Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (56 page)

“Good,” B piped
in, “because it's only a matter of time before Gren shoots off someone's foot
with that damn toy you went and made him.”

“Toy?” I asked.

“I told him it
wasn't properly functioning,” the Priest objected to B. “If he wants to go and
use it anyway, then it's his own fault.”

“Well, look!” B
retorted. “What did you think he—“

“Thanks for the
boots,” I broke in, not wanting to wait around for the argument to end itself.
“I can't believe you were able to clean off all of that oil.”

“Ah!” the Priest
said, eyes twinkling. “Every stubborn drop! Want to wager a guess on how I did
it?”

“Not really.”

“Come on.”

“I have no idea.”

“Guess.”

“Really. No clue.”

“The cloth.”

“You cleaned it
with a cloth?”

“No, no! Just
look!
”

“Look
where?
”

“Under the bloody
cloth!”

Indirect as
always. B must've sensed my wilting patience, as she scolded the captain for
his lack of specifics and bent over the
Prospero.
She produced the
covered object from the backseat.

“Under the cloth,”
she said, nodding to the elegant cover. I moved to it and pulled away the
velvet. It was the captain's soap-dispensing contraption, or least at one time
it was. The cobbled device was now reworked, adorned, and integrated with
beautiful golden gearwork. A fresh coat of paint, a bright, candy-colored pink,
had been applied. New to the design was a length of tubing, connecting the
original invention to a shiny, platinum-colored wand. The wand's tip curved
into the shape of a heart, much like the ends of the Doll's turnkey. The Red
Priest asked if I approved of his handiwork.

“Nice, I guess,” I
said without enthusiasm. “Pretty.”

He frowned. “Don't
you see? The gears?”

“Gears...” My
stomach suddenly tightened. I stared in pained understanding as I pressed my
thumb to one of the pretty pieces. “You...you made this from the Doll...?”

“From her
discarded pieces, yes.”

“I'm not sure
whether to hug you or throw a punch.”

“A punch? Why?
It's not like I've committed some barbaric act. And the gears were given to
me.”

“Captain, you
cannot just go and
build something
out of...out of someone's
parts!
”

“Pocket,” he said
calmly, “turn the crank.”

I wanted so much
to refuse, but I spoke not a word of protest. Quietly, I operated the machine
and watched. It chugged as I cranked, producing pink exhaust from its bottom
side. Then, from the tip of the wand, came a series of round, pink-tinted
circles that floated skyward. My eyes followed them up and over the oil sea.
Small soap bubbles. They floated over that wash of petrol, their contained
rainbows a momentary oasis of fragile cleanliness above a dirty world. I
watched one pop and then rejoined my hosts.

“You turned it
into a bubble maker?” I asked.

“Pocket,” the
Priest said. “The Doll gave me her pieces because she felt that they no longer
held any purpose, any meaning. I wanted to give those parts new utility.”

“In this toy?”

“Yes! I mean,
sure, the soap can still clean a dirty boot, but look at the charm of it now. I
wanted something playful.”

“I see. Well,
thank you. It makes a wonderful gift.”

“Oh, that gift's
not yours. It's just your job to deliver it.”

I understood.
“Then I shall do so. And I'll send her regards.”

“Tell her to send
them herself,” Madame B said. “We'll be waiting.”

“And if you happen
to find my stolen shuttle, do me a favor and send it along, will you?” the Priest
reminded me.

“I promise,” I
quietly replied. “Well...I suppose it's time I said my goodbyes.”

“I suppose it is,”
the captain nodded, eyes sparkling as ever. “Happy sailing, Mister Pocket. Good
luck to you!”

“Thank you, sir.
Miss.”

I shook with the
pirate and took the lady's hand. And then they bid their adieus and left me on
my own. I took a last, lonely breath and sat behind the wheel of the
Prospero.
I tried to ready myself.

And then Gren
stomped into view, lugging an oblong satchel.

“Hey!” he shouted
to me.

“Well, well,” I
laughed as he drew near, “if it isn't the great tin gambler. I was starting to
think that you weren't going to see me off—”

“Move over,” he
said.

I drew an eyebrow.
“Beg pardon, Spader?”

“Move. I'm
driving.”

“You're...driving?”

“That's right.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't
trust you behind the wheel of—”

“No, no.
Clarification. Why are you planning on driving the steam car?”

