Steemjammer: The Deeper Truth (11 page)

Clyve felt his heart racing. “I had no idea.”

“Their very name is a lie. Surely you hadn’t missed that. Do you really think they’re failures, when they alone hold the key to verltgaats?”

“Of course, you’re right. I should have thought it through more carefully.”

“Indeed.”

Silence ticked by, leaving Clyve to fight his growing fear. He resisted the urge to glance back at the door and see if black-uniformed guards were coming for him.

“What may have happened,” Zander said after what seemed like an eternity, “is that our enemy’s son, Wilhelmus Anselm Steemjammer, was dying from our newest and most subtle poison, delivered by a Shadovecht that went through a verltgaat they opened into Rasmussenfort. The boy was later sent to New Amsterdam for a cure, which his body converted into the real toxin. He was about to asphyxiate when my son came upon him.

“Unwittingly, he revived this Steemjammer spawn, and then you, hoping to prove his identity under interrogation, cured him. However he did it, this bothersome youth fooled you. Blinded by your lust for fame and favor, you made ridiculous assumptions and let him go.

“A Steemjammer boy – a mere child – deceiving a forelocked member of the family? I’m tempted to laugh at the irony, except that I’m so aggravated. You let Wilhelmus Steemjammer slip right through your fingers!”

Clyve found himself about to collapse to his knees.

“No,” he managed. “It couldn’t be. His nose – it was too straight.”

“Like his mother’s! I read the description of his face! Don’t you remember hers?”

Clyve panicked as an ancient memory fluttered through his mind like a frightened moth. Hadn’t there been a rumor of Zander’s interest in a brilliant young woman of Scottish descent? Then, he’d gone into a rage. He remembered anxious whispers that she’d rejected him and instead married the enemy.

“I may have seen her once,” Clyve admitted, forcing himself back to his feet, “but I don’t remember.”

“That boy,” Zander’s voice boomed, “is
Wilhelmus Steemjammer
. I’m absolutely certain!”

Clyve cringed until his fingers brushed against the lump in his pocket. You idiot, he thought, show it to him. Surely it will turn the tide.

“With all respect, Hoeg Bloodzoyger,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “there’s been no error. The boy is Will Stevens, a particularly effective little thief, whom your son persuaded to find
this
!”

He held up the Tracium in his hand.

“Now I understand the letter,” Zander said, “that Uncle Viktor sent with you. Drop it.”

Clyve hesitated. Had they gone insane?

“What?” he said, trembling. “This is the Tracium!”

“We’ll see.”

Hand shaking, Clyve dropped the lump of metal to the stone floor. It landed with a thud and sat there.

“Wait,” Zander said.

For what seemed like an eternity, Clyve waited, glancing between the sample on the floor and Zander’s painting. At last the door opened to allow black-uniformed guards to wheel in a mechanical device. It was not the verltgaat machine, as he’d been expecting. He shuddered as he realized it might be meant to torture him.

“It could be real,” Zander said, “but if that boy is Wilhelmus, it would make more sense that it’s not.”

Clyve felt like dropping to his knees to beg for his life but managed to resist the urge.

“If it’s fake,” Zander continued, “what possible good could it do them?”

“They’d expect us,” Clyve ventured, “to waste a lot of time studying it. Perhaps they want to distract us while they try something.”

“That makes little sense. It’s clear they’d expect us to examine it cautiously and then test it on our world hold machine. We’ll do the opposite. Put it in the clamp.”

Clyve found a clamp on the device and attached it.

“Tighten it,” Zander ordered. “This Tracium, how would one go about making it work?”

“I’m no expert,” Clyve said, “but I think it has to be near or touching a verltgaat machine.”

“Is that all?”

Clyve pursed his lips, thinking. “It has to spin!”

“Do it.”

Finding a crank on the device, Clyve turned it, causing the lump of metal to quickly spin.

“Nothing,” Clyve said, wondering what he had in mind.

“Faster.”

He turned the handle faster.

***

Inside the false Tracium was a small steel box that Donell had carefully machined. He’d then immersed it into a lump of molten metal, allowing it to harden inside a mold to look like the real thing. Within the box sat many bits of Incendium capped by chips of Moderacium, which kept them cold.

The chips of Moderacium, however, were only held in place by delicate strips of paper, which tore from the force of the spinning, just as Donell had intended. Now free, the bits moved to the other side of the little box, and the small pieces of Incendium glowed fiery red, suddenly hotter than lava escaping from a volcano.

***

Noticing smoke coming off the wooden clamp holding the metal lump, Clyve smiled in triumph. “See? It’s working!”

“Step back,” Zander replied.

“Look at all that energy!”

“Get away, you fool!”

