Hearts of Smoke and Steam (9 page)

“I'm sorry,” he said, letting his fingers trace down her cheeks. They felt cool against her skin, leaving a trail of sensation as his hand settled under her chin. He lifted up her face to gaze back into her eyes. “I know you. You are that girl! He called you Sarah! S-s-s-Stander!” He said the wrong name proudly, as if he'd won a contest.

Sarah twitched free from his gentle grasp and stared out over the water. “Stanton,” she sighed as she glanced back up at him—so much for her masterful disguise. It was stupid to have removed the veil. Clearly the mask alone was useless. She should have covered her entire face like the women of the East. “Now you know my name. What's yours?”

The Italian boy (man!) opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say another word, there was a stirring at their feet—the Bomb Lance had begun to recover, and something would have to be done about him.

He had activated something in his harness, and the wire that connected to the harpoon to his arm began to retract, rapidly dragging him across the deck towards the smokestack.

Sarah glanced up and saw that the balloon had positioned itself directly above the ship. Something toppled down from it, and an instant later a large weight slammed into the top of the ship's bridge, denting the roof. It was an anchor at the end of a thick rope that led back up to the balloon.

Sarah tried to grab the Irishman as he slid away, but her gloves made her clumsy, and she only managed to snag the edge of his coat. The cloth pulled free from her hands almost as soon as she caught it.

Murphy twisted himself around and brought his feet in front of him as he struck the wall of the wheelhouse. Using his momentum along with the power of the retracting cable, he walked straight up the side of the wooden shack, then grabbed onto the waiting rope.

She ran after him, but he was out of reach.

“Damn it! He's getting away!” she shouted.

The Italian boy stood ran up next to her. “Is okay. We're okay.”

Sarah shook her head, trying to clear the anger that was flooding her thoughts. “It's not okay. We have to stop him!” She desperately tried to think of something, anything she could do to prevent the villain from escaping.

In frustration she reached down and grabbed at one of the metal rods sticking out of the roof nearby. The shaft was stuck deep in the pitch and wood, and by the time she had worked it free, the Irishman had already managed to steady himself on the anchor.

“Not again!” Sarah shrieked as she ran toward the end of the deck. She threw the metal stick at him with all her might, but it was only enough to send it spinning through the air for a few yards.

But it was too late—the villain was already rising rapidly into the sky, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

B
y the time the doctor's assistant told Nathaniel that he could see Alexander, almost three hours had passed. For most of that time he had been sitting with Grüsser.

The Prussian had seemed desperate for company, and had asked Nathaniel question after question about why he thought Stanton had been so eager to get into a fight with the Southerner.

Nathaniel had suggested that perhaps it was the man's murderous attitude towards negroes that had been the final straw, but Grüsser seemed unconvinced. He believed that the Industrialist's temper alone had been the cause of it.

“Something set him off,” he had replied. “I've never seen him hit a man without a reason.”

“Zen I very much hope zat Herr Stanton never finds a reason to hit me, Ja?”

Later on they had taken dinner in the dining room. As disgusting as he found Grüsser's noisy eating habits, he found the slurping to be a definite improvement over his incessant chatter.

Truth be told, Nathaniel had little or no idea what Clements had done that could make Stanton so angry. The White Knight's costume made it obvious that he had some strong feelings when it came to the negroes, no matter how much he protested that he wasn't involved with the Klan “in any official capacity,” as he had so politically managed to describe it.

But that would have hardly been reason enough to set him off. And even if the Stanton temper was something of a legend, he had never seen him resort to goading and needling his enemies the way he had with Clements. He had lost both decorum and control.

It left the most likely reason as the most obvious: that between his taking on responsibilities as the new head of the Paragons along with the disappearance of Sarah, Stanton had been under too much pressure and had finally cracked.

Nathaniel had tried to talk to his step-father about his step-sister's fate, but the old man had refused to discuss her with him. The Industrialist hadn't searched for her, or even spoken her name since the night she had run away.

For his own part, Nathaniel wanted to believe that she was still well—that Sarah had left the city and carved out a life for herself someplace where she might escape the responsibilities of modern life that she seemed to detest so much.

The only thing that his step-father had revealed was that she had been wearing a costume when she had tried to save the Automaton.

It made Nathaniel laugh to think of her battling criminals and villains. The whole concept was completely ludicrous, and yet according to Stanton not only had it happened, but Sarah had succeeded in driving off the two attackers, even if it had been too late to save the mechanical man. And in retrospect, it did seem like the kind of ridiculous enterprise that she would attempt.

