The Flux Engine (4 page)

“Why?” John said, trying to give himself time to think. There was no way Hickok or the sheriff could know about his experiment, it simply wasn’t possible. Yet the woman had known, hadn’t she? Somehow she had known.

Hickok watched him closely and John had the uncomfortable feeling that he could hear the thoughts turning in his head.

“That was quite the trick,” Hickok said. “Doctor Shultz assured me that there’s no way that handler box you used could have affected Tommys all the way out at the mine.”

“If it’s not possible, what makes you think I did it?”

Hickok smiled. His face seemed open and honest as if he liked John and wanted to help him.

“It’s no use denying it,” he said. “Shultz’ lab is dead center, right in the middle of the disturbance. Not to mention those burned out crystals in the handler box. Doctor Shultz said it would take a lot of power to do that. And then, there’s the matter of the missing resonator—you know, the crystal that goes right in the center. We couldn’t find the one you used anywhere.”

John tried to keep his expression blank. So far, Hickok was just guessing, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t enough to arrest him on. Still, he could feel pinpricks of nervous fear running up and down his back.

“So,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “I figure you had a partner and when things went bad, he took the crystal. You objected and he shot you.”

He paused, regarding John with his penetrating gaze.

“So, how am I doing?” he said with an easy smile.

“I’d have to be some kind of Architect to do any of that,” John said. Architects were mad geniuses, men and women capable of inventing new crystals and building fantastic machines. There hadn’t been a bona-fide Architect since Ben Franklin died. Hickok shrugged and sat back in his chair.

“Maybe it was your partner,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter whose idea it was. What matters,” he said crossing his legs and sitting back, “is that we have you.”

“M-me?” John stammered.

Hickok nodded.

“You see, John, those Tommys did a lot of damage,” he said. “Lots of people are angry. Powerful people. Important people. They’re going to want someone to blame.”

Those pinpricks on John’s spine turned into claws that seized his spine and squeezed.

“Then, of course, there’s the Alliance,” Hickok went on, seemingly oblivious to John’s distress. “They’re going to want to know how you managed to override the handler’s control of Tommys from over a mile away.”

Hickok stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment.

“I suppose if you’ve got a good story to tell them, they might let you work in one of their top-secret research labs, but if not …” He shrugged. “If not, they’ll just have a psychic take what they want and let what’s left of you rot in prison. Oh, sure it’ll take them a week or so to get a real psychic out here, but you’re not exactly going anywhere.”

“What do you want from me?” John finally had the presence of mind to ask.

“I want to know what really happened, John,”“ Hickok said. “I want to know who your partner was and where they took the resonator crystal.”

“If what you say is true, why would I admit to it?” John asked. He wasn’t sure what Hickok was offering, but it was clear the enforcer had a proposition of some kind.

“I’m an Enforcer,” Hickok said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward again. “I don’t answer to the Sheriff or the Mayor. Only the territorial governor can give me orders. On top of that, I’m the one who’s supposed to report back to the Alliance about what happened here.” He paused for a moment while that sunk in.

“Now, if you tell me what I want to know,” he said, “I can take you somewhere where you can develop your skills free of interference by the Sheriff and the Alliance.”

John swallowed hard. Nothing he could tell this enforcer was likely to make the man happy—especially the truth. Besides which, if he told the truth it was entirely likely he’d never see his mother’s crystal again. Hickok would get it for whatever third party he was working for and that would be that. On the other hand, if he didn’t take Hickok’s deal, he would be arrested. After that it was only a matter of time until someone brought in a psychic and then John was done for. The Alliance might have wanted him for one of their research labs, but not without his mother’s crystal. Without that, he was just a kid who had torn down half of Sprocketville. He didn’t fancy his chances of staying out of prison once the Alliance found that out.

He needed a moment to think.

“You’re out of time, John,” Hickok said as the door handle rattled. “What’s it going to be?”

If John told Hickok, or anyone, about his mother’s crystal, they might decide to take it away. Finding his mother had to take priority.

“I can’t help you,” he said, resolving to take his chances with the Sheriff.

The door opened and two men entered. They were large and brutish, with unkempt hair and unshaven faces. Each wore the red waistcoat of the town guard. This pair of misfits was followed by a third man so unlike them that he seemed a different species. He was tall and lithe with hawkish, aquiline features, dark eyes, and a Van Dyke beard. His long red coat was pressed, the brass buttons gleamed, and his black boots shone with polish. A heavy chain hung around his neck ending in a brass medallion that depicted the three rings of a planetary gear. John had never met this man, but he was unmistakably Aaron Batts, the Sheriff of Sprocketville.

