Hearts of Smoke and Steam (3 page)

For a moment Sarah stood there frozen, her mind split in two. One half of her was angry and out of control, the other half stood watching in terror and disbelief at what she was about to do. For an instant the darker forces won, and she raised her hand up higher. Grieves dropped down to his knees, placing his arms over his head to protect himself from the rain of blows that was sure to come.

“No,” she said out loud, and lowered her hand. Sarah had stopped herself, but only barely.

But if she couldn't beat this little tyrant who had stolen away her perfect day, at least she'd put the fear of God into him. “You said it yourself, Mr. Grieves—the police only care about money. And while I'm sure you'd be happy to pay them to haul away the brute who beat you, once they saw it was a tiny little thing like me that had terrified you so, they'd be far too busy laughing to take your money.”

Realizing that the expected blows weren't going to come, Grieves put down his arms and peered up at Sarah. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth wide, screaming at her through rotting yellow teeth. “Harpy! Demon! Trollop!” He balled his hands up into fists. “Get your things and get out!”

Sarah lifted her arm again and the old man flinched, but it was clearly less of a threat than it had been a moment ago. She backed through his door. “I won't be long.”

As she walked up the first flight of stairs, the keys jangling in her hand, Sarah wondered how many other lone women there were in the building who might come to face the same unfair circumstance, but without the spine to stand up to the troll downstairs.

As she reached the first-floor landing, she walked down the corridor, using the stolen keys to unlock two padlocks she found there. On the second floor there were another two, and three on the fourth. Finally she undid the lock on her own door.

Picking up the sagging bag of groceries, she opened the door and looked inside her apartment. The space was the same as she had left it this morning —small, simple, tidy, and clean. The two rooms were sparsely furnished, with a large stove taking up most of the main room. The only furnishings she owned were a battered wardrobe that she had found on the street, a wobbly wooden table with a single chair, and a decent (if lumpy) straw-filled mattress that she had purchased the same day she had gotten the apartment, and so far seemed to have remained free of insects.

Sarah placed her bag down on the table and removed the parcel with the roast chicken. She cut the twine with a knife, and then pulled out one of her two plates, a cloth napkin, and her single fork, placing them all on the table to make a setting for herself.

Lastly she poured herself a glass of water into a chipped mug. She put it beside the plate and sat down at the table.

Sarah took a bite. The food was delicious, although she found it incredibly difficult to swallow. It seemed that there was a large lump in her throat. She took a sip of water and then spoke to the air. “Absolutely delicious,” she remarked loudly and with exaggerated conviction.

Once the chicken was all gone, she sat quietly for a minute, breathing deeply until the urge to cry had passed. Giving her nose a blow into a piece of lace, she decided to save the éclair for later, then stood and brought the dirty dishes over to the tiny sink.

Looking up, she caught her reflection in the window, backed by the view of the grime-covered light well that had been built between the buildings. “Come on young lady, there will be no tears,” she said, trying to summon up the ghost of her mother. “You're better than this. Now let's have an upright chin and a smile!”

“No tears,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. Sarah wiped away the last tear with a damp hand, took a good long sniffle, and then nodded to herself before she turned around and walked to her tiny bedroom.

The space wasn't much bigger than the bed. And at the far end, beyond the small mattress, was a small, doorless closet. Pulling apart her meager collection of clothing that hung from the rod, she reached to the back wall and pulled out a section of the lath that she had sawed away. She had seen hidey-holes like this one in Nathaniel's adventure books when they were children. Although it had always been the villains who had them in his books, Sarah also found it amusing to think of this as her own version of the secret chamber at the back of her father's office, where he kept the Industrialist's guns and costumes. But this space was only big enough to fit an old suitcase and a small rosewood box, and contained no secret passage to the outside.

The luggage rattled and thumped as she pulled it free and dragged it over to the battered kitchen table. She had purchased the leather case from the secondhand store. She had chosen the shop because it was so scandalous that she was absolutely sure she would never run into anyone she knew there, and so she frequented it often. There were often good bargains to be had if one had the patience.

Sarah unbuckled the luggage straps, and the brass hinges on the back squeaked as she flipped open the lid.

Inside was a large, hexagonal object wrapped up in paper and twine, surrounded by the different bits and pieces of her Adventuress costume along with a battered leather notebook. The garments were slightly wrinkled, unworn since she had taken off into the night after confronting her father. They were a reminder of the world she had left behind—probably forever.

