Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (32 page)

I open
Noir
to the table of contents and drag my finger down the list. Just seeing my father’s penned words affects me. The way he looped his ‘m’s, his exaggerated ‘s’. Seeing them again brings me to tears. I recall his hand, how swiftly he moved it across the page. The way he dunked his nib into the inkwell twice for luck before beginning a new line. I swallow, remembering how he’d let me help hold the pen as he wrote his final nightly entries. The smile on his face when we finished.

A ball of emotion lodges in my throat.

I fight through the tears that come and continue my search, flipping page after page, looking for relevant entries, but I can’t understand a one. Though penned of my father’s hand, they seem to be in a language I can’t understand. An expertise only
he
understood.

“Particulate radiate matter readings higher than the highest reading last month. Soil clearly contaminated. Abundant traces of radiate matter found in human hair? Equal trace amounts detected in the plaster of the walls?”

What does this mean? What is he talking about, particulate radiate matter?

I suck in a splintery breath.

I turn the page and a letter slips out of the center of the journal and drifts into my lap. I pick it up, examine it. The letter’s never been sealed. Nor sent.

I open it quickly and pull out the contents, smoothing the yellowed three-page letter out over my knee. It’s in my father’s handwriting but is not part of his journal. It appears to contain his Last Will and Testament, dated
March 5, 1892
, one day prior to his death.

It is in the express interest of the Commonwealth I record this information, out of love for my fellow man and country.

Though I’m confident my science has been placed in the hands of an equally capable scientist, I have my reservations about his sanity, as well as his integrity. And I worry about the future of my machine.

Though his papers claim he’s a doctor of neurological science, as am I, he seems disproportionately obsessed with the mechanical workings of the apparatus itself, showing little to no interest in the human case studies I put before him, referring to their importance as secondary in nature. Furthermore, he refuses to acknowledge my documented findings and ignores me when I speak of the dangers of the machine. Referring to all the data I’ve gathered regarding the negative effects of exposure to the Ray as nothing more than controversial hearsay…

The Illuminator. He’s talking about the Illuminator. He has to be.

I turn the page.

Repeatedly, he inquires about the range of the machine and its potential potency, speaking non-stop about his plans to modify both. He appears to be more concerned with interplanetary exploration than for the science for which the machine was intended.

In a private meeting, he expressed to me his plans to use the Illuminator to ferret out the exact location of an alternate universe—he believes exists beyond the cloud cover—where the dead still live. With the help of the Illuminator he seeks to navigate the heavens to verify this world’s existence—so he may join his dead wife there.

It is for these reasons I fear the newly appointed professor suffers from some kind of degenerate brain disorder. Some strange malady he’s acquired since the tragic death of his beloved wife, who passed while giving birth to their only child—a son of whom he never speaks. Insanely, I’m told that he blames the child for the death of his wife.

Urlick. I glance his way, remembering the things he told me about the night of his birth, about the Illuminator ending up in his father’s lab.

This scientist. It’s Urlick’s father. It has to be…

I drop my eyes and return to the page.

I fear the harm that may come to our society if the cathode-ray program is left in this man’s hands. He cares not about the patients, referring to his clinical trial subjects as specimens, not people. It is as though his heart’s gone cold, made of stone.

Even more disturbing is the close business association this man holds with Professor Smrt.

Smrt? Oh, God no…

Between the two of them, I fear the worst for Brethren, and the Commonwealth at large. If they succeed in manipulating the machine as they’ve indicated, any number of things on Earth could be affected: from the soil, to the air, to the water in the rivers.

Despite my recent findings to convince the Council otherwise, Smrt appears to have the upper hand. He continues to dismiss all pertinent data I lay before the Council—proof that the dangers of this science far outweigh the benefits—as nothing but the ravings of a madman.

Using my interest in Limpidious, he has been able to paint a picture of me as a failing scientist whose capacity is questionable.

That’s why my father was demoted. It wasn’t because he was failing. It was Smrt. He made him out to be crazy, to gain access to his science. The machine. It was taken from him. He didn’t give it up.

He didn’t give up on me.

In absence of support, I’ve decided I must take matters into my own hands. I leave this morning for the Follies, to try and stop my successors.

May this letter (and the research contained within this journal) serve as record of my findings should anything happen to me.

God be with me.

And with the future of humanity if I fail.

He knew. He knew something bad was going to happen. He knew and he went out there anyway…

Addendum: Let the record also show that in recent research, done since the completion of this journal, I have detected trace amounts of radiate particulate matter in both the urine and hair samples of a particular female subject whom I exposed to the Ray, up to a full month after she was photographed. Furthermore, her cells show signs of irreparable damage, to which end I’ve been feverishly working to create an antidote. I have divulged this information to both Academic parties named herein, as well as the Scientific Council of the Commonwealth, all of which have ignored me. I did not, however, divulge the name of said subject, but will now, out of fear, should I not return.

Said subject is none other than my very own daughter—Eyelet.

Eyelet? I gasp. The letter drops in my lap.

That’s why he stopped. That’s why he never cured me. Not for the lure of money. But out of the fear he was hurting me.

I bite my lip. My heart rushes in my ears.