Hickok sighed and rose.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said and seemed to mean it. To Sheriff Batts he said, “He’s all yours,” then gathered his purple duster and departed.

“John Porter,” Batts said in an all-too-pleased-with-himself sort of voice. “I’m placing you under arrest for criminal mischief, destruction of property, and attempted murder. You’d better come with me.”

Chapter 4

The Sheriff of Sprocketville

John followed Sheriff Batts as he led the way through the crowded street toward the jail. His imposing height and bright red coat seemed to move people out of his path without any conscious effort on his part. Batts was an important man but he didn’t have to enforce his status; the citizens of Sprocketville yielded it voluntarily. It was a sign of their respect for Batts, and their faith in him.

John walked along in the Sheriff’s wake, his hands cuffed together in front. The two unkempt deputies brought up the rear, one of them resting his rough, scarred hand on John’s shoulder to prevent any ill-considered escape attempts. The crowd in the street seemed to be giving the deputies a wide berth as well, though obviously not for the same reason they yielded to Batts.

The Sprocketville jail was a squat, two-story building constructed of large, square bricks. Old Sheriff Johansen, Batts’ predecessor, had a live-and-let-live attitude toward law enforcement and hadn’t used it much. Batts, however, was a strict law-and-order man and had the entire building refurbished when he took office. Gleaming iron bars now covered every ground-floor window, and the heavy doors were reinforced with steel bands. The bricks had been painted a deep blue, and a gold lettered sign now hung above the door proclaiming, “Sprocketville Jail House, Open for Business.”

The Sheriff mounted the wooden steps up to the sidewalk that ran along the front of the jail. As he passed through the door, his hand reached out with practiced ease and pulled down a metal lever attached to a rectangular box mounted next to the door. As the lever went down, wooden slats in the box’s front flipped over, changing the sign inside to read, “The Sheriff is In.”

“Follow me,” Batts instructed as he crossed the front room to the second floor stairs.

At the top of the stairs was the Sheriff’s office, a large, sun-lit room with a dark mahogany desk and several overstuffed chairs. A stool sat in front of the desk and Batts motioned for John to sit there. The stool’s legs had apparently been cut short, making it small, even for John. This made the figure of Batts behind his desk seem huge.

The Sheriff regarded John for a long moment, peering at him from the darkness of his ebony eyes, then he pointed to the wall.

“You see those,” he said in an easy, almost friendly manner.

A mass of framed letters and engraved plaques covered the plain wallpaper of the office. John looked back at the Sheriff and nodded.

“Those are my legacy,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “That one’s from the Alchemists’ Association, and I got that one from the Mercantile Union. See the big one in the middle? That one’s from the Mayor, and the little one next to it is a letter from the Territorial Governor.”

John didn’t want to be impressed, but he didn’t even know who the Territorial Governor was, and he’d never received a letter from … anyone.

“I got these because I cleaned up this town,” Batts said, leaning forward in his chair again. “I’ve got the best arrest record of any Sheriff in the Laredo Territory.” His piercing black eyes shifted from the wall to John. “Do you know why that is?”

“No, sir,” John said.

“It’s because I don’t just let things go, John.” He rummaged around for a moment in the papers on his desk and extracted a small, yellow card with neat black printing on it. “I got this Etheriogram yesterday,” he said, holding it up. “It’s from your boss, Doctor Shultz.”

Batts slipped a glass monocle from his vest pocket and perched it over his right eye before squinting at the card.

“He says that there’s no possible way you could have overridden the control of Tommys ten feet away, much less over a mile. Then he says I’ve got the wrong person, and that I should let you go.”

That sounded like good news, but Batts wasn’t smiling.

“Now I’m sure Doctor Shultz knows his business,” he said, removing the monocle and setting the yellow card aside. “But I also know that someone used your lab to wreak havoc on my town. Now where would I be if I just let that go?”

“It wasn’t me,” John lied.

“Oh, I know that,” Batts said, much to John’s surprise. “Both Doctor Shultz and that big Enforcer told me as much. But then, you didn’t shoot yourself, now did you?”