Sarah put her hands around the paper bundle in the middle of the luggage and lifted it out. It was made of metal, and she winced slightly as she felt something inside of it shift around. For some reason the heart felt heavier now than when she had lifted it out from Tom's shattered body.

Sarah had tried using the key she wore around her neck to replace the one that Lord Eschaton had stolen, but Tom's metal heart had been badly damaged when he had fallen under Lord Eschaton's attack, and it had no effect.

And she had been a little relived by that: if, by some miracle, inserting the Alpha Element had brought Tom back to life, he would have awakened to find himself reduced to a shattered ruin. It would, she imagined, be a most painful and unpleasant existence to return to.

That was not to say that she had given up. Sarah had—discreetly, she hoped—brought the broken heart to a number of jewelers, hoping to find someone who might be able to help her repair it. But the few whom she had judged safe enough to show the object to had always asked the same question once they saw it: “What does it do?”

When she had explained to them that it would be impossible for her to tell them its function, most of them had replied that without such information there was nothing they could do. One had colorfully suggested that she use it as a paperweight.

But in the shop she had visited yesterday, she had finally been given a glimmer of hope. Rather than simply handing it back to her, the old man behind the counter had put his loupe up to his eye and taken a closer look. He had marveled at the precision work it contained, and then turned it around in his hand, giving puzzled looks at its shape. He told her it was like something out of a Jules Verne story—an object from the future.

“It doesn't look like it does much. Are you positive it isn't just meant to be a piece of art?” he asked her.

When Sarah had assured him that it was indeed an object with a purpose, he had hemmed and hawed a bit, but finally told her there was a man out in Brooklyn who might be able to help her. “He's a Frenchman, and a bit…well…mad, really,” he had said. “I'm not sure that he could actually do anything. But if you're willing to take the trip out there to see him, his store is open Saturday afternoon…”

Sarah had assured him that she was, and that the jeweler, who also lived in Brooklyn, should let the Frenchman know that she would be taking the ferry out to see him in the late afternoon.

She had actually been given hope that someone could help her. The fact that he was available on her day off was one of the many things that had made today seem so miraculous—right up until she had found the padlock on her door.

Sarah hadn't visited Brooklyn since the disastrous events at the bridge, but part of her was quite excited to return. She had never ridden the ferry across the East River before, and even that journey was something she was quite looking forward to.

After giving it a final squeeze, Sarah placed the metal heart back into the suitcase and pulled out the leather-bound notebook. She ran her fingers over the image of a magnifying glass that had been embossed into the cover.

The journal had belonged to the Sleuth, and for the most part the notes in the book were as cryptic as Wickham himself had been. But it was the final scribble that she had spent hours poring over since she had lifted the book from the Automaton's shattered body: “Section 106—Darby had made Sarah's dream come true. Alexander lied.”

Sarah had found a note in her father's closet with the same reference, and the Sleuth had clearly taken that clue and uncovered something more about it. Sarah frowned as she once again realized that she would never see Wickham or Darby ever again…The shocking feelings of loss that came with the remembrance of their passing came less frequently now than they had, but the feelings had yet to diminish. In fact, their infrequency made them all the more intense.

She supposed that soon enough they would fade, and her memories of the old men would be like those of her mother—faded faces and a longing ache for a world that she could never return to.

Written in the pages above the note were a number of other cryptic scribbles including addresses and references to the Automaton's “ascendency.” She knew that Darby had intended for the mechanical man to take over as leader of the Paragons after his death, and it was her father's own ambitions that had led to Tom's downfall and eventual destruction.

And somewhere out in the world there was still the unsolved mystery of what had become of the Automaton's other body. It had been the theft of that device from Darby's lab that triggered the events that had shattered Sarah's life.

A commotion in the corridor broke her concentration. She put the book back into the case and closed it before she stood up and walked to the apartment door. When she flung it open she found, as she had suspected, Mr. Grieves standing in the hallway. He had changed out of his robes and was wearing something almost respectable enough to be called clothing.

He was still stooped over, and obviously worse for wear from having dragged himself up three flights of stairs. He had collected the open padlocks on his way up, and they sat on the floor nearby.

Sarah tried to make herself look threatening. “What do you want?”

“I want you out of this building, trollop,” he replied, shaking a fist at her.

“Well, I'm not leaving. I've paid up through the middle of the month. That's this next Thursday, and it's mine until then, no matter what either you or Mrs. Brooks have to say about it.”