To his horror, Clyve saw the lump beginning to droop, and bits of molten metal flung away, some of them hitting his coat. As he backed away, it glowed cherry red, and small pieces of Incendium came flying out.

He cried out as one glanced off his shoulder.

Zander’s guards pulled him away and put out his flaming coat. His shoulder ached, but he realized the chip of Incendium had bounced off and landed on the machine, along with many of the other pieces.

The wooden parts of the spinning machine burst into flame. Little bits of Incendium wedged in the metal gears, warping them. Some pieces of Incendium landed on the stone floor. For now they only heated it, but Clyve knew that before long they’d melt holes through the stone.

Men in protective suits rushed into the room and began picking up the pieces of Incendium with steel pinchers. With no place to put them, they ran out, and at last someone entered with a large slab of Moderacium. The red-hot pieces of Incendium were dropped on it, and soon they all sat there, safe and cold. Wet blankets were tossed over the flaming machine, and men hauled it out.

Grasping his shoulder and trying not to pass out from the pain, Clyve stared in horror. How had this happened?

“Hoeg Bloodzoyger, are you harmed?” he cried, knowing it was the only thing that might save him.

Zander said, “I was not the intended victim.”

Clyve seized up with horror. “The verltgaat machine!”

“Our only one, yes. You and Bram were fooled, Clyve. They wanted to destroy it, and they would have, if Uncle Viktor hadn’t voiced skepticism over your claims.”

This was it, Clyve thought. Behind him, a phalanx of silent, black-clad guards would enter and escort him to the Shadoverks.

“Well?” the voice behind the painting roared.

Clyve knelt in terror.

“Explain yourself,” Zander demanded.

“This can’t be excused,” Clyve muttered, thinking his only hope was to ask for what he most feared. “I’ve failed the family. Take my unthinking brain, and maybe it can be of some small service inside a Shadovecht.”

“Is there any doubt who this ‘Will Stevens’ is?”

“Wilhelmus Steemjammer.”

His knees hurt because of the heat imparted by the Incendium into the stone floor, but he didn’t dare move.

“Get up,” Zander ordered.

Trembling, Clyve struggled to return to his feet.

“Get that burn salved,” his cousin ordered, “and report to
Skyshadow
.”

Clyve shivered. Would he actually be spared?

“The moment she’s refueled,” Zander continued, “return to New Amsterdam with all possible speed. If you catch a tailwind, you might beat the dawn. Locate the Steemjammer children and take them into custody, particularly Wilhelmus Anselm Steemjammer. I don’t care how many are harmed in the process. Once you have them, bring them directly to me, alive.”

Clyve’s chest heaved with relief as he realized he was being spared the Shadoverks, at least for the time being. “Thank you, Hoeg Bloodzoyger. I won’t fail you this time.”

Chapter 10

PARK VOLUNTEERS

On Wednesday night, Marteenus tried to sleep in the gondola of his airship but couldn’t. He fought off waves of depression until he realized that he had very little to lose, and he ought to go straight back to Henry’s house. Maybe the Rasmussens had taken the verltgaat machine, but maybe they hadn’t. He’d only know when he either found it or discovered the place where it had been.

The next morning, he made his way gloomily through the pre-dawn darkness to hide in the woods near Beverkenhaas. He saw the Amazon arrive and leave with her goat-squeezings in the absurd pink vehicle. As he carefully crept along the side of the house, a sudden and violent thumping sound startled him. He froze in his tracks, wondering if at last Henry had come for him.

“Stupid birds,” he muttered, realizing what it was.

The igloo had melted substantially, he noticed, but the wooden door still held shut, keeping the animals trapped. Steeling himself, he lit a lamp, crept through cluttered doorway, and entered Beverkenhaas.

“Bold and brave we are now,” he said in a sing-song voice as he explored. “Bold and brave.”

He went back to the library and crawled through the hole in the wall into the hidden room, which he studied. Except for the pit, which may very well have had a Shadovecht stuck under some logs, he’d seen no traps. That lying Deetricus, he thought, was getting exactly what he deserved: death by starvation.

Just like the time before, he could make no sense of this stupid room. This morning, however, it seemed that luck was with him. A frustrated stomp rang hollow on the wooden floor. After getting on his knees and examining the area, he found a hidden catch that opened a trapdoor. Elated, he rose to his feet, clutching the lamp and peering down into darkness.

“Great Maker be praised!” Marteenus gasped.

As his excitement ebbed, he couldn’t believe he’d said that. He thought the Great Maker was superstitious nonsense, but he’d become excited and had spewed words without thinking. At last he’d found it.

Soon, his happiness was trumped by paranoia. No traps? Hah, that was a laugh. This is where he’d find them in abundance, he was sure.

