The Flux Engine (23 page)

“Crankshaft was arrested,” Robi said. “As for me, John thought I might be useful to have along. Sylvia agreed.”

Hickok’s face was implacable. The Old Man had spent years training Robi how to read expressions but the enforcer betrayed nothing.

“Sylvia,” he called, a stern edge to his voice.

“Yes, Bill,” the scratchy voice filled the galley.

“Turn us around and take us back to Piston Falls, as fast as possible. We’ll talk about unauthorized passengers later.”

“Of course,” she said, the neutral tone in her voice stating plainly that she didn’t care what Bill thought about Robi’s presence on the airship.

Hickok hurried below, then returned a few minutes later with a bucket, a scrub brush, and several towels. Robi took the brush, dunked it in the bucket, and proceeded to scrub the floor where John had vomited. John’s eyes were open and unblinking, but his breathing was slow and regular, as if he were asleep. When she finished, Hickok wiped up the water and vomit with one of his towels.

“Now,” Hickok said turning back to Robi. “Tell me what happened.”

Robi sighed, pulling out a chair and sitting at the big table.

“It was just after you reached the flux works,” she said. “The town marshal showed up and said he had a warrant to arrest anyone on board.”

“Did Crankshaft fight them?”

“No,” Sylvia’s voice answered. “Despite the fact that they were very rude.”

“He’s locked up in the town jail,” Robi said.

“Why didn’t you bust him out?” Hickok said, looking pointedly at Robi.

“By the time they finished snooping around here it was either take the time to free Crankshaft or try to follow you two. I figured Crankshaft could handle a night in jail. He’ll be safe enough.”

Hickok regarded her for a long minute then nodded.

“You did the right thing. Good call.” This last seemed to be torn out of the enforcer, as if his teeth didn’t want to let the compliment go. “How far is it to town, Sylvia?”

“Another fifteen minutes or so,” she answered. “I think something is wrong, though. You’d better see this.”

Hickok cursed and ran out onto the deck, heading forward. Robi hesitated a moment. If John had another fit, someone would have to be here. Still, Hickok had said he’d be okay for at least an hour. As she looked at his still form, she hoped he hadn’t simply traded one malady for another.

Leakers were ostracized, sure, but they were free. What would John be now? Beholden to Hickok and the Prophet, that’s what. They seem like good men, but they wouldn’t be the first to use pleasant faces to hide evil designs.

Perhaps his choice was best.

After all, he’d have almost no chance to track down his mother as a leaker; he’d have to stay close to a blood source. Not to mention, what mother would want a leaker for a son?

She hadn’t realized that she’d followed Hickok out onto the deck, but his astonished whistle brought her back to where she was. An orange glow filled the horizon in front of them. Robi knew the sun had already gone down. The glow could only mean one thing.

“Fire,” she gasped.

Hickok nodded.

“Has to be big to be putting off that much light.”

At that moment the
Desert Rose
crested the bluffs around Piston Falls and the town came into view. The flux works stood dark and still, its glass roof open where Solomon’s airship had fled. Below, however, the town was engulfed in flame, throwing ruddy light onto the stream of water coursing over the bluff, turning it to a column of molten copper. She could see people running between the burning buildings, but despite the lake and the river running through the middle of town, no one seemed to be making any effort to put the fires out.

“Can you see the jail?”

Robi searched the conflagration below until she found a small, dark, single-story building.

Thank the Builder, the jail is brick.

“There,” she lunged against the railing, pointing down into the light.

“We need to get down there fast. Sylvia! Take us down.”

“I can’t, Bill,” Sylvia’s voice emerged from a speaker mounted to the forward rail. “There’s too much heat; if I go down there, I’ll catch fire.”

“Come in lakeside,” Robi said, pointing at the shimmering surface of the water. “Just pass over the jail on the way.”

She felt the airship turn, heading straight over the jail on its way to the lake. A wave of heat washed up over the sides and across the
Rose’s
deck. Even at this height, the heat was intense.

