The Flux Engine (12 page)

“Where are you?” John asked. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Sylvia could see him somehow. The voice hesitated.

“I’m between the engine room and coal storage,” she said. “It’s the safest place on the ship for me.”

John was lost. It must have shown on his face.

“Oh dear. Perhaps I’d better just show you,” Sylvia said with a sigh.

There was a metallic clack and a hiss of steam and a section of floor opened along the back wall. The floorboards rose up, pivoting from the rear like a trap door, revealing a long, rectangular hole. A strange machine rose from beneath, pushing up until it nearly reached the ceiling. It looked like a cabinet made out of mismatched wood panels and set with all manner of pipes, switches, and dials. In the exact center of the device was a metal cylinder that emitted a muffled ringing like a dozen crystals working in harmony.

John had heard a lot of crystal devices work and most of them sounded like a box of glass being kicked down a staircase. This sound reminded him of his mother’s crystal. It was pure and musical, each tone blending in a ringing chord that sent chills running down his spine.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Not what,” Hickok said. “Who. That’s Sylvia.”

John heard the hiss of a steam piston engaging and the metal cylinder began to rotate. It was open at the back and as it turned, he could see inside. A series of crystals lined the inner walls of the cylinder, surrounding a glass tank filled with bubbling green liquid. A triangular arm below the tank held three crystals upright and spun them in the space between the crystals mounted in the cylinder and the tank itself. It was a simple design, for a third-order device, but the tone produced was angelic.

There was a loud clack and the noise of an electrical spark. Light flooded the little compartment, and John gasped. In the tank, magnified to twice its normal size by the thick glass, floated a human brain.

“It’s a brainbox,” John blurted.

“I beg your pardon,” Sylvia’s indignant voice came out of the speaker again. “I have a name.”

“I—I’m sorry,” John stammered. He’d worked around all kinds of crystal devices, but even the humanoid Tommys were just gears, pipes, valves, crystals, and inert metal. He’d never seen one that literally had a mind of its own.

He’d heard of brainboxes, of course, but only a handful of them had survived the war. They were built by the greatest Architect of the age, Ben Franklin, as a response to Britannia’s automated Dreadnoughts. While the Dreadnoughts could carry out simple tasks unsupervised, much like Tommys, an airship or gun platform with a brainbox was completely autonomous. The brain, harvested shortly after its donor’s death, could think and reason, just like a living crewman, but without the need for a crew. A single brainbox could operate an entire gun platform or combat airship all by itself, only needing live crewmen for maintenance work. Brainbox-enhanced weapons were devastating and helped turn the tide of the war in the Alliance’s favor.

Franklin regretted his invention almost immediately, fearing unscrupulous men or governments would take his invention and harvest brains from the living to build vast armies. When he died, Franklin took the secret of their construction to his grave. Now only a few remained.

John took an involuntary step forward. He had so many questions.

“Are you the one flying the ship?” he asked, peering at the jar with its floating brain. Tiny copper wires ran over its surface, disappearing occasionally into the folds of the gray tissue.

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “I am also regulating the lift engine and adjusting the cabin temperature.”

“What happens when you need to sleep?”

“I only need a few hours of rest per week.”

“What—”

“That’s enough,” Hickok said. He plunked a plate full of fried potatoes and ham steak on the table. “Plenty of time for questions later; now it’s time to eat.”

Reluctantly, John left the machine and returned to the table.

“Bill,” Sylvia said as John sat down. “I’ve been monitoring the lift engines since we left Sprocketville and I found something disturbing.”

Hickok put down the fork he’d just picked up and turned to Sylvia.

“The lifters seem to have lost some of their efficiency,” she went on. “I expected to see some degradation from adding John’s weight to our total, but it is more pronounced than I would have expected.”

“How far off?” Hickok said. John noticed that there was a hard edge in his voice, and though he was still sitting behind his plate of ham and potatoes, his whole body seemed tight and coiled, like a rattlesnake ready to strike.

“It seems like we’ve picked up an additional one-hundred to three-hundred pounds,” Sylvia said.

Hickok swore, jumping from his chair to the hook where his gun belt hung. Without bothering to put it on, he jerked the heavy short sword from its scabbard.

“That bald friend of yours is a solid two-twenty if he’s an ounce.”

John’s blood ran cold. The idea that Morgan could have slipped on board before they left was utterly terrifying.