A false step. A spear shooting from a hole in the wall. Blocks of stone tumbling down. The possibilities were endless.

Turning up his oil lamp to its brightest setting, he slowly, painstakingly went down the steps. The more he searched without finding any traps, the more worried he became.

He noticed his chest tightening, so he ran up into the sunlight and fresh air.
Was it poison gas
? No, he realized, it was his own hyper-anxiety. He was so nervous that he wasn’t breathing properly.

“I will not break down like this!” he chided himself angrily. “I will go back and do this, now.”

He went back down. Feeling bold this time, he made himself breathe normally and soon reached the bottom of the steps. There it was. The
verltgaat machine
. He could see his freedom, his escape from the prison of this world.

Just walk over, he thought, and turn it on. But no. No, no, no. Surely this is where the traps were placed. This would be his end if he didn’t use the utmost caution.

He set up lamps and candles at the base of the steps. This verltgaat machine was bigger than the one he’d stolen and learned to use. It had been tricky to match the crystals but not impossible. Of course, he’d needed to use the Variable Engine in Beverkenfort to calculate the positions of his destinations, but there was such a machine here, too. It looked slow and primitive, but he felt confident he could make it work.

“After all,” he raised his voice as if to shout at the ghosts of his ancestors, “I have steem! Not goot steem by your ridiculous standards, but steem a’plenty for this!”

Feeling heady, he wanted to skip to the control panel.

“No need to rush,” he told himself. “This is it. I’ve won.”

A long string of delirious laughter escaped his mouth. A release of eleven years of pent up fear and frustration, he realized. It felt so good. He was going home, he told himself, and with possession of this verltgaat machine, he’d have all the bargaining power he’d need against the Rasmussens to extract his reward.

“I’ll make them
double
it!” he growled fiercely.

***

During the Steemjammer kids’ streetcar ride home on Wednesday afternoon, the streets of New Amsterdam had been abuzz with excitement as Steemball teams rumbled into town in preparation for the tournament. Things were also busy that evening at Tante Klazee’s house. Reacting to a letter that had been sent earlier from Stefana, Klazee’d been packing up and getting ready to leave. There’d been no time to cook, so they ate leftovers for dinner.

“Aren’t you sad, Tante Klazee?” Angelica asked.

“Not one bit,” Klazee said. “This house isn’t my real home, and I always wanted to see Old Earth again.”

Early the next morning, Thursday, they woke up well before dawn and ate a quick breakfast of oatmeal, pan fried sausages, and fresh fruit. It was still dark outside as they got ready to go to the Steem Museum and make an appearance.

“I wish Alfonz was here,” Angelica said, pausing at the front door.

“I’m sure he’s on his way, leef,” Klazee said. “He knows the day and time.”

“What if he doesn’t show up?”

“What’s on your mind, kint?”

“I’m worried about you. What if the verltgaat opens early? What if we aren’t back in time, and you have to deal with it by yourself?”

“Kint, your Tante Klazee opened many a verltgaat in her youth! You think I can’t do it again?”

“You don’t know Beverkenhaas, but I do,” Angelica said. “Someone should be here to help you. I know what to do if the boiler thumps and where the Shadovecht is.”

Klazee’s eyebrows arched. “Shadovecht? I thought they were destroyed.”

“Not completely. It’s trapped in a pit, and I wouldn’t want you falling in.”

“What are you saying, Angelica?” Will asked. “You want to stay here with Tante Klazee?”

His sister nodded.

“I think that would be all right,” Will decided.

“When you get there,” Angelica said, “you don’t have to lie and say I’m sick. Just tell them I was needed at the house. That would be true.”

He smiled. “I think people will be too busy to notice who’s missing, but that’s a good idea.”

***

Will happily boarded the castle-shaped cable car and followed Cobee and Giselle to the upper deck – glad they weren’t taking the high-speed Hemel Snoor in the early morning darkness. As they rode along, Will saw a rosy glow in the eastern sky and found himself wondering if the sun really was some sort of giant burning disk suspended from tracks. Why didn’t the dome of the sky melt, and would staring at this fiery orb make a person go blind? Best not to try, he decided.

He knew he was thinking about the sun because he was too scared to dwell on the things that might happen that day. What if the verltgaat didn’t open? He realized that Tante Stefana had no understanding of Old Earth and how primitive it was, at least as far as a steam society was concerned. Here, a back-up boiler-fueling system might be feasible or even normal, but there?

Furthermore, Marteenus had to have noticed Beverkenhaas was empty. If they were lucky, he told himself, the evil man may not have found the trap door, but Will couldn’t remember if they’d even shut it. Sighing, he realized there was nothing he could do except follow the plan – show up and be seen at the tournament, sneak back, and hope all went well. He forced his mind onto other things.

