Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (43 page)

The fat man nodded, sweat pouring from his flushed face. His eyes remained wide with fear, and Jonesburry’s last command did little to abate the sense of panic ebbing through the binding.

But at least he did as he was told.

“Welcome home, Mr. MacGregor,” the elderly gentlemen said, as the two toughs forced MacGregor to take a seat on one of the remaining stools. They each kept a meaty hand on the overweight man’s shoulder, and, via the binding, Jonesburry could sense the pressure they inflicted through their viselike grips.

“I trust that you had a pleasant time in the colonies? I am aware that they have a far more liberal view of the sort of distractions you tend to enjoy. But I am afraid that the time has come for you to account for your little misadventures.”

“If I may,” Jonesburry interjected, perching on his own stool. “Before we get too involved in this little reunion, do you think it might be best to move somewhere a little more private?”

“Mr. . . . Jonesburry, was it?” the elderly client asked, and Jonesburry nodded. “Pleased to meet you at last. My name is—”

“I don’t need client names,” Jonesburry interrupted him. “Horace here handles the names.”

“Very well, but I’m afraid you mistake my intentions. I don’t plan to harm Mr. MacGregor.”

“Indeed?”

“Certainly not,” the client said with a chuckle. “It wouldn’t be profitable. And, as much as I would like to be the one to entertain Mr. MacGregor personally, I have others willing to pay me a great deal of money for the pleasure of doing that themselves.”

“Well, I’m pleased for you,” Jonesburry retorted. “But I still must insist. Before you can take your friend, I’ll need to sever the bond, and the process can be a little . . . traumatic for my charges.”

“What my friend here means,” Horace added, between sips of whiskey, “is that when we remove the Spider from the back of their skulls, there often tends to be a lot of screaming, followed by them pissing themselves and passing out.”

MacGregor looked as though he were about to vomit, but the client merely laughed. “Well then, let us adjourn somewhere more quiet. I’m keen to see this for myself.”

The back of Jonesburry’s hairless scalp wouldn’t stop itching. Removing his Bowler, his fingers traced the intricate, five-legged shape that had its filaments embedded directly through his skull. The Spider
,
as Horace had so dramatically dubbed the little mechanical contraptions, often became a source of irritation once the binding to its twin had been severed.

Jonesburry knew a number of amputees, men he had once served alongside in the military, who claimed their lost limbs often caused them the same type of trouble. That had been a lifetime ago, though, long before Horace had offered him the “opportunity to participate in a unique business proposition.” Horace never warned him about the itching, but then, Horace didn’t warn him about a lot of things.

Abandoning all hope of relief from the Spider’s irritation, Jonesburry resettled his hat and considered his former charge. Surprisingly, MacGregor had managed to retain consciousness throughout the entire extraction process. The longer the Spider remained imbedded, the more agonising the extraction process became, and MacGregor had possessed his long enough to cause him excruciating pain as the mass of microfilaments retracted through a hundred neural pathways.

Of all the charges that Jonesburry had minded over the past years, MacGregor seemed the least likely candidate to handle the contraption’s removal as well as he did. Jonesburry, though, probably would have preferred if MacGregor actually did manage to pass out—at least then he wouldn’t have to listen to him weeping on the floor like a scolded child.

The client watched MacGregor’s writhing with the sadistic glee of a schoolboy who had just pulled the wings from an insect. “Is it always like this?” the old man asked.

“No,” Horace answered, before Jonesburry could. “They usually vomit, too. This one seems to possess an unexpectedly sturdier spine than most.”

“Will he be coherent again?” the client asked. “My buyers are only willing to pay a premium if the man is unspoilt. There’s no fun in torturing him if he doesn’t know what’s happening.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jonesburry assured him. “Just don’t expect him to be capable of doing anything other than this for the next few hours.”

Horace cleansed the extracted Spider in a solution of rubbing alcohol and handed it across to Jonesburry. He was always amazed at how innocuous a thing it really was—little more than a golden clockwork toy to the casual observer. However, pressing the release catch against the back of someone’s scalp would soon see it performing its true purpose.

“Miraculous,” the client breathed, transfixed at the sight of the contraption in Jonesburry’s hand. “And it’s now ready to be used again?”

“No,” Jonesburry said at the same time that Horace answered “Yes.”

“Which is it, then?”

“The Spider is ready to be used again the moment its filaments are retracted,” Horace answered first. “What probably isn’t ready to be used again is my delicate friend here.”

“The extraction process causes problems for the Minder as well?”

“No,” Jonesburry replied curtly, shooting Horace a pointed look. “It’s being stuck in the brain of a pervert for a week that causes me problems.”

“Forgive my friend,” Horace apologised. “He’s good at what he does, but he has the tendency to whine about it.”

“I see.” The client nodded slowly. “However, I really do wish to engage your services again, and I am willing to compensate you both handsomely for your troubles. Will three days be a sufficient period of time for you to recover from having been tethered to my overweight friend here?”

“Yes,” Horace answered for him. “Jonesburry will be refreshed and ready for another charge.”

“Mr. Jonesburry?” the client asked.

“Three days will be sufficient.” Jonesburry answered far less enthusiastically than his partner.

