Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (25 page)

Winnie's disappointment grew as they drew close to the De Falco Electrical Works. While the laboratory was the largest building in town, and she'd realized that Mr. De Falco was not in the same league as Mr. Thomas Edison, the building was still much smaller than it had seemed in photographs. Was it possible that the slicks had not just exaggerated the enterprise, but the man himself?

Francesco De Falco lived in a modest brick hall-and-parlor house on the side of the laboratory. As they approached the door to his home, Winnie realized that she had no idea what to say to the man she'd read so much about. She hesitated at the door, knuckles raised and ready to knock, and looked to her two companions for inspiration. Joshua's face was blank, as usual. Grace returned Winnie’s look with wide eyes and a shrug. Hoping something would come to her, Winnie knocked.

The man who opened the door was only somewhat recognizable from his pictures in the papers. Winnie knew he was only ten years her senior, but hints of gray streaked his unruly black hair. His goatee and mustache, also in need of a barber’s blade, were decorated by breadcrumbs that had taken nest during his dinner. He stood in bare feet and an unbuttoned vest.

As he looked over the two women in their dance clothes, it was unclear which side was more surprised by the others' appearance.

“I'm terribly sorry,” he said, his southern drawl not completely masking his Italian accent. “Did I forget I was receiving visitors this evening?”

Winnie said, “No, sir, I'm sorry. You don't know us. We came to speak to you about an urgent matter.”

“What is so urgent that it cannot wait until morning?”

“We believe your life may be in danger.”

“Now that is highly improbable, Miss . . . ?”

“Jones, sir. Winona Jones.”

“Miss Jones, then. Your accent suggests that you are not from around here. Am I correct?”

“No, sir, I arrived just yesterday. But—”

“I take it,” he interrupted, “that you've read about me in the papers?”

“Of course I have,” Winnie said, not sure where this was leading.

“And did you know that I have had no less than four reporters interested in interviewing me since that Pennsylvania man referred to me as a 'deluded madman' in May?”

“He called you what?”

“While I would be delighted to provide your particular paper with yet another story about the crazy inventor from Carlton, at the moment I am attending to my supper. I would invite you to stop by the office during business hours, which begin at eight o'clock in the morning on Monday. I thank you for your interest, and I am certainly flattered by the attention from you young ladies, and sir, but I really must be . . .” He hesitated for a moment, recognizing Joshua.

Winnie shook her head in confusion. “I'm not a reporter. I'm a telegraph operator. I mean, there's a message you need to hear.”

De Falco's eyes narrowed. “I know the telegraph operator. His name is Kingston. He is a dreary man, but does his job competently enough. He would have told me if there was a message for me.”

“It's not for you; it's about you.”

“Good evening,” De Falco said, closing the door.

They retreated to the road. Winnie blinked away embryonic tears. “I was really hoping to meet Mr. De Falco when I came into town, but this is not how I envisioned it.”

Grace offered a sympathetic half-smile. “I don't think you made much of an impression on him, true. But it's not irredeemable, assuming he doesn't get himself kidnapped or killed in the morning.”

Joshua tapped his thigh, asking, “How to make impression?”

“How does one make an impression, indeed?” Winnie echoed for Grace's benefit.

“You are the one who has read all about him, right? What do the papers say about him?” asked Grace.

“He's an inventor, with a number of patents to his name. He is said to have a very curious and keen mind, attracted to applications of science more than theory. The press had a good deal to say about a couple of his contraptions two years ago. Unlike Mr. Edison, most have nothing to do with the telegraph. But there was one . . .” A faint hope took root. “Mr. Sayre, would you suppose that Mr. De Falco knows code?”

Joshua shrugged.

Winnie said, “We'd need to be careful and intrigue him, not annoy him. If he understands code, there may be another way to get him a warning. Your wind-up light . . . can it be turned off and on in a signal?” Joshua nodded, and she continued. “I think the device might intrigue a curious mind such as Mr. De Falco's. If he understands code, then the message should be enough to pique his interest as well.”

“What message?” Joshua drummed.