Ever since the events at the Darby house, Nathaniel had been coming to the realization that she had never been the girl he had imagined her to be. And, to her credit, Sarah had tried to tell him as much.

Things had not gone well between them since Darby's death, but siding with the machine over him during their battle had been unforgivable. Luckily the burns and cuts had mostly healed, but he still felt wounded by the betrayal.

But no matter what else may have happened, and despite all the questions that surrounded her disappearance after the mysterious events in Madison Square, he was glad to hear that the Automaton had finally fallen that night.

The metal man had been the most dangerous foe he had ever faced, and just the thought that it might still be prowling the streets of the city sent a shiver up his spine.

The infirmary was housed in between the living quarters and the offices, and as he walked down the hall, he decided that the wood and plaster walls were far more welcoming than the austere granite that had been used to construct the rest of the building.

He rounded a corner and saw that the door was already open. Alexander lay sprawled out across one of the operating tables, the doctor still hovering over him. He was bare-chested, a massive bruise blooming across his scar-covered torso, clearly marking out where the White Knight had broken a rib.

“You're getting too old for this kind of ridiculous nonsense,” he heard the physician say grimly.

Alexander choked out a chuckle before he replied. “You've been telling me that for ten years.”

“And every year I mean it more than the last.” Doctor Josephs grabbed the point of his white beard and shook his head. He was rail thin, his lean physique only intensified by the long, black jacket he wore. “You've been a lucky man, Mr. Stanton, but even your legendary good fortune seems to be slowly running out.”

Stanton turned, and seeing that someone new had entered the room, he smiled. “Nathaniel! Come in!” His jaw was as black and blue as his chest, and his attempt to sound jovial made him slur his words.

As Nathaniel started to walk forward, the doctor turned and gave him a hard glare that froze him in his tracks. “You can just stand out there for a minute while I finish binding up this old fool.”

“Don't be such an old fusspot, Josephs,” Stanton said.

“And you should try not to talk,” the old man said, putting on his spectacles. “There's no telling what else might come loose in your head.”

Nathaniel wondered how it was that some men could instantly command enough authority to make everyone else feel like children, while he seemed only to be capable of having people continually treat him like one.

The doctor pulled out a gleaming metal tube from his bag. It was fluted on either end, and he pressed the wider horn against Stanton's bare chest, putting his ear up against the other side. “Now breathe deeply.”

Alexander started to take in a lungful of air and then coughed it out again. “It hurts.”

The doctor stood up and frowned. “That's what you would expect to happen when a gentleman your age decides to start playing fisticuffs with a man half his own.”

“He wasn't half my—” Stanton began to protest, but the doctor cut him off.

“You're an expert at blowing hot air out, now let's hear you take some in! And raise your arms up this time.”

Stanton did as he was told, managing to put himself through the entire exercise with only a few winces.

Nathaniel stood quietly, deciding that it was far better to err on the side of caution than it was to risk the wrath of the prickly doctor.

“All right, you can put them down now,” Josephs said after having him complete a few breaths. “You've clearly fractured a rib or two, and you didn't do that other wound of yours any good.”

“And your face looks like you lost a fight with a road,” Nathaniel added.

“Thank you, young man,” the doctor replied without looking at him. “I'm sure Mr. Stanton appreciates your unnecessary jocularity at his expense.”

Alexander laughed, then winced. “It's okay, Nathaniel. He's just a spoilsport.”

Ignoring their discussion for the moment, the doctor stacked his arms together, put a hand on his beard, and tapped his shoe rhythmically against the floor. “Hmm,” he said, letting the end of the sound trail out almost like a purr. “What I would normally prescribe is two weeks of bed rest, but I know you won't do it, so instead I'm going to give you some more morphine and ask you to take it easy for the next few days.”

“Thank you doc—” The old physician cut him off before he could finish.

“And I'd like you to seriously think about finally putting away that ridiculous hat and costume before I'm left standing in front of your grave.”

“I'll consi—”

“Lift your arms again,” the doctor said, pulling a roll of fabric out of his bag. “I know you think I fuss over you too much, but there are few men your age capable of taking the punishments that you've been given over the last few months, not to mention the stress of losing Darby and your daughter.” He began to wind the fabric tightly around Stanton's chest as he spoke. “You may think that you're invulnerable, but I don't need to be a doctor to know that any man who acts as you do will end up paying a terrible price for his behavior.” As he said the last few words, he turned and gave Nathaniel a hard stare, “And it doesn't matter what age you
are
, or who you pretend to be.”

