eddington was not responsible, but another party was—controlling Mr. Eddington for unknown reasons.

"This man in the jackal mask you mentioned," Miss Primrose said. "Do you know him?"

"No," Snips replied begrudgingly. "But I know the fellows he works for."

"Who?"

"The same ones who probably gave William his mechanical heart," Snips said. "The Society of Distinguished Gentlemen."

"It sounds like some sort of polite book club," Miss Primrose said.

"In a way, that's what it is," Snips said. "But I can assure you, their intentions are anything but polite. Look, I need to speak to William. There are some very important things he needs to know."

"Very well," Miss Primrose said.

~*~

William was enjoying breakfast with Jacob near the docks; although they were immersed in conversation, they both quieted down when Snips limped her way out and towards William. Jacob suddenly excused himself ("A certain matter concerning a certain private who will remain unnamed," he explained), leaving the two alone.

Snips sat down across from William. William cleared his throat and studied his half-eaten plate of eggs.

"Hey," Snips said, flustered.

William looked up. Arcadia was wearing her patchwork hat and a nightgown; somehow, the ensemble managed to make even her look vulnerable. Some long forgotten memory tugged at the corner of his mind, but he dismissed it. "Good morning."

"Morning," Snips said, looking down.

"Thank you for saving my life."

"Uh, no problem," she said, still peering down at her feet.

"William?"

"Hm?"

"Can I tell you something—something personal?"

"Certainly."

Snips looked up, meeting William's eyes with her own.

"When I was a little girl, I ran away from home. Stupid reasons. I wanted to find my father. I wanted to make it on my own. Kid stuff like that," she said. "After I found him, I ended up on the streets."

"I understand," William said.

"No, you don't," Snips replied. "You think you do, but you don't. A guy like you? The hardest decision you've ever had to make was probably whether to have your eggs fried or poached.

Me, I've spent most of my adult life making decisions like whether it's worth bashing a fellow's skull in to avoid getting locked up.

You get what I'm saying?"

"No," William said. "I don't."

"I'm not a nice person, William. Oh, I can act the part," she said, "but that's just when the situation lets me. When the decisions are easy. Like, right now, if I wanted to have one of those strips of bacon there—"

"Would you like one?" William asked, holding the plate up.

Snips sighed. "That's what I'm talking about. All I've got to do is ask, and hey, food. But put me in a situation where eating means breaking somebody's nose? And I'll do that too. I just don't want you to get the wrong impression about me, alright? Because you've seen me when I don't have to get nasty, and you might start to think I'm a nice, pleasant sort of person—"

"I don't think you're a nice, pleasant sort of person," William said.

Snips eyed him critically. William smiled meekly.

"I mean, I like you, but I don't like you because you seem to be pleasant," William continued. "I don't know what you've done in your past, but I also know that I do not care. Perhaps that makes me irresponsible and selfish? I do not know. But, for some reason, I feel as if I can trust you. You've given me no reason to believe otherwise."

"That's stupid," Snips said. "You realize how easy I could scam you? Maybe this is all a con."

"Pretend to be good long enough and you may one day succeed in fooling even yourself."

Snips shook her head. "That's silly," she said, but she didn't push the point. Instead, she dropped her eyes down to his chest. "I see you’re doing well enough. Not broken, anyway?"

"No, not at all," William said. "It's functioning quite well."

"Good," she said. "I mean, good that it’s still working. Um, so. Do you know where you got it?"

"The heart?" William asked. "My father, I believe, although I never was told the full story; only that my original heart was too weak to carry me."

"William, there are so many things I need to tell you,"

Snips said. "I know things about him—Professor Daffodil. I didn’t say anything before, because I was so thrown off when you mentioned he was your father, and I wasn’t sure about you or what you wanted, but—"

William smiled, reaching out to touch the back of Snips’

hand. "It’s all right. I already know a little bit, at least."

Snips stiffened with surprise. "You—you do?"

"Yes. I know that he worked with your father."

"Wait, what? How do you know that?"

"Your father told me."

Snips drew her arm away with a snap. "He
what
?"

William slid back defensively. "I went to him, yesterday morning. I had seen a copy of my umbrella there, among his trinkets on the shelf, and I wanted to know—"