“Excellent. One of my men will provide you with the details.” The client motioned to one of his two muscle-bound companions. “In the meantime, I shall take the unfortunate Mr. MacGregor here off your hands.

Throughout his career as a Minder, Jonesburry had often found himself in an array of remarkably uncomfortable locations. Topping his list of unpleasant places to visit was the opium den in Shanghai, the one which had left him with a permanent scar running across almost the entire length of his abdomen. Or, coming a close second, were the back alleys of the Kandahar bazaar. That was where he had very nearly lost his head to a decidedly uncooperative charge.

As he began mounting the lavishly carpeted stairway, he decided the Royal Opera House had just superseded both the opium den and the bazaar on the list. Self-important ushers kept casting disbelieving eyes in his direction, uncertain as to how someone with his sense of dress actually dared enter the building, let alone the floor which led into the private boxes.

At least in Kandahar, the street hawkers had been pleased to see him. That was, of course, before one of them chased him with an oversized scimitar.

Those were the early days, back before he learned that applying the Spider to a charge could be a delicate operation at the best of times. Before he knew that trying to apply one to a prospective charge chasing you with a sword was virtually impossible.

“May I help you, sir?” an usher asked. He managed to voice the question in such a way as to make it clear that what he really asked was, ‘What on earth do you think you are doing here?’

Jonesburry smiled, and produced the same sealed invitation which Horace had delivered to him earlier that morning. The usher read the card with obvious disbelief before asking if he required any further directions to the private box he sought.

Jonesburry shook his head. “I’m sure I can find it,” he said before knocking a clump of mud out from the treads of his boot with his opposite heel. As the muck came unstuck, landing on the carpet at the usher’s feet, Jonesburry tipped his hat and roughly pushed past the flustered toady.

It was a juvenile thing to do, but amusing nonetheless.

As he pushed back the heavy velvet curtain and stepped into the private viewing box, a meaty hand grasped his shoulder from behind. Without thinking, Jonesburry flicked his wrist, activating the spring-loaded mechanism hidden beneath his jacket sleeve—another of Horace’s mechanical contrivances.

An old revolving pistol, the same one he had carried ever since the incident in Kandahar, shot into his hand in an instant. Less than a second after the hand had grasped his shoulder, he had the barrel of his pistol thrust under the chin of its sizable owner.

“Not exactly the sort of toy one brings to the opera, Mr. Jonesburry,” the client said from the seats behind him. “You can put it away; my man won’t bite.”

“Sorry,” Jonseburry said, more so to the hand’s owner than the client. With another flick of the wrist, the pistol disappeared back into his sleeve. “MacGregor’s jumpiness seems to have rubbed off onto me.”

“Indeed?” the client asked before indicating the seat beside him. “Sit down, Mr. Jonesburry. Tell me, do you enjoy the opera?”

“I can’t say I have ever had much of a chance to enjoy it,” Jonesburry answered as he sat. “My schedule doesn’t seem to allow much room for such amusements.”

“That’s unfortunate. I would think you would rather enjoy tonight’s performance.”

Jonesburry considered the two figures on stage singing in French, a young man pretending to be old and frail, and the other cloaked in black. So far, there seemed very little worth his attention.

“The one cloaked in black is Mephistopheles,” the client explained. “A demon who—”

“. . . is busy trying to have the old man sign his soul over to the Devil for second chance at youth,” Jonesburry said. “Should I be concerned that you are trying to suggest something?”

“Nothing veiled, nothing intended,” the client said with open hands. “You must speak French then?”

“Not a word. I have been bound to a number of men who did; it would seem something came across in the process.”

“What an intriguing by-product of your occupation. Surely you must have attained some interesting skills over the years?”

“That depends on the type of folk I’m bound to. You have a new charge for me to transport?”

The client sighed, “You’re not one for small talk, are you? Straight to business is it then?”

“If you would.”

“Very well.” The client motioned his imposing bodyguard over to the seats.

As the hefty man began reaching into his jacket, Jonesburry had to stop himself from triggering his pistol’s spring release mechanism once more.
Damn you MacGregor,
he swore silently.
Still jittery from your addled thoughts.

The guard eventually produced another set of opera glasses, identical to the pair already sitting in the client’s lap. The tiny lenses looked so delicate in the tough’s bulky grip; it was hard to believe he wouldn’t inadvertently crush them just by handling them.

“Thank you,” Jonesburry said as he took the glasses. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

The client raised his glasses and pointed across to the private box situated directly across the balcony. Jonesburry peered through his own set and saw a well-dressed man, one so young that he would have only just left his teen years behind him.

“He seems a little young to have attracted the sort of attention you have planned for him,” Jonesburry noted.Returning his own glasses back to the performance, the client said, “Don’t be fooled by his youth, Mr. Jonesburry. That is Sir Oliver Reinleigh, the Marquis of Montherma, and a sharper and more dangerous mind than you have probably ever met.”

Jonesburry nearly choked. “You want me to kidnap a member of the peerage?”

“No, Mr. Jonesburry,” the client answered without diverting his gaze from the singers on stage. “I want you to accompany him on a journey. The same journey he will make after you suggest to him that he takes an entirely voluntary retreat to his continental estates. Once there, I plan to have an unfortunate hunting accident awaiting him. I trust you have the ability to do just that?”