The marshal and his deputies would all be fighting the fires, so getting Crankshaft out shouldn’t be too much trouble. She checked the sawed-off shattergun that was still strapped to her back. The rope she had used to rappel down over John and the Scrapstalker lay piled in the bow where she’d left it. It only took her a moment to clip the rope into her harness and toss the rest overboard.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hickok asked, grabbing her arm.

She didn’t even think. Twisting her body to break the hold, she vaulted up onto the rail.

“I’ll get Crankshaft out,” she said, glancing down to see the jail pass under them. “Meet me at the docks.”

With that, she jumped.

Chapter 24

Change of Plans

Hellfire and damnation.

Raphael Kest tossed and turned in his bed. No matter which way he moved, however, he just couldn’t get comfortable.

He never had been able to sleep well on airships.

Rolling out of bed, Kest began pacing his cabin, hoping to tire himself out. Anything to induce sleep.

When the even rhythm of his legs failed to produce any inducement to sleep, he abandoned the effort and pushed open the elaborately decorated doors that separated his bedroom from his office. His desk stood as it had when he went to bed, covered with stacks of papers bearing calculation after calculation. He’d pored over the data from the weapon test until his eyes ached and his brain felt numb. Everything was as it should be.

So why was he uneasy?

It’s just nerves.

Finally, after a century of waiting, he would control the red sand. The ignorant governments and the fool dictators of the world would have to listen then. Examples would have to be made of some, of course, the stubborn and those too stupid to see reason under any circumstances, but the rest … they’d listen.

Kest dropped into his chair and allowed himself a sigh of exhaustion and relief.

Soon.

It had been too long in coming. He cast his mind back, back to when he was the most celebrated man in Atlantis. It was his genius that had put his people in position to rule the world. When their scouts came back from the Aztec with a sample of red sand, Lantian Thurgers had turned it into an amplifier of incredible power.

In their quest to find the source of the red sand, his tiny island nation had gone to war with the vast Aztec empire. It had been a stupid waste. Kest watched as the best and brightest minds in Atlantis put their talents to use building weapons for the war. By the end of the war, the Aztec were almost completely destroyed; only the Mimbrae, the priesthood and elite of Azteca, remained. Of course, that didn’t matter because the source of the red sand was finally theirs.

There was one good thing that came from the war. It convinced Kest that governments must be controlled by men of intellect. In the wake of the genocide against the Aztec, Kest and a handful of Architects seized control of the Lantian parliament.

Under their rule, Atlantis prospered. Her people lived in peace and prosperity as the great minds put their efforts toward improving their technology and their quality of life.

It showed Kest what the whole world could be if only lesser intellects would allow themselves to be ruled by their betters.

That was when he first understood his purpose in life. Peace. He would bring peace to the world.

From that moment on, Kest bent his mind to finding the red sand. It took years, but eventually he found it, in the salt beds below the waters of an inland sea. With the secret of amplifier crystals under his exclusive control, no nation on earth could withstand him. All would give way. All would be made to live in peace and prosperity. Some would resist at first, of course, but after a few examples of Lantian power were made, the rest would fall in line. Eventually they would come to accept Lantian rule as their lives improved.

That’s when it had all gone wrong.

The Lantian council had recoiled at his plan. They argued that his designs would result in a world war, one where they would be forced to exterminate more populations like they had done to the Aztec. It was too high a price to pay, they said.

Fools.

Was there any price too high to pay for peace?

The council didn’t see it that way and when he tried to force the issue, they imprisoned him. They destroyed the amplifier crystals and erected an artificial mesa over the source of the red sand, complete with a towering spire reaching to the sky.

Then his people had destroyed themselves.

He never knew exactly how it happened. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one still working on weapons. Maybe some experiment tapped into pent-up geologic forces. All he knew was that from his cell on the tiny prison island, he saw the entire city of Atlantis consumed by an explosion unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. The shock wave had even cracked the walls of his prison.