“And you'll have to take it up with the old lady. She's tougher than me, I can tell you that. But in the meantime I'll have my key ring back.”

Sarah slammed the door shut without a word and went to the kitchen counter. The key ring was sitting there, and Sarah unscrewed the bolt and began to pull off the padlock keys, letting them clatter onto the table one by one.

When she had cleared them off the ring, Sarah closed it up again and opened the door. Grieves was standing right outside, and she was startled slightly to find him staring directly at her. “Here you go, Mr. Grieves.”

He closed one eye so that he could get a better look at what it was that she had just handed to him. “You've stolen my…”

Sarah gave him a glare, and he scowled in return. “God will damn you for your wicked ways, Susan Standish.”

Sarah tried not to smile when he said the false name she now lived under. She was fairly sure that pretending to be someone else was a damnable offense all by itself. But she had been to church often enough to know that no matter how grave her offenses, redemption still remained open to her.

“Give them back,” Grieves said, holding up the ring and dangling it at her.

“I know that there are other girls in this building who would be equally upset to discover that Mrs. Brooks had an attack of extreme piety in the name of profit. I'm keeping them safe so she won't have to embarrass herself with an explanation.” The shocked look on Mr. Grieves's face was, she had to admit, rather gratifying.

He stared at her, and then turned around. “Hellion, sinner,” he muttered to himself. “Whore!” he spat out loud enough for her to hear. “We'll see what's what!”

“That's as may be,” she yelled after him, “but I'd better not find another lock on my door when I return, or I'll be coming after you for those keys as well.”

Sarah shut the door and slid the bolt closed. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, almost as forcefully as it had been after she'd faced Lord Eschaton and her father in the park.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the battered copy of the Louisa May Alcott book she had purchased from a street vendor on her way home. It was one she had read previously, and not one of her favorite stories, but at least it was something familiar, with a simple, bright view of the world that she could most definitely use at that moment.

“And the sun is still out,” she said to herself as she opened the book and sat down in her kitchen chair. She might as well relax when she could. After all, tomorrow had every chance in the world of being worse than today.

A
lthough Nathaniel had already been somewhat impressed by the drawings and photographs that had accompanied his application, seeing King Jupiter in the flesh was still something to behold. The man was not only staggeringly tall, standing a few inches over six feet, he was also massive. His body seemed to have been constructed from something even more dense than flesh.

The costume that he wore was primarily purple, sewn from finely spun silk that had been woven with a golden thread that seemed to shimmer even in the cloudy light. The main portion of it had been constructed to form a single piece that buttoned down the back and sides in a close-fitting manner, along with a series of straps and panels that gave the whole thing a slight Oriental feeling as well.

The front was low cut, clearly intended to show off the muscles of his physique. They were insanely large, built up to almost comical proportions. At the neck, a collar sprouted up and back, circling his head in a manner that mimicked the hopelessly old-fashioned Regency style. But beyond that, it was covered with some kind of rich animal fur, and it gave him a sort of lion's mane, making him appear almost ludicrously regal.

As if that wasn't enough, sitting on the top of his head was a golden circlet, clearly intended to be a crown. Hanging down in front of it was a mask, also formed from gold, that completely covered his face. And at the bottom of it, carved into the metal, were rows of stylized ringlets. Nathaniel recognized them from ceremonial beards that had been used to denote royalty in ancient Mesopotamia. He had seen them when Mr. Stanton had taken him and Sarah to the American Museum of Natural History, years ago.

He smiled at the realization that the long, dull hours spent gaining an education
were
occasionally useful, just as his teachers had always told him they would be.

But there was, thought Nathaniel, something very wrong with the color of the man's skin. “Are you a negro, sir?” he blurted out, earning a harsh stare of rebuke from the Industrialist.

“We've barely even given him a chance to introduce himself, and already you're questioning the man's racial heritage?” Alexander shook his head and sighed. “I must apologize for the boy's rudeness, sir.”

King Jupiter laughed. “No no, it's quite all right. The color of my flesh is something I've had to live with for a long time now.” He lifted off his crown, revealing a bald head underneath. “I'm not embarrassed by it anymore.” Like the rest of him, the skin was the color of black smoke, his eyes pure white. The features of his face were broad and heavy like someone of Saxon descent.

