Dawn's Early Light (32 page)

“That's just what we need, Bill, and a transport means we can take the car,” Wellington said, glancing at Eliza. “I suggest also getting in contact with a base in San Francisco.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a shrug. “Come on, Felicity. I need that whip-smart brain of yours for clearance codes and such.”

The two of them headed for the front desk, producing for the desk clerk credentials that acted as his call to action. They watched in silence as Felicity and Bill were hastily led behind the hotel desk into a back room.

“And what of me?” Tesla asked.

“It will be a tight fit,” Wellington said, sizing up Tesla, “but you will be coming with us. If the death ray is in a final firing sequence, we will need you to deactivate it.”

“You will be able to add ‘field agent' to your repertoire,” Eliza quipped.

Tesla nodded, albeit, rather timidly. “I'll return to the workshop meanwhile. Fetch any tools I may need.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “In my youth, I avoided a life in the military. It seems fate has brought me back around to it. If I believed in fate that is . . .”

The analytical engine collapsed on itself as Wellington gently brought the monitor down. Once again, the device resembled a huge book of gears, cogs, and mechanics. He turned to the priest, Eliza taking a seat next to him.

“And then there was one,” Van said with a crooked smile.

“Thank you,” Eliza began, “with coming forward about Usher. Knowing that there are two agendas at work here provided plenty of insight with Edison.”

“And thank you for not taking me into custody after our tussle with Edison's men,” Wellington added. Van looked at him incredulously. The archivist shrugged. “Well, it needed to be said. You could have remained committed to your bounty, even after we had saved your life.”

Van chuckled. “When I took this job, I had a bad feeling about it.” She reclined her head and rolled her eyes. “I'm beginning to think that maybe I have been at this for too long.”

“Won't the House of Usher come after you?” Eliza asked.

“No, they are much smarter than that. I heard they tried something like that with a hunter they felt left her job incomplete. They lost six of their order that night.” Van paused and then asked, “If I may be so bold to ask, exactly why have they made you such a priority?”

Wellington cleared his throat, hoping his skin was not turning scarlet. He could feel a sudden sweat on the back of his neck. “It's a long story.”

“I know I'd like to hear it as well,” Eliza said brightly, shooting him a look.

“It is also very complicated,” he retorted. Wellington rapped his fingertips lightly against his analytical engine and added, “I have certain skills that the House of Usher deem invaluable.”

“You're a crack shot, I'll give you that,” Van attested.

“It goes a bit deeper than that,” Wellington replied gently.

The priest nodded. “I won't say I understand because quite frankly I don't. The things I've heard and seen since being around y'all has provided quite the yarn. I'm thinking I should just retire with the notion that San Francisco is going to be okay.”

“But,” Eliza said, “we haven't done anything yet.”

“No, but you will,” Van said with a warm smile. She then took up Wellington's hands with her good hand, and the squeeze she gave surprised him with its strength, as well as with warmth and sincerity. “I have faith.”

The archivist smiled. The plan unfolding in his mind offered so many variables for failure, but it was all they had. However, when he looked at Van, felt her grip on his, something—no, he was not certain of what it was, but something—assured him that this was the right path to follow.

W
ellington awoke to a poke in his sides. The engines of the USAA
Sherman
that droned in Wellington's ears had lulled him into a deep sleep. His motorcar's tumble seat, it seemed, was more comfortable than he had realised.

The waking jab had been dealt by Felicity, and her expression was not nearly as friendly as it had once been. Mending fences with Eliza had in turn broken them with the librarian.

“Thought you might like to watch the birds launch,” she said in a cool tone, before marching off. Despite that lackluster offer, Wellington was interested, stretched himself awake, and moved further aft towards the loading ramp. He checked his pocket watch. They had been in the air for several hours.

His eyes immediately fell on the row of gleaming brass eagles perched inside the hangar bay. Each was an immaculate example of craftsmanship. Bill was watching him examine them with a grin on his face, and Wellington was well aware he liked having one over on him.

“Elegant design,” Wellington conceded. “Some kind of aerial surveillance I believe?”

Felicity was the one that answered however. “Indeed, Wellington. Our R&D department has spent quite some time on them.”

“If there's something within thirty miles of San Francisco that isn't supposed to be there,” Bill said, “they'll find it.” He threw a lever, making a huge lamp to one side of Wellington switch from green to red, and tilted his hat down over his eyes as sunlight and wind poured into the bay.

On feeling sunlight, the metallic eagles opened their wings, caught the breeze, and set off in their particular direction. It was a surprisingly serene moment.

“Magnificent,” Wellington muttered as the aft bay doors closed.

Felicity dealt one more chilly glance towards him before excusing herself from the bay, leaving him alone with Bill.