Winnie thought carefully. She had no doubt Joshua would repeat the message without error. “Mr. Sayre, please repeat this as often as you can, as clearly as you can: ‘STONE MEANS YOU HARM. YOUR WORK WILL BE STOLEN TOMORROW. WE HAVE PROOF.’”

Joshua wound his lighting device and sent the message by flashing the lights on and off. Slow and deliberate, Joshua took a full minute to deliver the message. He repeated it several times, pausing every third time to rewind the illuminator’s springs. Eventually, the curtains in De Falco’s window parted by a few degrees. After three more full cycles of the message, the curtains fell back into place.

“That's it, then,” Winnie said. “Mr. Sayre, you may stop. It is now up to him.”

Moments later, De Falco exited his front door, fully dressed from his hat to his boots. After locking his front door, he motioned for the group follow as he walked to his laboratory. He let them inside, lit two oil lamps, and attended to a large engine in the middle of the floor, with pipes and ducts branching off like a tree grown with mathematical precision. He adjusted the coal and water levels, lit the boiler, and then asked, “Who are your companions, Miss Jones?”

“Mr. Joshua Sayre and Miss Grace Anderson. They've lived here for quite some time. As I said, I've only come to town yesterday.”

“Yes, I believe I have seen Mr. Sayre around town before.” The boiler began to build up heat, and De Falco turned a large valve, routing steam to propel a turbine. As the turbine turned and built up speed, lights throughout the factory began to glow.

“I'm not very practiced at Morse code, Miss Jones. But if I understood Mr. Sayre's signal, you are accusing my newest employee of evil intentions, and claim that you have proof of such. I'd like to see it now, if you please.”

Joshua opened a satchel and produced the documents. Winnie explained the source of the messages, with Grace occasionally interjecting comments, and Joshua tapping out explanations. Francesco De Falco stood in silence as he looked over the evidence.

When they concluded, De Falco asked, “The sole source of this information is Mr. Sayre?”

Winnie nodded before the realization struck her. She'd put so much trust into Joshua, because . . . why? She'd felt sorry for him? Because she couldn't believe that someone so disabled and so gifted could plot mischief? Or had she been so proud of herself for discovering his secret that she wanted to believe he was beyond reproach? In following Joshua, into how much danger had she put herself and her cousin, and now possibly Mr. De Falco? She glanced back at Joshua, but his expression was unreadable.

Over the previous three years, she'd had far more conversations over the wire, in code, than in person. Everyone's signal—their “hand”—was a little different, like handwriting. One could come to understand a lot of things about an operator based on their signal. But what did she know about Joshua, and was she really a good judge of character?

“I believe him,” she resolved out loud.

De Falco nodded. “I understand. I'm just pointing out the obvious—that it could be a hoax or scheme on this young man's part. No offense, Mr. Sayre.”

Joshua tapped out, “Correct. But I tell truth.”

Though his confirmation added nothing new, Winnie found herself reassured by it. She translated for the others.

“So then tell me, Miss Jones, why wouldn't they send these messages fully encoded? That technology does exist, does it not?”

“Yes, sir. But I imagine encoded messages would have seemed suspicious, especially if you and he disappeared unexpectedly one day. Instead, these just look like he has close family in India.”

Grace asked, “Why would Mr. Stone be plotting against you?”

“If we do entertain this possibility, which I do so only reluctantly, then it would have more to do with the motivation of his employer. His real employer,” De Falco said. “I'll show you.”

De Falco took them to another area of the lab floor, where a large oiled canvas sheet covered something roughly six feet tall and wide, and four feet deep. Obtaining Joshua's help, he rolled back the covering. Winnie caught her breath.

Six roughly human-shaped objects of brass, steel, and tin stood secured in a wooden stand. Through gaps in their metal coverings, she could see an intricate array of gears and chains.

“Mechanical men!” gasped Grace.

“It has been a dream of mine, yes,” De Falco said proudly. “They are semi-autonomous but can receive simple instructions remotely by Morse code.”

“With a wire?” asked Winnie.

“Yes. The control panels are on the shelf behind me. They aren’t strictly necessary, but they automate several commands for demonstration purposes. As I said, I'm not very good at Morse code, myself.”