As far as he knew, Kest was the last of his people, and he would be the one to carry their example to the world. Now, after much political maneuvering and subterfuge, he led the remnant of those his people had exterminated. With the geoform weapon, it would be child’s play to destroy Castle Rock and release the stores of red sand beneath her.

With amplifier crystals at his disposal and the industrious Mimbrae backing him, Kest would at last make his dream a reality.

Soon there would be no more fear, no more suffering. Children wouldn’t cry themselves to sleep with empty bellies so that their worthless leaders could be fed. Soon there would be no need for Architects, Alchemists, Thurgers, and Engineers to waste their time building ever-bigger weapons to service the expansionist lusts of fools not worthy to clerk a general store.

He sighed, and for the first time in a thousand years, he felt old.

This day had indeed been a long time coming.

He could feel his body relaxing at last, pushing his mind toward sleep. At that exact moment, there was a polite knock at the office door. Kest opened one dark eye and gazed balefully at the door.

“Come,” he said, trying not to sound irritated.

A man Kest recognized as one of the night telegraph officers opened the door and entered. He was a pudgy man with a round face, mutton chops, and a pair of spectacles perched on a snipe nose.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, clutching a folded paper in his hands. “I was about to leave this in your box when I saw the light on.” He held out the paper. “This just came in from Solomon.”

Kest beckoned the man forward and accepted the etheriogram, thanking the telegraph officer, who then withdrew.

He looked at the paper, turning it over in his hands. The message had been folded inside, revealing nothing of its import. He considered ignoring it and trying to get back to sleep.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes.

After a moment, he unfolded the note and read it twice before setting it aside. A stiff tug on the bell pull by his desk summoned the night steward who appeared promptly and quietly. The man waited while Kest wrote out instructions for the helmsman and stamped them with his seal.

“Please ask Derek Morgan to join me at his earliest convenience,” he said, handing over the sealed paper. “Then take this to the officer on duty on the bridge.”

“Very good, my lord,” the steward said before bowing and withdrawing.

Kest glanced at the glass-and-brass clock on his desk.

Half-past two.

Derek would be asleep, but Kest knew it would only take the high priest a few minutes to respond to his summons. He rose and dressed in a comfortable suit then returned to his office just in time to hear a knock at the door.

A moment later Derek Morgan entered. He wore a black vest over a loose-fitting shirt and plain pants with his gun belt slung around them. Nothing about his appearance, from his combed hair, to his gold watch fob, to his shined shoes, indicated that he’d been asleep ten minutes ago.

“Thank you for coming, Derek,” Kest said, beckoning him into a chair. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“It is no trouble to serve you, Shokhlar,” Morgan said, taking the proffered chair.

“I received a message from Solomon,” Kest said, pouring two glasses of scotch. “He ran into some trouble at his flux works.” Kest handed one of the glasses to Morgan before sitting down in a soft chair opposite.

“Anything I need to handle?”

Kest shook his head and sipped his scotch.

“No, but I’ve moved up our timetable; we’re moving on Castle Rock now. That means we’re going to have to send a transport to pick up Solomon’s cargo.”

Morgan made no sign that he objected to anything he’d heard, so Kest went on.

“I want you to go with the transport airship,” he said. “Make sure none of Solomon’s trouble follows you back here.”

Morgan drained his glass.

“I’ll leave immediately,” he said.

They stood together and Kest refilled their glasses.

“Success,” he offered, raising his glass.

Morgan clinked his glass to Kest’s, then they both drank. Morgan set down his glass, inclined his head, and then left without a word.

Excellent.

Morgan would be on his way to retrieve Solomon’s shipment of flux just as soon as he could wake up a transport captain and get the airship crewed.

Kest poured himself another drink and sipped it slowly. Having things in motion seemed to relax him. Not one to waste an opportunity, he set down his half empty glass, undressed, and returned to his bed.

Chapter 25

The Night of Blood

Hot wind and sparks stung Robi’s face as she fell.

Intense heat washed over her, threatening to singe her hair and clothes, but there were no fires directly below, so the heat dissipated as she got closer to the ground. The
Desert Rose
had been higher up than she’d thought. As she gripped the rope to better control her descent speed, she could tell it was running out too fast.

