Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Part 23

The sound of thunder was nearly enough to blot out the frantic knocking at Nigel's door; bleary-eyed, the doctor threw it open only to find himself confronted by a soaked Jeremiah.

"It's William," he gasped, and then he seized Nigel by the sleeve and drew him out and into the cold rain.

They took the waiting cab to Jeremiah's home, where Abigail sat besides the bedridden boy. William's skin was as pale as the underbelly of a fish, a cold sweat leaving him drenched.

Though otherwise young and healthy, the eleven year old had always had a particularly weak const.i.tution; a quick inspection confirmed Nigel's suspicions. The boy's heart was failing.

Nigel straightened, turning to the husband and wife.

"Abigail. Go down the street to Doctor Morganton's house. Tell him it is an emergency, and that Nigel Arcanum requires his surgical instruments immediately."

Abigail nodded. Though flushed with color and worry, the woman still kept her head about her; she darted off at once to carry out Nigel's orders. He turned to Jeremiah, staring at his old friend evenly.

"Nigel," Jeremiah began, swallowing. "Can he be-"

"You were right to come to me," Nigel told him. "Most doctors in this city are little more than butchers. I think that, with your help, I may be able to save him."

"My help?" Jeremiah asked. "But I'm no biologist-"

"You've heard of my experiments in flesh grafting, have you not?"

"Oh, G.o.d," Jeremiah said, shuddering. "You don't propose to-"

"No. I've yet to master the technique; the animals I've experimented on invariably reject the organs and die. Replacing his heart with another heart is not feasible," Nigel said, turning back to the boy. "However, I have something else in mind."

"How can I help?"

"Help me take the boy down to your bas.e.m.e.nt," Nigel said.

"We will need the instruments of your mother's trade, as well as my own."

They worked deep into the night and long into the morning; the work was not complete until the afternoon of the next day.

When it was finished, William's color returned. The boy remained asleep, but it was clear from the warmth of his skin and the regularity of his breath that he was on the road to recovery.

But when Abigail finally beheld the fruits of their labor, it was not a sigh of relief that escaped her lips; rather, it was a scream of horror.

"What have you done!?" she cried, beating at Jeremiah with her fists. "What have you done to your son?!"

"There was no other way to save him," Nigel said. "Abigail, please-"

"You've butchered him! My G.o.d, you've-"

Jeremiah was as white as a ghost, his eyes dark from lack of sleep. He seized Abigail by the shoulders, holding her still. "Had there been another way to save him, I would have taken it. Were it possible, I would have happily torn out my own heart and given it to him."

Abigail's fury finally began to abate, clutching at Jeremiah's clothes with her fists. Her snarls melted into sobs, her head pressed to his shoulder as he held her close.

William's chest was bare; over his heart was now a circular plate of bolted iron fused to his flesh. Somewhere beneath it, a mechanical heart regularly ticked-pumping blood with the ceaseless precision of a clock.

William awoke slowly, drawn from the pleasant oblivion of sleep by the sound of steady clicking. He pulled his lids back, gasping at the sharpness of the light; when his eyes had last adjusted, he began to inspect his surroundings.

The room was built of straight timber, its grain exposed; no clever woodwork or design obscured the planks that enclosed it. A snuffed gas lamp hung from the ceiling, with a plain table beneath it; swirls of languid smoke gathered into choking clouds around it, brushing at the ceiling and walls. The clicking came from a nefarious looking gentleman with a false bronze nose and a shaved head patiently cleaning his pistol. The smoke came from his ebony pipe, cradled between his lips and freshly lit.

Understanding struck William with the force of a lightning bolt. Despite his better judgment, he cried out; his coat had been shorn open, revealing the iron bolted plug that sat over where his heart should have been. He had been bound to a chair, his arms tied behind its frame.

Without so much as looking up, the a.s.sa.s.sin addressed him.

"As a rule, I don't engage in torture. Not that I object to it," he quickly added. "I've simply found that it rarely accomplishes anything. People tell you what you want to hear, not what they actually know."

William swallowed.

"Getting the truth requires a little something special. You have to make someone want to tell you the truth," he explained.

"So let's talk about motivation."

The a.s.sa.s.sin rose, circling him slowly-like a wolf who had scented a wounded animal. "My motivation is simple. I want to know about this," he said, reaching forward to tap the metal socket at William's chest. "I want to know where you got it. I want to understand how it works. I want," he whispered, leaning close, "one of my own."

"You're mad," he said, cowering back.

"You don't quite understand what you have here, do you?"

His voice was sheathed in a haze of opium, but beneath it lurked murderous intent. There was not a shred of mercy to be found in his glazed eyes. "If a heart can be replaced with mere gears and cogs, what is to stop us from replacing legs? Or arms, or eyes?

Indeed, what is to stop a man from becoming a living automation?"

William shuddered; the man in black laughed.

"Let's discuss your motivation, shall we?"

"I won't help you," he said, forcing himself to act more bravely than he felt. "Under any circ.u.mstances," he added.

"Threaten my life if you will, but-"

"Threaten your life? Don't be absurd," the a.s.sa.s.sin replied.

"You are going to die."

"But-"

"There are two types of funerals, boy. Those with open caskets..." The a.s.sa.s.sin smiled devilishly. "And those with closed caskets."