“Crankshaft, get up here!” Hickok roared. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened a locker built into the wall beside the round window.

“What’s going on?” Crankshaft asked, emerging up the stairs from the lower deck at a run.

“We’ve got an intruder,” Hickok said, pulling a shatter gun from the locker and tossing it to Crankshaft. “Stay here and protect the boy.”

If Crankshaft thought this was strange, he showed no sign. He flicked the activator forward on the shatter gun and took a seat next to John. Behind them, Sylvia slid back into her protective space beneath the floor.

Hickok buckled on his gun belt and loosened his pistol in its holster, then headed to the stairs going down.

“Watch yourself,” Crankshaft said.

“You too.” Hickok nodded.

“Don’t worry,” Crankshaft said, patting the shatter gun. “I’ll just shoot anyone who isn’t you.”

Chapter 13

The Stowaway

John sat in silence as the minutes ticked by since Bill had gone. Crankshaft sat beside him, leaning back slightly in his chair and wearing an air of easy confidence, as if he were expecting dinner to be served any moment. The long, slender shatter gun sat cradled in his lap with the man’s rough, grease-stained hand on the grip and trigger. The gun was shorter than a flux rifle but heavier, with two side-by-side barrels.

Shatter Guns were simple weapons in principle. A flux charged cartridge held a crystal plug. When the crystal hammer hit the cartridge, the plug was fired down the barrel where it shattered into dozens of razor sharp shards. John had never seen one fired, but he imagined it would shred anything living to ribbons.

The thought made him shudder.

“So why did Bill make you his deputy?”

John didn’t realize he had been straining to hear any sound of Bill but he must have been. Crankshaft’s question seemed to roll over him like thunder.

“The … the sheriff wanted to arrest me.”

“Well, that’s not really an answer,” Crankshaft said, one of his snow-white eyebrows arcing upward. “I mean it’s the sheriff’s job to arrest people. Bill can’t go around deputizing everybody.” He turned, focusing his gaze fully on John. “So why did he stick his neck out for you?”

“It’s about a crystal,” John said, somewhat evasively. Too many people knew the secret of his mother’s crystal already. “Bill thinks it’s dangerous.”

Crankshaft nodded sagely, as if that explained everything.

“You mean like one of those top-secret crystals the Alliance types are always experimenting with.”

John nodded.

“Well, I can surely see why Bill would want to follow up on that,” Crankshaft said.

John relaxed, grateful that the engineer seemed willing to accept that much explanation.

“Still, I can’t help asking myself what a young man, such as yourself, would know about dangerous military crystals?”

Convinced Crankshaft would not let the matter go, John tried the direct approach.

“It’s mine,” he said. “Someone stole it from me and I’m going to get it back.”

“Fair enough,” Crankshaft said. “But that still doesn’t explain why Bill deputized you. I doubt he needs your help finding this crystal. Bill’s been tracking everything from Scrapstalkers to men to treasure since before you were born.”

John hadn’t thought of that. If this psychic of Hickok’s were really as powerful as the enforcer made him seem, he wouldn’t need John’s help to track Sira. Bill already knew her name and he had the tintype. So why did he want John along?

“Maybe he didn’t like Sheriff Batts,” John said.

Crankshaft chuckled.

“Why would Bill bother dragging you all over the west just to make some local sheriff mad?”

“All right, I give up,” John said. “What are you getting at?”

The old mechanic fixed John with a penetrating stare.

“Just this,” he said. “Wild Bill don’t do nothin’ without a damn good reason. If he brought you along, you can bet it’s because he sees something worthwhile in you.”

John felt a chill run down his spine. What if Crankshaft was right? What if Hickok had plans for him, plans beyond the psychic? He didn’t know much about law, but he knew that swearing in as a deputy was a legally binding contract. What if he’d just signed up for something way bigger than he’d bargained for? What if it wasn’t Hickok that was interested? The enforcer might have been in contact with his psychic the whole time. What if it was the mysterious Prophet that had a use for him?

John shuddered and tried to push the cascading flood of worries from his mind. After all, if Derek Morgan had somehow sneaked on board, he might be killed at any moment. There was nothing like the thought of being murdered to make other concerns seem petty and distant.

Still, somewhere in the back of his mind the faint heartbeat of an idea thumped. Not even the thought of Morgan and his menacing short blade could silence it fully. Whatever his life had been before, he’d always managed to turn things to his advantage; now it suddenly seemed as if outside forces were sweeping him up into some unknown fate. Something big, where crystals and brainboxes and shatter guns would be the difference between life and death.