“Do you know a
better way to get ashore?” he smirked, echoing the Red Priest. “Our options are
pretty limited, you know.”

“
Our?
You
mean to say that—“

“I'm coming along
with you? Damn right, I am.”

“No.”

“Say again?”

“I'm sorry, Gren.
It's nothing against you. This is just something I have to do alone.”

“Alone?” he
frowned. “Damn it, Pocket. Aren't you tired yet of working alone?”

“How could I be
tired of it? Ever since a price was attached to my name, I haven't been left to
myself for a moment.”

“No, not like
that. I don't mean
physically
alone. I mean...you're shut off. You just
stand around, staring off into the sky, excusing yourself in the dead of night,
or holding conversations in your head instead of with your friends.”

“Friends?”

“You think you're
the only one who was hurt when the Doll and Kitt disappeared? You think you're
the only one who cares? Who needs to fight?”

“I
thought...well…”

“That no one else
would fight with you?”

“I don't know.
Those are the kind of requests I tend not to ask. I'm not the master criminal
the city made me out to be, the one you set out to originally find.”

“No kidding. But
I'm not in this for a profit anymore. So I will say this one more time. Move
over. I'm going with you.”

I complied without
argument.

“And where
precisely
are
we going, Gren?”

He threw his
satchel into the back of the
Prospero
and gave me a stony look.

“Fox hunt.” 

Our unusual
transport rocked through the open sky, swaying clumsily. The wind whipped
against the bobbing
Prospero
like a lion tamer directing a beast that
couldn't quite march a straight line. I sighed from my seat and began thumbing
through a stack of bills. My cut from the heist, delivered by the pirates after
breakfast. I was less than proud to accept the stolen money, but I didn't
refuse it. Tracking Dolly and Kitt was going to be difficult, and I was going
to need whatever help I could get.

“Bringing it
down,” Gren said as we reached the shore. I nodded in acknowledgment and the
Prospero
rejoined the earth, roughly smacking a patch of dirt before sliding onto more
favorable terrain. Gren killed the propellers and we drove.

“Where first?”
Gren asked.

“Hmm?” I asked,
pocketing my money.

“Where are we
heading? This is
your
expedition, right?”

My thoughts
strayed back to my last interaction with Kitt, to his angry characterization of
me as a man without decision, without direction.

“Yes,” I told
Gren. “It is.”

“Good. So where do
we start?”

My response
required little thought. It was an obvious first move to make, and as
unsettling as the prospect was to me, I knew that it was inevitable.

“The city.”

“What?!?” Gren
rumbled.

“The city. We're
going back.”

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

“Then you're
insane!”

“No...well...maybe.
But we're going.”

“The hell we are!
I'm not driving us back to a place swarming—you hear me,
swarming
—with
men on order to kill us where we stand!”

“Then pull over
and get out. Because I'm going.”

“Not gunna
happen.”

“A word of advice,
Gren. This is not a good day to say 'no' to me. Do you understand?”

“Are you
threatening me, Pocket?” he hissed, colder than ice.

“Do I need to?” I
retorted, burning like fire.

He squeezed a fist
until it began turning purple.

“We...are
not
...going
to the city,” he snarled. “I'm not about to let you get shot.”

“Let me worry
about my—“

“No!” he shouted,
clutching my coat with his other hand. “I don't want to hear it. Say another
word and I swear to God, I'll knock you cold.”

I knew he was
serious. And yet, I let a warped, angry smile spread across my face.

“Idiot,” I said.

Making good on his
promise, Gren launched a punch straight at my face.

“Who's Kari?” I
suddenly said. His knuckles stopped mere centimeters before my jaw. Holding his
pantomime, Gren mixed up his face with such a wash of emotions that I couldn't
tell if the look in his eyes was one of anger, sorrow, embarrassment, or
confusion.

“How do you know
about her?”

“I don't. That's
why I asked who she is.”

“None of your
business.”

“Fine. But answer
me this. If she was, at this moment, being held at gunpoint somewhere in the
city, where would you want to be?”

I could tell he
was having trouble finding a valid argument to use against me, and he
eventually just grunted, turned away from me, lit a cigarette, and took his
aggressions out through mouthfuls of smoke.

“What makes you
think they were even headed to the city?” he said, eyes averted. “For all we
know, we could be walking into nearly certain death for nothing.”

I weakly dropped
my shoulders. “Just a feeling I have.”