That day at the carnival. The business he had in the Follies. The look on my mother’s face when I caught the carnie with the machine. He didn’t give up on me after all. He stopped in order to protect me—

“What is it?” Urlick looks up. “Have you found something?”

I stare. “It’s nothing,” I finally say and drop my eyes to conceal the tears. “Just an old letter my father wrote my mum.”

T
hirty seven

Eyelet

“I should have known you’d know exactly where to find them.”

Urlick’s heads shoot up at the sound of the voice. My gaze follows his. Professor Smrt stands before us, black beady eyes leering down at me, his shadowy features glimmering into view, through the veil of leftover oracle steam. The hiss of it must have masked his approach. Neither Urlick, nor I, heard him coming.

I tremble as he steps through the steam, closing the tiny gap between us, the hem of his dark professorial cloak swaying to a stop over Academy-issued red-soled shoes.

“Whose face do you wear? Because I know that’s not your own!” He lunges forward, tearing the mask from my face.

My hands spring to my to cheeks to quiet the sting. I wince, under the familiar stench of his sour curdled breath.

“This is brilliant, really.” He touches the eyes on the mask, his hand jerking back when the lids flutter shut. “It really is the perfect untraceable disguise. That is, if you don’t mind wearing the face of the dead.” He tosses the mask aside. It hits the floor with a soggy thud, too far away for me to retrieve it. “I knew you’d return,” he hisses at me. ”No good having the machine if you don’t know how it works, is it? And you—” he turns on Urlick. “Who might you really be?”

He rips the mask from Urlick’s face, then stumbles backward, aghast. “Unbelievable. Winston’s son’s come home to roost.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The prodigal son of Professor Goddard shows up at last. I knew you had to be out there somewhere—”

“How do you know who I am?” Urlick stumbles to his feet, stunned.

“I’ve always known, I just didn’t know you were still alive, not for sure.

Though I had my suspicions. I suppose it would have behooved me to have tried to find my property sooner.”

“What are you saying?”

“You’re mine. You’ve been mine since birth.”

“What?”

“Your father. He signed you over to me. You’re a registered specimen.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a document. “It’s all right here. You’re property of the Academy. Missing property, presumed dead. A little charade your father obviously tried to play. I had Radcliffe dig it out of the archives on a hunch when I heard we had a mysterious intruder...who looked an awful lot like your father.”

Urlick lurches, snatching the document from Smrt’s hand.

“Go ahead. Read it.”

Registered specimen 29663.

Male: 8 pounds, 13 and one half ounces.

Distinguishable markings: Port Wine-stains on face and neck, pink eyes, albino-like pigmented skin.

Category: Severe Deformity affecting mental stability. Prognosis: Extermination.

Donated by Sir Winston Goddard Babbit. February 27
th
in the year of our Ruler, Eighteen Hundred and Seventy-Two.

Urlick looks up. Shocked. Breathless. His hands tremble.

As do mine.

“That is the day of your birth, isn’t it?” Smrt rolls his hands.

“It’s not true! It
can’t
be true!” The muscles at the sides of Urlick’s jaw clench. “My father signed me over to the nursemaid, not you!” Urlick spits.

“The nursemaid?” Smrt’s eyes jump in their sockets. “I was told you were lost to the Vapours in transport.” His brows rise. “I guess that confirms we’ve
both
been lied to, haven’t we?”

“If it’s true, then why did my father accept me when I was returned to him? Why didn’t he just turn me over to you?”

“Good question.” Smrt circles Urlick, eyeing him like a racehorse at market. “He was in clear violation of the law. Perhaps he had plans of his own for you. Can’t blame him really, seeing you now.” He reaches out, stroking Urlick’s cheek. “You are a very special one, aren’t you? Pink eyes, white skin,
dark
hair...
mostly
…” He flips the one stray lock of white hair away from Urlick’s eyes, and grabs him by the chin. “You truly are a freak of nature. The lab will be so thrilled.”

Urlick jerks his chin away. “You’re a liar! You just made that paper up!”

“How could I, when I didn’t know, until moments ago, that you even still existed? Besides, who could deny those tattered edges?”

Urlick looks down at the card in his hands, then back up.

"My, my, my," Smrt tsks, sizing up Urlick's face. "You really are the spitting image of your mother under all that nastiness, aren’t you? She was a good-looking woman, your mother. ’Course, you’d have no way of knowing that.”

Urlick’s fists ball at his sides. I reach over, taking one of his fists in my hand.

“What’s this?” Smrt notices. “How charming! The pink-eyed monster has a love interest. Though I can’t say my daughter will be impressed. Radcliffe!” He snaps his fingers and the second voice from the hallway appears, producing a struggling Flossie from behind his back. He holds her tightly by the arm.

“I believe you’ve met my daughter?” Smrt grins, rolling an Insectatron around in his palm. “A.K.A. my messenger.”

“I knew it,” I breathe.

“Seems the arrival of your so-called ‘cousin’ here”—he flips a look at me—“tweaked my little Flossie’s jealousy antennae enough to contact her dear old dad. After a brief exchange of information”—he holds up the Ladybird—“I realized what a fool I’d been, believing her story about her needy little student in the woods.” He glares at Urlick. “Lucky for me, her love for you pales in comparison to her desire to gain her estranged father’s approval. Always the way, isn’t it?”