There wasn’t going to be enough.

If she guessed right, she’d run out of rope a full thirty feet above the ground. She might survive that fall with just minor injuries, but she could also break a leg.

The jail was a small, square building of simple brick with a clay tile roof. In the front, over the door, there was a porch, covered by a rickety wooden roof that looked slipshod, as if added later. Twisting her body in the air, Robi aimed for it as best she could.

As she passed over the crude wooden structure, Robi pulled on the rope, bringing her descent to a complete stop, then she hit the release on her belt and fell.

Her feet hit the roof with numbing force and she allowed herself to roll backwards. Despite the shorter distance, Robi still hit the roof with tremendous force. The wooden roof shattered and she fell the rest of the way to the porch below.

Builder’s blueprints, that hurt.

Robi lay there for a long moment, looking up at the orange glow of the fire encroaching on the black star field above. After a moment her head cleared and she tried to sit up, groaning with the effort.

Spine’s still in one piece; how about the rest?

Robi ran her hands over her arms and down her legs. She hurt everywhere but no place more than any other. She put one of her hands under her and tried to push herself up. With a ripping sound, her pants caught on a splinter of wood and pulled her back down.

She swore.

The sound of yelling and running feet suddenly filled her ears. Her landing had attracted attention.

Tearing her pants to free them, Robi pushed herself up. She had to get to the jail before anyone could stop her. If she got trapped inside, she’d just wait for Hickok to come and free her.

And hope the jail didn’t catch fire.

Stumbling over the wreckage of the porch, Robi pushed the jailhouse door open and threw herself inside. Her balance hadn’t fully returned after her landing and she tripped over her own feet, landing in a sprawl.

You’re moving without thinking
, the old man’s voice admonished her.
Stop and take stock of your surroundings.

No time. People coming.

And there may be a deputy in this room preparing to shoot you. Take stock.

Robi pushed herself to her knees and surveyed the room quickly.

Gun rack, empty.

Potbellied stove.

File cabinet.

Comfy chair.

Desk, piled with papers.

Wanted board. No picture of me.

Bookshelf.

No one.

Door to cells, open.

Jail cell.

Crankshaft.

“There you are,” she said, pushing herself painfully to her feet. “We were worried you’d—”

On seeing her he leapt from his bunk and pointed emphatically behind her.

“Close the door!” he shouted.

“What?”

“The door!” he shouted, his voice urgent. “Close the damn door!”

There was terror in the old man’s face, genuine, afraid-for-his-life terror. Robi didn’t think. She’d been well taught and she knew how to react when lives were on the line.

Obey first, question later.

She kicked the door closed with her foot as she turned, slamming her shoulder against it. Her hand closed over the iron bolt and she slid it into place.

Didn’t seem too hard.

She could hear the voices of the people outside, but they had plenty to keep them occupied with the fires.

“Now what—” she began, but before she could finish, something hit the door hard enough to knock her away from it. Shocked, she stepped up and opened the little door that would let her see out.

A leaker stood outside, blood covering his face and a wild look in his red eyes. He seemed desperate and angry and snarled at Robi.

“Crankshaft,” she said, turning to the cell. “What’s going—”

For the third time in as many minutes she was cut off. The leaker had reached through the tiny opening in the door and grabbed her around the neck, pulling her against the door.

What in the Builder’s name was going on?

The arm clamped around Robi’s upper body, ending in a place where she would have slapped the man had she been able to reach him. Outside the door, the leaker was growling and gnashing his teeth like an animal. Leakers weren’t supposed to be violent; their constant need for blood tended to make them weak.

This man wasn’t weak by any means, but Robi knew that strength wasn’t the deciding factor in grappling. She twisted, letting her weight fall entirely on the arm protruding from the door. This brought her head down and her teeth in range of the arm. Robi bit down hard into the hairy flesh.

The leaker howled and began flailing his arm to extricate it from the teeth. As soon as he moved, Robi let go and dropped to the floor, rolling away from the door and coming up with her shattergun.