"Who are these people?" Miss Primrose asked in a hushed voice. "How do you know them?"

"Blundered in here when I was just a kid," Snips said, picking her way through the rubble with Miss Primrose trailing behind. "After I ran away from my father. Jack found me. Tried to cook and eat me."

"What?!" Miss Primrose had to strangle her voice, lest she draw the attention of the tribesmen around her. "I mean-I beg your pardon?"

"He always got hung up on me," Snips said. "I don't know why."

"Wait, he did this when you were a child?" Miss Primrose asked. "How old is he?"

"Don't know. Don't think anyone knows," Snips replied.

"He's been here ever since the Heap started-and I remember reading something about him being around even before that."

"Who are these people who are following him?"

"I don't know," Snips said. "There's all sorts of people here -beggars, bankers, merchants. I guess some people need to embrace something mad to express themselves."

"If I may interject," a man wearing a strap of hide around his shoulder and waist said, jogging to catch up with the two of them. "I myself joined up because of the exceptional realism in their portrayal of pre-historic man. I'm a huge fan of the era of pre-history-"

"Oh, yes," a woman in war-paint carrying a nasty sort of club agreed. "And, you know, what Jack is doing is absolutely wonderful-rejecting the tyranny of mainstream culture and capitalism-"

"Rejecting mainstream culture? That's not what this is about! It's about authenticity and reverence concerning tribal life -"

"Yes, and his rejection of the evils of an industrial society!"

the woman excitedly exclaimed. "To think, we're emulating the very first anarchists-"

"What the blazes are you talking about, woman?" the man shouted. "There wasn't any industry to rebel against! Just rocks!

You can't rebel against rocks! This movement is about wearing the right set of clothes-"

"Well," a third member of the group said, "being an archeologist myself, I feel it necessary to point out that prehistoric man never wore a shoulder strap like yours-"

"I think we've started something horrible," Miss Primrose whispered.

"Quiet," Jack hissed, clenching his fist and lifting it high.

Everyone present went as silent as the dead. The dog-faced leader of the pack crouched low, grinning back at Snips.

Snips crept forward with Miss Primrose, eyeing the cathedral that lay in a scorched valley beneath them.

"You think these guys are crazy?" Snips asked, throwing a thumb back at the tribesmen. "Wait till you get a load of the Committee."

The old man was as ancient as the rock that surrounded him, and twice as haggard; his beard was so long it nearly dusted the floor, while his eyes gleamed with all the calculated brilliance of razorblades in an alleyway. When he spoke, the church congregation listened; when he shouted, the congregation whimpered.

"And lo," he said, speaking in a voice that crackled like lightning. "In the beginning, there was only a great and pleasant darkness. And then the skies rumbled, and a voice came. And the voice spake: Let there be light."

The men and women in the congregation cried out in fear.

They knew about light, all right; they knew that they wanted nothing to do with it.

The old man gripped the podium, leaning forward with a glare that could wilt dandelions at thirty paces. "And so did the Wicked One seek to lead us astray from the blessed darkness, with low premiums, and special interest rates, and a free toaster for every gas bill paid a month ahead of time-"

The congregation wailed, bemoaning their foolish greed for gas-powered toasters. Arms were thrown into the air as dirty-faced children looked on in absolute confusion.

"-and so did we fall for the Wicked One's honeyed words, and his insidious Platinium Payment Plan, and his free toasters; and so did we allow him to build his wicked gas pipes in our houses, and so did the righteous and mighty Lord smite us for his wickedness-"

The cries reached a wild fury as the congregation rose to their feet. Men wept openly for their sins while women cried and clutched their husbands' shirts, burying their faces into their chests.

"-but so did the Lord promise atonement and salvation for those who remained true to the lack of light. And so did he promise that for the faithful and meek, there would be cake!" the old man roared, pointing at the tattered leaflet that was stapled to the wall.

"Cake!" The cry rose up, pushed on into absolute hysterics; women fainted while men fell to their knees, tears streaming down their cheeks. "Cake!"

It was at this precise moment that the front doors of the cathedral burst open.

Every member of the crowd turned around to face the girl in the funny hat. And as they donned their expressions of befuddlement, Arcadia Snips cleared her throat.

"Hi," she said, tilting her body to the side and a.s.suming the most innocent expression she could manage. "Did anyone in here order cake? Because I'm here to deliver a truckload of it to someone called 'The Committee for the Fair Distribution of Cake'."

Eyes were widened. Whimpers were suppressed. Men and women rose to their feet.

Snips grinned-and ran like h.e.l.l.

As the mob of eager Cake-ites ran after the fleeing Snips, two figures slipped into the cathedral's back room through a shattered window.

"Near here," Jack said, clicking his tongue as he darted on all fours across boxes and crates. Cobwebs grew thick as thieves here; Miss Primrose pressed a hankerchief to her mouth, trying her best to m.u.f.fle the choking cloud of dust that every step coaxed into the air. The roof of the room was long gone; the stars and moon shone down upon them as they searched for their prize.

"My G.o.d," she whispered. "Is this-is this it?"

"Your chariot awaits, Lady Primrose," Jack said, cackling.

CHAPTER 24: IN WHICH THE CAKE ARRIVES, THE a.s.sa.s.sIN ATTACKS, AND THE DUCK INCIDENT IS MENTIONED.