He walked up to the table and placed the golden crown in front of Nathaniel. “And the answer to your question young man, is no.” His wide smile revealed a row of teeth that shone out so brightly against the darkness of his skin they seemed to glow, “I am not a negroid. My family was French aristocracy. The Revolution forced them to relocate to the United States or face the end of their bloodline by guillotine.”

So much for his theories of Germanic heritage…Nathaniel looked at the headpiece. It was enormous. He reached out a hand to touch it, and then stopped. “Do you mind?”

Jupiter shook his head. “Not at all. Feel free.”

When Nathaniel wrapped his hand around the metal circlet, it was warm to the touch. He lifted it up to feel the weight of it. “That's real gold, isn't it? It's heavy.” And it was clearly too big to fit on his head.

“Shakespeare said, ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown.' But to be honest, you quickly get used to it.”

Nathaniel looked up into his eyes, and the man held his gaze easily. He had to admit that even if Jupiter might not be a real king, he had the natural charisma of royalty—and the bloodline! “So then the color of your skin has something to do with the origin of your miraculous powers.”

“If I may say so, you're as clever as I've been told, Mr. Winthorp.” King Jupiter stepped back a few feet and pulled off one of his thick purple gloves. Revealing the dark hand underneath, he held it out for Nathaniel to examine—the fingernails were moon white. “As you can see, my skin is normally gray in color, except for my eyes, teeth, and nails.” He took his index finger and pressed it into the exposed skin on his chest. As he did so, white lines began to radiate outward from around his fingertip, creating an aura of crackling light. “But I can actually gather the energy under my skin, which turns it white.” He pressed harder, and the field began to grow in size. “Until recently, I have to admit, it all came with unpredictable and rather painful results.”

He slowly lifted up his finger, and as he drew it away, the energy jumped out from his flesh, crackling back and forth between his fingertip and the surface of his skin. But at the same time the circle was growing smaller, clearly being consumed by the sparks. “Over time I've begun to learn how to draw out and manipulate the energy.” He moved his entire hand in a waving motion, and more white energy leapt out from his chest, turning his fingers entirely white and leaving behind a black spot on his torso.

He held out his hand for Nathaniel to view once again. Now it had turned white from the tips of his fingers down to the middle of his palm. “Having discovered these new abilities, my natural instinct was to explore how to channel them.” He clenched his hand into a fist and squeezed it so tightly that it began to shake. White lines climbed up his arm until the entire limb had changed to a bright white, as if it were being lit from within.

“And seeing their power I wanted to know if I could do more than simply move the energy around within myself.” As he pulled his fingers apart, lines of light danced between them, riding up and down like a Jacob's ladder. “Perhaps I could find a way to move it outside of my body, and use it in more
interesting
ways.”

When he clenched his fingers, the energy crackled around the outside of his fist. He turned to face the blackened bush that the Hydraulic-man had ignited earlier. “With practice I began to discover that it is not only desire, but intent that allows me to control the lightning within my body.”

King Jupiter knit his brow into a look of intense concentration, then he flung out his arm, releasing a blinding arc of lightning that leapt from his fingers to the bush. Nathaniel's eyes shut reflexively from the bright spark. When he opened them again, the shrubbery was once again on fire.

“No one likes that plant,” Hughes said dryly.

The Industrialist was leaning back in his chair, and Nathaniel knew the next two words that his step-father was going to say before he even opened his mouth. He had heard them many times, growing up in the Stanton household. “Impressive,” and then the caveat that always followed. “But,” he said drawing out the word, “does it always take that long for you to be able to do that?”

“At first it did, but not anymore.” He held up his hand in the air. The light was climbing up his arm into his hand, and the white lines rapidly snaking upwards filled the entire limb in a matter of seconds. “Since those early days of discovery I've begun to perfect my control.”

King Jupiter whipped his arm forward to let loose another blinding bolt. This time a loud cracking sound followed the white light, and even with his eyes closed, Nathaniel could see the outlines of the flashing bolts of power.

When he opened them again, he saw that the bush had disappeared entirely. Only the stump remained, burning like a sad candle.

King Jupiter put his hand back down at his side. “I hope that proves there is at least one way that I might be an asset to the mighty Paragons.”

Grüsser clapped his hands together. “A lightning man! I have never seen der like.”

“Nor I,” said Hughes. There was some enthusiasm in his voice, but it was hard to discern it from sarcasm in his tone. “You are a genuine marvel of the modern age.”