Something dangerous, where even the life of legendary enforcer Wild Bill Hickok wouldn’t be safe.

Something evil, where the price of failure might be his very soul.

“Get down.” Crankshaft shoved John’s head below the top of the overturned table, then leveled his shatter gun at the door leading to the deck. Someone landed hard on the roof, moving quickly across the quarterdeck, then crashing down amidships. A few seconds later it slammed into the door and the handle was wrenched open.

“Hold your fire,” Hickok’s voice came from the darkness outside.

Crankshaft raised his gun and a moment later the big enforcer entered, dragging a struggling person behind him. As he hauled his prisoner into view, John instantly recognized her.

Robi.

Her silky black hair was a disheveled haystack and her lip was bleeding but her eyes burned with defiance.

“Let go of me, you big ape,” she spat, kicking him.

Hickok flung the girl forward into the overturned table as if she weighed no more than a child. She slammed into the table with a cry of pain and slid down to the floor.

“Settle down, missy,” Hickok said.

John hadn’t noticed before, but the enforcer’s face and one of his hands were scratched and bleeding.

Crankshaft chuckled, breaking the sudden silence.

“All that over a little nothing of a girl,” he said, clearly amused. Hickok’s face darkened.

“She’s faster than she looks,” he said, rubbing the wounds on his face. “Nastier too.”

He held out his hand and Crankshaft tossed him the shatter gun.

“Give me a hand,” the engineer said as Hickok secured the guns back in their locker.

Together John and Crankshaft lifted the table back in place, then John helped Robi into a chair.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“I’d like to know that, too,” Hickok said.

The man had uncanny hearing. Robi’s eyes flashed to John then darted away, hiding something.

“I came to rescue John,” she said, still not looking at him.

Hickok laughed.

“Oh, you can do better than that,” he said. “Johnny boy’s charming, but he’s not that charming. Besides, I know who trained you. I met your father about a dozen years back. He was somewhere he shouldn’t have been and I had him dead to rights. Then he told me this yarn about how men were chasing him and he’d gotten turned around running from them. I bought it hook, line, and sinker.”

Hickok shook his head, an admiring smile creeping onto his face.

“That man could sell you an umbrella with the noonday sun shining on your head.”

Hickok’s smile evaporated as he pulled up a chair, sitting down in it backwards.

“Now you, little miss, are not your father. So why don’t you tell me where your father is, and what his game is in all of this. Is he after the crystal too?”

“No,” Robi said. “He’s not here, it’s just me. I came because … because I want to help John get his crystal back.”

John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was glad Robi wanted to help him, of course, but she’d almost been killed by Derek Morgan. The wound on her neck was barely scabbed over. Something about his mother’s crystal was very dangerous. He’d already been shot once. He didn’t want that happening to Robi. It was simply too dangerous for her to come along.

“I don’t need help,” he said. All eyes in the room shifted to him. Robi’s were especially cold, two black pits of pure ice. “I’m grateful, don’t misunderstand, but Hickok and I can handle this.”

Robi’s jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. Something John said had made her angry. Not just angry, but furious.

“You need me,” she said in a low, even voice. “I know how to find information, places even Bill Hickok here doesn’t know.” She nodded at Hickok. “Whoever took that crystal is going to need to sell it. Either that or there’s already a buyer, and if there’s a buyer, then he will have put the word out that he’s looking for it. People will know where Sira took that crystal, but only I can find them.”

“Well that’s not exactly true,” Hickok said. “You ever hear of the Prophet?”

Robi’s face paled. Clearly she had.

“Thanks to your excellent suggestions, I suspect he can find the people you’re thinking of, and get the information we need.”

“You still need me,” she said, a note of desperation slipping into her voice. “I have contacts that your psychic won’t be able to find, people who owe me favors. You might be able to track Sira without me, but with me, you’ll find her a whole lot faster.”

Hickok’s eyes narrowed for a long moment. He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out the stub of a cigar, which he lit with an engraved silver lighter.

“This seems awful important to you,” he said, blowing a smoke ring at Robi. “What’s the real reason you’re here? You’re not smitten with my deputy, now, are you?”

John felt himself blush at this. Much to his surprise, Robi blushed too.