Bill tucked his thumbs in his belt as he strolled over to him. “That Eliza, she's a fine girl.” He chuckled, and then his eyes locked with Books. “I might have hoped you two didn't sort out your differences, but . . . well . . .” He appeared to be tasting something bitter in his mouth. “I just hope you appreciate the hell out of her, Johnny Shakespeare.”

Wellington was not quite sure what to make of this genuine moment, but he was thankful that they would go into battle in a better frame of mind. He held out his hand, and Bill shook it. “I do. More than you can imagine.” His smile turned wry. “Tex.”

“What's happening?” Eliza's sudden arrival made both men start.

Bill rubbed at his chin. “Eagles are on their way. Felicity should have an answer in the next couple of hours.”

“When should we be in that thirty mile radius?” Eliza asked.

“Late afternoon. Somewhere between three and four o'clock.”

“Excellent,” Wellington said. “Would you mind helping me back the car to the ramp?”

Bill followed him back to the motorcar and, once blocks were removed and gears were released, his engineering feat now rolled freely back to the ramp that had been open mere moments ago. Wellington was trying not to think of this section of metal and scaffolding as the only thing between his motorcar and several thousand feet of open space. The thought lingered in his mind as he crawled underneath the chassis to check supports, shocks, and axels. This was going to be his creation's final field test, and the nerves in his stomach would not calm themselves.

When he emerged from underneath the motorcar, he jumped back with a yelp on finding Felicity in the tumble seat. She appeared ready for action, dressed in tight leggings and a modest top with a corset that bore a striking resemblance to Eliza's own. The tracker she and Bill had used in the Outer Banks was open in her lap, its tiny pencils sketching over various points of map depicting Wellington's designated search area.

“Telemetry is coming in,” she stated. “So far, all the signals are strong. Nothing out of the ordinary yet.”

Felicity's eyes remained fixed on the tracker with deadly intensity. Wellington took a strange comfort that her gaze was not aimed at him. “I didn't hear you climb into the tumble seat. You are quite stealthy.”

He felt a chill run through him as she looked up from the OSM tracker. “I'm a librarian. Silence is more than golden. It's a way of life.” She then leaned in and whispered, “And you'll never hear me coming.”

Wellington suddenly felt the need to know where Eliza was. Hopefully, within shouting distance.

Thankfully, the tracker in Felicity's lap started chirping. “I'm getting a small encampment north of Montara”—she glanced at a pair of maps next to her—“that isn't supposed to be there.”

Eliza and Bill appeared in the bay. “Felicity, you get the same hit I did?” the cowboy asked.

“Montara, California,” she returned.

“That's where he will be,” came the voice from over Wellington's shoulder.

Again, he jumped with a yelp, turning to see Tesla. Did this man ever sleep?

“With unlimited resources,” the scientist continued, hardly bothered by Wellington's reaction, “that is where I would be. Someplace isolated where I can work uninterrupted.”

“That's good enough for me,” Bill said. “Lizzie, Wellington, what do you think?”

Wellington and Eliza shared a look.
God help San Francisco if we are wrong,
Wellington thought. In the end, both of them nodded agreement.

“I'll let the captain know,” Bill said, heading forwards.

Tesla, once Felicity gathered up her maps and the tracker, took a seat next to her, his eyes awkwardly looking the librarian from head to foot. Even after he noticed the sticks of dynamite strapped across Eliza's thighs, the scientist-turned-field-agent looked as if he were settling into what was about to unfold before him until he saw Bill return to the cargo bay.

Bill now wore crossing bandoliers full of bullets, two Peacemakers strapped to each hip, and a pair of Winchester-Browning-Worthingtons Model 1895. “We needed some extra punch on this trip and so I figured I'd bring out what OSM was recommending.”

Wellington did not think the Serbian could look any paler. He was wrong.

“Captain has got a lay of the land. The
Sherman
is going to do a pretty fancy maneuver. The pilot said there is a small . . . well, you can barely call it a road, but that's where he's dropping us off. I hope your automobile there can take a low flyby.”

As if the
Sherman
was a living, breathing beast responding to Bill's word, the airship began a sharp descent, its engines on each side whining in protest.

“We best load up then,” Eliza shouted over them. She did not look in the least worried.

“Ten minutes,” called Bill. “Time to get this chariot of yours started, Books.”

“Yes, all right,” he stammered.

Wellington went to his automobile and motioned to the backseat. Bill scrambled into the back with Tesla and Felicity. Eliza climbed into the front seat as Wellington turned the small crank just by his right thigh until he heard the engine rumble to life.

Adjusting her own baldric of bullets and bundles of dynamite, she pulled down her goggles and then turned to him. “All set, Welly?”