“What is going on!” she demanded, relishing the act of completing a full sentence.

“It’s the leakers,” Crankshaft said. “They’ve gone mad.”

The arm protruding from the door continued to flail about, as if just the desire to grab Robi might somehow make it so. The man seemed feral, as if he’d lost the capacity for rational thought.

Making sure to keep out of range of the flailing arm, she turned, hurrying to Crankshaft’s cell.

“Cover me,” she said, passing him the shattergun through the bars.

Working quickly, she inserted a short metal rod into the lock and twisted hard. With a vibrating clang of protest, the lock released and Robi pulled the cell door open. Crankshaft stepped out and threw his arms around her in a bear hug.

“You’re a sight for these old eyes,” he said. “Not to seem ungrateful, but are you here alone?”

Robi laughed.

“Hickok’s here too,” she said. “He’s coming here from the docks. Now what happened?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I was in here the whole time.” Crankshaft pointed the shattergun at the door again. “Someone came in just after noon to get the marshal. Said a group of leakers had killed a man. About an hour later, one of the deputies came running back. He was beat up and bleeding. Said the leakers were eating people.”

“What?” Robi gasped, her stomach rolling over at the memory of the blood around the leaker’s mouth.

“I know, crazy. Then the deputy and all the rest took every gun they could get and left. About an hour ago I started smelling the fires. Figured I was done for.”

Robi swore, one of the words the old man used but never let her utter.

“What are we going to do?”

Crankshaft shrugged. “The shutters are closed and the door’s locked,” he said. “I say we wait for Bill.”

Robi’s sideways stomach dropped down into her bowels.

“Hickok’s hurt,” she said. “Broken ribs.”

“Even hurt, Bill Hickok is more than a match for a bunch of mad leakers,” Crankshaft said. His countenance projected confidence, but he sounded worried. Robi fixed him with a steady look.

“What if he isn’t?”

Crankshaft considered this, a range of emotions from anger to fear to determination playing over the cragged, ebony surface of his face.

“Can you run?” she asked then.

“Well enough for an old man.”

Robi pulled a handful of shells from a leather pouch tied to her belt.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, passing the spare shells to Crankshaft. “Just run for the docks.”

“What about you?” Crankshaft accepted the shells, pushing them into his pockets.

“I’m good at not getting caught,” she said.

She grabbed the bolt holding the door closed. The mad leaker’s arm still protruded through the peep window, thrashing wildly. Crankshaft gave her a nod and she jerked the bolt free. The door slammed open, revealing three twisted horrors that had once been people. Two men and a woman. Their eyes were red and their mouths and teeth were covered in blood. The woman shrieked something that might have been words but came out as incoherent sounds of rage. The one with his arm in the door tried to pull it free, blocking the others, and they bunched up as they tried to rush the door.

Crankshaft stepped up and fired the shattergun point blank. The crystal fragments tore into the bodies in the doorway, mangling them, and sending all three tumbling down in a bloody pile.

Robi didn’t hesitate. She stuck her head out the door and scanned the street.

One down by the burning general store.

Two more by the bridge.

“Follow me,” she whispered and charged out into the fire-lit night.

A wave of heat washed over her, stinging her hands and face. Clouds of cinders swirled in the air, nearly blinding her, and she blinked rapidly to clear her vision. A sound, somewhere between a grunt and a cry, split the air from nearby.

Eyes still full of cinders, Robi reacted, throwing herself forward and rolling to her feet. She felt rather than saw something pass over her, followed by a howl of frustration and the explosion of a shattergun.

“Come on, girl,” Crankshaft said, pulling her along by the elbow.

“How are you doing this? I can’t see.”

“I worked around boilers all my life,” he said. “This ain’t nothin’. I spread this stuff on my toast in the morning.”