Nathaniel glanced up in time to catch the doctor's eyes. There was no doubt that Josephs was the right man for his job, but that didn't make him right about everything. “Am I allowed to talk to him now?”

The doctor continued winding the material around the Industrialist's chest, tugging on the end to keep it tight. “I'm a firm believer in the fact that children should be seen and not heard. But you, Mr. Winthorp, are clearly no longer a child, and I'm afraid that any opportunity you might have had to reap the benefits of a proper upbringing have passed us all by.” Finishing the roll, he pulled out a few safety pins and used them to tack the end of the fabric into place.

“Now Alexander, try to take care of yourself,” he said, putting his top hat on his head. “I know your temper can get the best of you, but perhaps you can leave the actual punching to younger men.”

Stanton nodded, but it was an unconvincing gesture. “I'll do my best, Doctor.”

“See that you do.” Josephs snapped shut the medical bag smartly, sliding closed the two clasps that held it in place in a single smooth gesture.

“Thank you,” Alexander said, holding out his hand.

The doctor took it and gave it a curt shake. “You're welcome, Stanton. Just remember that while you're out there making more work for me, that there are actual sick people who could also use my help.” He turned to face Nathaniel. “All right, young man, the grumpy old doctor is leaving now. You may commence with your costumed tomfoolery.”

He walked out and Nathaniel shut the door behind him. “He's got a point.”

“About what?” Alexander grabbed his clothes from the table next to him. “That I'm too old? It's nonsense.”

“Being in the Paragons will probably get us all killed.”

“We're all going to die someday,” Stanton said matter-of-factly. “At least this way it's a choice and not an accident.” When he tried to move his arms in order back to put on his undershirt, he couldn't hide the pain. “Ungh…” he grunted.

Nathaniel moved in closer, taking the shirt from his hands. “That's one way to think of it.”

“I know you've had a rough few months, boy. You'd be a fool
not
to be worried after what's happened to you.”

“And Sir Dennis, and Sarah.”

Stanton paused for a second at the mention of her name.
“She
decided to run away.”

Without saying a word, Nathaniel picked up the starched shirt and held it open. “I'm not an invalid,” Stanton complained. But he took the offered assistance and pushed his arms up through the sleeves. Once the shirt was on, he quietly began doing up his buttons, and then paused to pat the open space on the table next to him. “Have a seat, Nathaniel.”

As he sat down, he realized that it had been a long while since he had been so close to his step-father. “Why did you fight with Clements? What had he done to you? Wouldn't it have been enough to just tell him no?” For a moment he felt like Grüsser—asking one question after another.

“It was a mistake, but in the end…” A slight smile appeared on Alexander's lips as he shook his head. “Men like that don't understand the meaning of the word
no
, anyway. They just need to be taught a lesson.”

“Don't you need to win for that to work?”

“You don't think we won?”

Nathaniel stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at his own bruised hands. He didn't know what to say next.

Stanton laughed, and then winced. “That's what being a Paragon is all about. We call ourselves a
society
because we work
together
to do things we could never do alone. And perhaps we don't always do them well, and we argue with each other, but when we need to, we win
together
.”

Nathaniel had been around the Paragons for so long that what he was being told seemed blindingly obvious, and yet it was something no one, not even Darby, had ever bothered to actually say out loud: they fought to
win.
“I think I understand.”

“No, you don't—not fully—because you've never been on a battlefield before.”

“I've fought!” he said reflexively, embarrassed by the defensive tone of his voice before the words had even finished leaving his mouth.

“But not in war…” Alexander looked into his eyes. “And that's not something I would wish on any man. Imagine being surrounded by hundreds of strangers, all of them screaming, shouting, and dying. Your only chance to live is if you can figure out who is trying to kill you or protect you.” He sighed and went back to buttoning up his shirt.

“You make it sound horrible. But there's glory too.”

“Only after the fighting is over. And the worst part is that some of the men who want you dead are inevitably on your side.” He looked down at the ground. “And you also find allies in the strangest places.”

He shifted on the table and looked up into Nathaniel's eyes. “I pray to God that you'll never have to face it yourself. But there are lessons that
surviving
war teaches you—the most important one is that whenever possible, you need to surround yourself with men you can
trust.
That's the only way you can safely get back home to the ones you love.”