“Ask me that after the mission,” he said, securing his own door and slipping the rose-tinted goggles across his own face.

Eliza chuckled at the sight of him, but he was determined to finish this mission as he started it—confident in pink goggles. “If you are looking that far ahead,” she returned, her own confident smile lifting his spirits, “I think that is a good sign.”

“Here we go!” Bill called out as the large lamp in front of them switched from green to red.

Before them, the floor split, revealing the outside world inches at a time. The road was barely even a goat track, but there was no going back now. Wellington wrapped one hand around the brake, the other gripped the steering wheel as the opening grew larger and the airship dipped lower. He could see the ground fifty feet below coming up quickly to meet them. The ramp extended lower and lower, until it locked into place thirty feet above the ground. At twenty feet, the
Sherman
began to tip upwards, the outside engines roaring angrily just over the rhythmic sound of his motorcar.

The timing was crucial.

He was just able to make out Eliza calling
“Wellington!”
over the wind, the engines, and the odd shuddering from
Sherman
's gondola as the front of the airship continued to rise upwards. He disengaged the brake—Bill's and Felicity's signal to pull the ropes attached to blocks in front of the wheels—as he opened the throttle and pressed the accelerator forwards, sending them down the ramp. They covered the distance between their launch point and the end of the ramp faster than he had calculated, but the lip of the ramp had just managed to touch the ground, giving their front wheels no time in the air.
Sherman
's engine power, though, was far greater than the motorcar's, and the back of the car fell hard to the ground as they sped forwards. If any of them reached up, their fingertips could have grazed the stern of the airship, but the
Sherman
's steep ascent continued to lift the airship upwards like a curtain.

On the horizon was the compound of Edison's modified lighthouse. Apart from the seemingly harmless white beacon that towered ahead of them, the area consisted of a large building that appeared to be a barracks of some kind. It was currently expelling men like ants. These troops were running for two barns on the opposite side of the base. Within moments, motortrucks and motorcars were rumbling out of the stables.

There was another structure in the distance, too small to be the keeper's house but still connected to the lighthouse by what appeared in the distance as a webbing of cables. Wellington focused his eyes on it and accelerated.

He called out to Eliza, pointing to the small array of buttons on the dash. “Time for the field test!”

Her finger hovered over each of the buttons and switches before she shook her hands in exasperation. “Dammit, which one do I pick?”

“Indulge yourself!” Wellington shouted, turning their car in the direction of their closest enemy. “But do it fast!”

Eliza pressed the top blue button in the array. From behind a small panel in the dash closest to her right hand appeared a small stick with a trigger set within it. When she pulled it towards her, the motorcar's internal mechanics rattled to life. Wellington allowed himself a self-satisfied smile seeing the headlamps of the car rotate upwards, just as he intended.

“The trigger,” he shouted. Eliza was exchanging glances between him and the stick in her hand. “Now would be good.”

Wellington's smile turned into a delighted laugh, not that anyone could hear it over the sudden firestorm that erupted from the front of the car. The oncoming motortruck fought to keep control, but Wellington countered as Eliza squeezed the trigger hard. Their opponent disappeared in a thick cloud of steam, and then the truck exploded. Wellington turned their car to the left as the remains of the other tumbled aimlessly behind them.

“That's one!” he said, bringing another enemy in front of them.

The two morotcars once advancing on them were now turning back towards the compound. He could make out, though, two gunmen leaning out from their backseats, attempting, it seemed, to get balance on their motorcar's runners.

Eliza went to make quick work of one car, but bullets striking their hood caused Wellington to swerve.

“Hold her steady, Wellington!” shouted Bill. “Nick, hold on to my belt!”

“I beg your pardon!” Tesla stammered. “Did you just call me Nick?”

“Hold on to my belt,” he repeated, hefting the Winchester-Browning-Worthington in his arms, “unless you want to be shot at!”

Wellington cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see Bill hanging out of the backseat. His upper body, as Tesla was apparently following his order, was perpendicular to the ground. He cocked the lever of the rifle, and then came a sound Wellington could only describe as a quick gasp of breath which he knew was a silly analogy as it was coming from the Winchester-Browning-Worthington.

Rifles make sounds distinctive from pistols, and rifles themselves are quite distinguishable between one another. The Winchester-Browning-Worthington Model 1895 was unique, even among its own ilk; after the sudden intake of air, the firing sounded like a whip crack rather than the concussive signature of a rifle. The Winchester-Browning-Worthington shells, on account of the steam-assisted velocity, dealt more damage than a normal caliber Winchester.

Seeing both gunmen toppled out of the second car, Wellington marveled at the weapon's efficiency in the hands of a master.

Eliza's own efforts on the lead car were not as quick as on her first target, and then the firestorm from the front of the car stopped abruptly.