John felt the air rush out of his chest as if he’d been shot again.

“The way I see it, there are two possibilities,” Batts went on. “Either someone forced you to help them take control of the Tommys, or you had a partner. Whoever that second person was, they’re the one who shot you.”

Batts folded his fingers together and laid his hands on the desk, fixing John with a hard stare.

“Now, I figure if someone forced you to help them at gunpoint and then shot you, well, then you’d have told us all about them by now. That means the person you’re protecting is your partner—or at least they were until they shot you.”

John felt his mouth drop open as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He couldn’t tell Sheriff Batts the truth about the dark-haired woman; that would reveal his mother’s crystal, and since he didn’t have a partner, he’d be forced to make one up. John got the uncomfortable feeling as he looked into the Sheriff’s eyes that Batts would see through any such deception.

He could still come clean and confess to causing the accident himself. He doubted anyone would believe he did it on purpose. Still that would mean revealing his mother’s crystal and whatever strange power it had used to project John’s mind all the way out to the coal mine. If Batts didn’t confiscate it on principle, John was sure the Alliance would want it for study. No matter what, if he told the truth, he’d lose his only connection to his family forever.

Of course, if he said nothing and was locked up he might lose it forever anyway. Every moment he spent with Batts, his assailant was getting further and further away. Still, he reasoned, a slim chance was better than no chance at all.

“I’m sorry,” John said, making up his mind. “I found the lab all torn up and when I went to see if anything was missing, someone shot me. I didn’t see who.”

Batts smiled. It was not a friendly expression.

“How did you get the burns on your head if you weren’t using the Handler Box?” he asked.

“I …” John had forgotten about the burns over his temples. He had no answer for that.

Batts rang a small hotel bell that sat on his desk and one of his hulking deputies entered.

“Mister Porter seems disinclined to tell me the truth,” he said to the unshaven man. “Take him downstairs and lock him up. Maybe a few days as our guest will persuade him to be more explicit.”

The deputy grabbed John by the shoulder and jerked him to his feet. He winced as the mostly-healed bullet-wound in his chest spasmed in protest.

“I never let things go, John,” Batts said as John was forcibly escorted from his office. “Think about it.”

The holding cells were on the main floor of the jail, behind an ironbound door. John shot a longing look through the front door at the street beyond as the deputy escorted him into the back. Despite its reputation as a quiet, law-abiding town, the Sprocketville jail had a dozen cells for malcontents. John knew from experience that the ones closest to the door were reserved for the handful of drunks that the guard would round up every night and then release in the morning. He’d had to come get Doctor Shultz once or twice when his mentor had an especially festive night. The cells in the back, however, were for the more permanent residents, those awaiting trial.

John shivered. If he were found guilty of the Tommy disaster, they’d send him to prison for years. If someone had died during the mayhem it would be murder. He could be hanged.

He had to get free.

The face of the Enforcer, Bill Hickok, came unbidden to his mind but he banished it just as quickly. Hickok would get him out of trouble, but then the Alliance would get his mother’s crystal and probably him too.

As they moved down the row of cells, a man wrapped entirely in stained, brown rags looked up at him from the drunk tank. John shivered as the tang of iron and sweat assaulted his nostrils.

The poor man was a leaker.

The leaking disease was a horrible leftover from the war of independence from Britannia. Those who caught it lost their own blood as it bled through their skin. No one knew what caused it and there was no cure. It was a horrible way to live, though most who contracted it didn’t live all that long.

“Inside,” the guard said, pushing John through the open door of a cell in the back. John stepped into a small cage, barely big enough for the wooden cot within. The door slammed shut behind him with a ringing clang that set his teeth on edge.

“If you change your mind, just yell,” the deputy said, then he locked the door with a twist of his key and retreated to the cell with the leaker inside.

“All right, you,” the guard said, opening the cell. “Get out and stay out of trouble.”

The leaker stood, adjusting his wrappings, and left with the deputy who shut the outer door with a boom.

John just stood there a moment, letting his eyes travel around the little cell. It was empty except for the cot and a tin bucket in case he needed to relieve himself. A gnarled wooden broom leaned against the stone wall just beyond his cell door, but even though John could probably reach it if he tried, he doubted it would prove an effective weapon or escape tool.

He sighed and sat down on the lumpy mattress. This was not how his life was supposed to turn out.

“So,” a new voice greeted him. “What are you in for?”