Jupiter took a small bow. “Thank you very much.”

Alexander looked down at the papers on his desk. “You've told us that the origin of your powers is related to your abilities, but your application doesn't mention where these miraculous powers have come from.”

“No sir, it does not.”

Nathaniel leaned forward now. “Would you care to enlighten us?”

There was a grim smile on his face. “It's an interesting story, I'll admit, but not one I'm planning on revealing to anyone today.”

Stanton stood before he spoke. “You do understand that, if you are allowed to join us, we will be trusting you with our very lives. Certainly you can see how important it will be for us to know everything possible about the abilities of our allies? We must determine how they can provide us with both strengths and weaknesses.”

“Yes, I can see how you might think that I wish to keep secrets from you, but it's not that.” He coughed deeply to clear his throat. “It's simply that I have made promises to other men that I would not reveal their secrets. It is not myself that I'm protecting, but others who might be harmed.”

“Hmmmph,” Hughes interjected. “That seems highly convenient to me.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Nathaniel said. “I'm sure that when it comes down to it, King Jupiter will tell us everything. You have all kept enough secrets from me.”

“All right then,” the Industrialist said, flipping over a page. “Your skin is supposedly ‘impervious to most ordinary objects' and ‘much like stone.' That all sounds very good, but just
how
impervious are you?”

“Am I impervious to bullets? Is that what you're asking?”

Alexander looked up at him. “There's no need to keep trying to second-guess my meanings, King Jupiter. Just answering the questions as I ask them will be fine.”

“I'm sorry, Industrialist, but it's a question I've pondered myself. Perhaps a practical demonstration would be in order. I would be honored if you would participate…” He held out his hand palm-up and then flipped it over to point at the open space nearby. “If you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Stanton replied, standing up.

Nathaniel got a sudden queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like where this was going. As far as he was concerned, King Jupiter had been behaving as a perfect gentleman, and Alexander Stanton seemed intent on proving himself to be a perfect ass. “Is this necessary?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

“We'll need your weapons,” Jupiter informed him.

The Industrialist's gun was slung over the back of his chair. Stanton picked it up and slid the harness on over his shoulders in a single, smooth motion.

He walked out from behind the philosopher's table and faced off against King Jupiter. “I assume that this was what you had in mind?” he said, holding up his gun.

Jupiter nodded as he began to open the buttons on the side of his costume, revealing more of the gray skin of his chest underneath.

“These aren't normal bullets.”

“I would hope not,” the gray man replied.

“And I can select the strength of my shots, within reason.”

“Then I ask you pick something rational.” The smile vanished from Jupiter's lips as he stared straight at Alexander. “As long as your goal is to test me, not to try to kill me.”

“Quite right, sir.” Alexander lifted up a leather flap on his belt. Revealing a dial underneath of it, he twisted it to the left. When he was done, he raised up his gun and pointed it directly at the gray man. “Are you ready?”

Nathaniel wanted to believe that King Jupiter had superhuman powers, but the idea that he could actually stop bullets with his flesh was utterly preposterous. But the man had suggested Stanton shoot at him…

“Are you ready?” Alexander asked again. As much as he wanted to stop what was clearly about to be an execution, Nathaniel found himself so excited by the prospect that the other man could actually survive a close-range attack from the Industrialist's weapon that he couldn't bring himself to move or speak.

For better or worse, the Paragons had, up until now, been primarily composed of men who used technology to augment their natural gifts. There had been a few villains with unexplainable abilities, and even heroes who claimed powers beyond mortal men, but if King Jupiter could do what he claimed, their world was about to change irrevocably.

King Jupiter's head was bowed in concentration, and on his chest there was a circle of white that began to grow bright and larger.

The Industrialist flexed his fingers and brought the gun to bear with a steady hand. “I asked if you're ready.”

“Just another moment,” Jupiter said with the sound of strain in his voice.

“You're either bulletproof or you aren't.”

“Maybe…I just want…to give you a better…target,” he grunted through gritted teeth.

“Alexander,” Hughes interjected, “I think that we've taken this quite far enough.”

Stanton didn't turn his head as he spoke, his eyes remaining fixed on his target. “I'm grateful for your opinion, William, but while I'm still the leader of the Society of Paragons, I believe that the final decision rests in my hands.” A bead of sweat trickled out from underneath the Industrialist's mask and ran down his face.

“Are you ready
now?”
the Industrialist asked again, louder this time.