As early as it was, the streets of New Amsterdam were already filled with locomobiles and steemwagons carrying rowdy Steemball fans to the tournament. Some waved banners, blew trumpets and sang songs. On the roof of a steemwagon, a group of bald, pot-bellied men with ridiculously large moustaches chanted at the top of their lungs, when they weren’t guzzling from their half-gallon purple tankards.

“They’re going early,” Cobee explained, “to get good seats. Traffic will get much worse soon.”

“I thought today was a work day,” Giselle said.

“Oh, most places are closed so people can attend. On the weekend it will be really packed!”

A glum expression crossed Cobee’s face.

“We’ll be back,” Will said quietly, as the cable car had filled up with people.

Cobee whispered, “I know. I’m trying not to be so selfish anymore. What worries me now is whether or not that verltgaat’s going to open.”

***

They got off near the Steem Museum, like they had on previous mornings, but this time Will, Giselle and Cobee crossed the street and followed a growing throng of people to the Steemball Park. Not far in, there stood a large stadium featuring several thousand bleacher-style seats. In the early morning sunlight, a long line of fans already stood before the main gate, which was locked.

Giselle frowned and quickly looked away, whispering, “What’s with the hats?”

She referred to a group of tall, slender men wearing black coats and bowler hats. Each carried an umbrella.

“A fan club, perhaps,” Cobee said, “here to root for their team. Maybe hat makers have entered this year.”

“Why the umbrellas?” she asked critically. “Not a cloud in the sky, and no one else has one.”

Her cousin shrugged. “Part of their outfit? Like the bread-heads.”

He pointed. A couple dozen people walked up in white aprons with hollowed-out loaves of bread on their heads.

“The bakers have a team?” Will said.

“Why not?” Cobee replied.

“There’s something about them,” Giselle said, stealing a glance at the men in bowlers, and then she sighed. “Maybe I just don’t like those hats.”

Cobee urged them along, and because they were on the volunteer list, they got to enter a side door guarded by Mildred.

“You’re late,” she said. “Inside and go right.”

***

Under the rows of seats ran a long, high-ceilinged enclosure for the competing teams to keep their steemtraps. An acrid haze filled the air, though powerful fans expelled most of the smoke through vents. Work stations and machine shops had been set up for last minute repairs.

“That’s a destroyer,” Cobee said, pointing.

A powerful, tank-like steemtrap bristling with attack systems lined up in front of a wooden target, like the ones they’d seen from the Hemel Snoor. With a blast of steam, its main weapon, a crusher, shot out with such force that the target burst into splinters.

“Destroyers sacrifice speed for power,” Cobee said, “and go after the other team’s ball-carriers. Or they protect their own. That’s a scout. Move over, quick!”

A small, lightly armed steemtrap sped by as they leaped out of its way, and Will wasn’t sure if the driver had even noticed them.

“Their job is to find the ball,” Cobee explained, “but they can sneak up on a dueling destroyer and cause real problems, if they’re allowed to hack away unnoticed. You’ll see.”

“It’s about time!” a familiar voice rang out.

Dressed in a plaid kilt of red, yellow and green, Donell Ogilvy handed them badges to pin on their shirts. Unlike the ones at the Steem Museum, these read “PARK VOLUNTEER.” A man with large, bushy sideburns ran straight at them, and for a moment Will thought they were being attacked.

“Mr. Ogilvy,” the man huffed breathlessly, “the Sewer Rats had an expansion joint seize up. They need a replacement, or they’re going in shy one destroyer!”

“Ye know the rules,” Donell chided. “If they dinna bring spares and if nobody will lend ‘em one, tough. Lots o’ teams have gone in light and come out victorious.”

The man took off running. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Donell laughed. “People get so
emotional
over this game.”

“Sewer what?” Giselle asked.

“Rats,” Cobee explained. “New Amsterdam’s sewer workers always field a team. They usually-”

“Time for tha’ later,” Donell interrupted. “There’s a serious matter we must discuss. Over here.”

Opening a door marked “PRIVATE,” he led them inside a lamplit office. Paintings and black-and-white photos of winning Steemball teams from the past lined the wall, and in some Will recognized his grandfather, Ricardus Steemjammer, presenting prizes.

“Did ye notice any Raz,” Donell asked, “on yer way in?”

They shook their heads.

“We had extra people followin’ ye, and they didn’t, either. This is probably a good sign. Let’s hope they’re busy studyin’ the little bauble we gave ‘em, and they have no need tah bother with ye for now. However, Ogilvies are known for caution.”

“I thought you were known for sharp tempers,” Cobee prodded.