She stumbled along beside him, grateful for the sure steps through the smoke and ash. The shattergun fired three more times before Robi’s eyes began to clear the cinders. The entire town was ablaze, the streets full of smoke, embers, and the skeletal remains of burning buildings. Dark shapes darted from buildings and alleyways, silhouetted by the fire. Robi couldn’t tell if they were townsfolk or the insane leakers, but they didn’t seem any better at seeing through the shower of ash than she did. Which, she decided, was probably good, either way.

Just as the thought took hold, the figures caught sight of her. As one, they turned and rushed up the burning street. She saw their hunched bodies and arms held open.

Yep, crazy leakers.

“Get up there,” Crankshaft said, pushing her toward a building that wasn’t completely in flames. The roof was on fire, but the porch and front façade were intact.

“We can’t let them surround us.”

“Shoot,” Robi said, pressing her back to the painted boards of the façade.

“They don’t run when their friends get shot,” he said. “And I’ve only got four shells left. We need them to bunch up where I can hit more than one.”

His first shot swept the faster madmen off the porch as they came up the stairs. Robi squeezed her eyes closed as blood and substances she didn’t dare think about spattered her face and upper body.

The gun fired three more times, sending screaming lunatics back into the street in pieces. As the last of their ammunition vanished in a shower of deadly crystal shards, Crankshaft turned the weapon around and slammed it into the face of the next leaker to mount the stairs.

Grasping fingers pulled abruptly at Robi’s shirt. One of the crazed leakers had come up from the side. Without thinking, Robi twisted, breaking the hold and dropping to a crouch. Her foot lashed out, making contact with the leaker’s bandage-wrapped knee and bending it at an odd angle with an audible crack.

The leaker, a scrawny, middle aged man with a pox-scarred face, screamed and fell. Even as he writhed in pain, he reached out for her, his fingers grasping just short of Robi’s leg. She kicked him in his blood-spattered face. Undeterred, he grabbed her ankle with a hand like a vise and began pulling her toward his teeth.

“Crankshaft,” she screamed. She threw the old mechanic a desperate glance that saw him struggling to fend off two leakers.

The leakers were winning.

Three shots rang out and the leaker’s pull on her leg suddenly slackened. Robi scrambled away, slapping at the hand that still clung to her leg. It had been severed neatly at the wrist.

“Bill, help Crankshaft!” she cried.

Six more shots rang out from the smoke, each hitting the leakers trying to devour Crankshaft. The shots weren’t the loud booms she expected from Hickok’s gun but they struck true. Two went through the chest and one through the head of each leaker. They slumped to the ground, gurgling out the last of their lives with hatred and malice still burning in their red eyes.

She wanted to run, to embrace the enforcer and bless him for his timely arrival, but something stopped her. The gun she’d heard wasn’t the big forty-four Bill Hickok carried; the shots sounded like a much smaller caliber, and whoever it was had fired nine shots in quick succession. Hickok was fast, but even he couldn’t reload that quickly.

A dark silhouette emerged from the smoke, someone Robi had never seen. He wore a loose shirt and black pants over a pair of riding boots and he gave the impression of a man who had dressed quickly. A red sash was tied around his waist and a pearl-handled gun was thrust into it. He had a second gun in his hand, reloading it with the practiced ease of a professional gunman.

As his face came into view, Robi gasped. Blood seeped from his cheeks and forehead, giving his face a red sheen.

“You’re a leaker,” she gasped. Crankshaft held the shattergun by the barrel, ready to swing the stock like a club.

“Fear not, young lady,” he said in a drawling voice. “You and your friend have nothing to dread from me. I do not share the madness of my unfortunate brethren.”

“Who are you and what happened here?” Crankshaft asked, lowering the shattergun a little.

“It’s me,” he said. “Holliday.”

“Doc?” Crankshaft said, peering through the smoke and darkness.

Robi had heard of Doc Holliday. He was a notorious gambler and gunfighter. He was also a leaker.

“As to what happened,” he looked around and shrugged. “You’d have to ask Professor Solomon about that. He called the leakers to his clinic earlier today, gave them all some new cure he’d been working on. A few hours later, everyone he’d cured turned into a ghoul.”