“I can’t,” Robi said at last. “Just trust that I can help you and let my reasons be my own.”

Hickok puffed his cigar, then turned to John.

“What do you think, Deputy Porter?” he said. “Do we need this young woman, or shall we put her off at the nearest town?”

Robi turned to look at him too. For some reason her face was anxious, almost pleading. Perhaps she could be helpful.

The image of Sira and her smoking gun sprang, unbidden to his mind.

No.

He was not going to let that happen to Robi. Hickok was paid to take those kinds of chances, but John wouldn’t put anyone else in danger just to find his crystal. He had to stop Robi from coming along. Had to keep her safe.

“We should put her off somewhere,” he said.

“You son of a bitch!” Robi cried, leaping to her feet.

Before she could move, Crankshaft seized her, pinning her arms behind her with hands strengthened by years of wrenches and rusted bolts.

“Take her below and put her in one of the holding cells,” Hickok said.

“Let me go,” Robi screamed, struggling against Crankshaft’s iron grip.

“Won’t she just escape?” John asked.

Hickok shook his head. “Sylvia controls the doors so there’s no lock to pick.”

“He killed my father!” Robi shrieked.

For a long moment the only sound in the room was the chugging of the steam engine below and the whooshing pulse of the propellers outside.

“He killed my father,” Robi said again, quieter. This time she hung her head, hiding her face under her mass of ebony hair. There was no mistaking her sobs, however.

“Who killed your father?” Hickok asked, his voice neutral, betraying no emotion.

Robi looked up, still pulling against Crankshaft’s restraining grip. Her eyes were filled with tears, but her perfect features were twisted into a snarl and her teeth were clenched in hate.

“Derek Morgan,” she said.

“So that’s it,” Hickok said. “I wondered why we hadn’t seen your father yet. So you want to come along so you can get revenge? That’s what you want?”

“What I want,” Robi said, her voice tight and controlled, “is to do to Derek Morgan what he did to me. I want to take everything from him, everything he loves, everything that matters and then leave him alive to long for it.”

John felt his blood go cold. As angry as he’d been at Sira for stealing his mother’s crystal, he’d never wanted more than just to have it back.

Robi stood there, no longer struggling against Crankshaft. Her face was composed but tears still fell down her cheeks in an unbroken stream.

“I’m sorry about your father, Miss Laren,” he said. “Builder knows he was a worthy adversary. But that said, there’s no room for revenge in this business.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Robi spat. “Don’t tell me a man like you has never seen evil. Seen men so vile they poison everything they touch. Don’t tell me you never killed a man just because he needed killing.”

John couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of Robi’s mouth. She was so angry, so bitter. Hickok, however, didn’t seem surprised at all.

“Of course I have,” he said. “That’s how I know that people out for revenge make bad partners. They’re too focused on their quest for justice or vengeance or whatever they really want. They forget the job they’re supposed to be doing and they make mistakes. The kind of mistakes that get people killed.

“Now I’m sorry about your father, but I’m not risking my life or John’s or Crankshaft’s just so you can salve your soul with your pound of flesh.”

He waved at Crankshaft and the big mechanic began pulling Robi toward the stairs again.

“Wait,” she said, struggling in vain. “I know who his boss is.”

“Whose boss?”

“Morgan’s,” she said. “I saw him plain as day. I’ll never forget his face. If you let me come with you, I’ll let your psychic look into my mind and see him too.”

“The Prophet can just pick it right out of your mind,” Hickok said.

Robi’s wolfish smile returned, shifting her face back to pretty.

“The first thing my father taught me was how to shield my thoughts from psychics,” she said. “You willing to bet your Prophet is good enough to break me down? Or are you willing to let him strip me, open up my mind and take what he wants, then leave me a drooling vegetable? I’m willing to bet he won’t go that far, so what’s it going to be?”

Hickok puffed on his cigar, considering for a minute.

“Well,” he said, “I am a betting man, but in this case you’re right. I’m sure having a look at the man in charge would be helpful, but I meant what I said. People out for revenge destroy the people around them. You’re too dangerous to bring along.”

“Wait,” Robi said as Crankshaft began hauling her away again. “John, tell him. Tell him I can help. Please, John.”

John felt his heart drop into his stomach like a lead weight. Robi had helped him when he needed it most and he felt that obligation. Still, what kind of friend would he be if he let her go and get herself killed? Morgan would have no trouble gutting her like a fish.