“These two on the end”—he motioned to the two on the left, which seemed to be of the highest quality and most recent construction— “respond to audible tones at a certain frequency. They also recognize twice as many commands as their predecessors.”

Winnie and Joshua rushed to inspect the mechanical men more closely. “They are the most beautiful things I've ever seen,” Winnie said.

“Why would somebody be willing to kill you over these?” asked Grace, not as impressed by the devices.

“People at both the U.S. Government and the East India Trading Company heard about my creations and thought that these machines would make effective soldiers. I have received substantial offers from both parties to create military prototypes.”

“Did you accept?” asked Grace.

“No, but not for strictly moral reasons. As much as I care for these constructs, I would much rather bullets or cannonballs strike them than, say, a young man from Carlton. My mechanical men can be far more easily repaired or replaced. But I cannot make them more discriminating on the battlefield—and of course, using sound to control them amidst the noise of combat would be practically useless. If armed, I believe they'd pose a danger to anyone around them, including allies. I won't allow that, and I am not particularly interested in focusing my efforts on solving those problems.”

Joshua began to tap excitedly. “Stone's messages from East India Company? Rejected refusal?”

Winnie translated, and De Falco nodded. “They had problems with native forces about twenty years ago, as I recall.  Something about guns or cartridges violating the native soldiers' religious beliefs. They mutinied against the company, and it caused an international incident. It very nearly put an end to the East India Trading Company. I would assume they would value troops with unquestioning loyalty.”

Behind them, a voice with a distinct British accent said, “You assume correctly. We are anxious to reproduce your prototypes.” They turned to see a man with thinning, steel-colored hair. He held a revolver in each hand, pointed steadily at them.

“Stone!” De Falco growled.

“The airship won't be here for a few hours, but as I was making preparations, I saw your light signal. I would really love to know how you found out about me. Play nicely, and you'll survive to explain it to me en route to India.”

“India?” asked Grace.

“The wire is faster than an airship,” said Stone. “I am afraid I cannot leave you behind to warn any authorities while we're still over American territory. Now, get into the storage room. Behave yourselves, and maybe we can let you go when we take on coal in California. Make trouble, and we'll dump your bodies where they will never be found.”

“I can't go to California, or India! I'm getting married on Sunday!” cried Grace.

“Then you shouldn't have gotten yourself involved in affairs that did not concern you! Now, all of you, into the storage room.” He motioned to a door with one of the guns.

They filed into the unlit room. Stone closed and locked the door.

Joshua wound up his light and illuminated the cramped area. Full of cleaning supplies, machinery, and tools, the room seemed to have defied multiple attempts at organization.

“At least he didn't shoot us,” Winnie half-whispered, trying to reassure herself as much as anyone else.

“No trace no leave bodies,” Joshua said with soft taps against a shelf. His signaling “hand” had changed, Winnie noted. It was no longer swift and confident, and he left out punctuation. Though his face was still blank, he was as terrified as the rest of them. Winnie opted not to translate his comment for Grace.

De Falco said, “Stone has had weeks to plan this. I expect he has fabricated evidence that I'm leaving of my own volition. You three, however, have changed all that. Anyone who knows you came to my house tonight will draw obvious conclusions. It's quite possible that the sheriff will arrive before the airship leaves, or at least wire the authorities to seize the ship the next time it takes on coal.”

Winnie and Grace looked at each other guiltily. De Falco read the silence between them. “I see. Nobody knows where you are, and we should not expect a rescue. As I have no desire to leave Carlton today either, we should make plans. I am sure we can find things we can use as weapons.”

Although they found tools and chunks of small machinery that would suffice as makeshift clubs, they would be impossible to conceal. Winnie found herself drawn to a small, thin tube with a mouthpiece on one end and a sliding plunger on the other, marked at intervals with lines and symbols. “What is this?” she asked De Falco.

“That's a pitch-pipe. I used it when I was creating the command receiver for Emilio and Vincenzo. I used it to set the frequencies at which they responded to code.” At Winnie's quizzical look, he chuckled and said, “Yes, I named my mechanical men.”