“So that's it?
We're chasing after a feeling?”

“A pretty strong
one.”

Gren deeply pulled
another round of smoke into his lungs and flicked away some ash. “It had better
be.”

“I'm confident in
it.”

“Oh yeah? And
why's that?”

“Because I think
Kitt's planning to hand over the Doll. To the authorities. To the King.”

Gren thought long
and deeply on this possibility. He left the remainder of his cigarette to die
out in the dirt, its smoke mixing together with the dust stirred up by a
steam-powered carriage racing quickly away down the road.

“He's not so bad a
gent, Pocket.”

“Who, Spader?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,
Gren's...how do I put it? A hassle. But at the end of the day, a good hassle to
have around.”

“He'd probably say
the same about you, you know?”

“Hmph...I couldn’t
tell you. The stubborn fool.”

“Who, him or you?”

“Shut up, Alan.”

After a long,
tense drive through the outskirts that hug up against New London proper, Gren
and I found ourselves nearing the monumental city line. Gren wisely kept us off
the main streets for the most part, but the closer we got to the city, the
tougher it became to remain in the shadows.

“Damn,” Gren said,
slowing the
Prospero
to a quiet stop.

“What is it?” I
asked.

“Look.”

A thick cluster of
helmets, rifles, and red crown insignias had set up watch just ahead where our
path met the horizon.

“Magnates,” I
frowned. “Wonderful.”

“What did you
expect, Pocket? We're—”

“Here's a thought,
Gren. How about we save the noisy lectures for a time when we're
not
in
earshot of the men with guns?”

“Oh, they can't
hear us from here.”

“Let's not take
the chance, what do you say?”

“Fine. So now
what?”

“Backtrack? Try
another route?”

“This is the most
secluded entrance to the main city I know,” Gren glumly admitted. “I really
doubt we'd have better luck elsewhere.”

“All
right...uh...let me think.”

“No time!” Gren
spouted, leaping out of the driver's seat.

“Whoa! What are
you doing?”

“We have no
choice,” he muttered, fiddling with the satchel he had brought along.

“Yes, we do! We
have plenty of choice! Don't act like a maniac, that's a choice!”

“Who said anything
about being a maniac?” Gren responded.

And then he
brought out the gun.

“What the hell is
that?!?” I exclaimed as he wielded the thing.

“It's a
scattergun, what do you think?”

“I think I've seen
one before, and it doesn't look like that.”

Gren grinned like
a proud father holding his firstborn. “Yeah. This one's special.”

Allow me to pause
for a moment and share a little insight I have picked up concerning Mister Gren
Spader, insight gained from my various travels, collected gossip, and direct
observations of, well, Gren being Gren. For instance, the man loves his toys,
much like the Priest or Jack or Kitt or the Marins or practically anyone living
in this age of shiny baubles. Now, this may come as some surprise to many among
you, dear audience—

“Again, I'm the
only one here.”

“Quiet.”

It may come as a
surprise, as Gren has not exhibited such behavior thus far in my telling. But
remember, dear audience, that in this narrative, Gren has yet to come in
contact with any of his prized possessions.

“The point,
Pocket?”

The point being,
dear, patient,
silent
audience, is that Gren takes great pride in the
tools at his disposal, even if all logic says that he shouldn't.

Such was the case
with this gun.

Gren's scattergun
began its life as a typical, double-barreled slug-spitter, just a dingy
secondhand firearm the gambler acquired for means of protection around the time
of his first bullet wound. Then, as Gren explained to me, the Red Priest got
his hands on it and implemented a series of, let's say “bold,” alterations, the
most notable of which was the hardwired installation of two Tesla coils that,
when heated, supply a short electrical spark behind a chambered slug,
increasing its speed and chances of penetration. The Priest even connected a
pair of glass bulbs that would light up when the coils were fully charged, so
that the shotgun's wielder would be cued to fire. Sounds impressive, I know,
but there is a “however” attached, as there always seems to be. However, potent
as these adjustments were, the end result was highly unpredictable. The Priest,
skilled as he is, warned Gren that the flow of electricity to the twin barrels
was something not completely regulated by his design and should be considered
unpredictable and dangerous.

Gren chose to
ignore this warning, slapped a scope on the thing, and carved the shapes of
card suits down the side.

“I thought you
hated the card puns on your last name,” I said to him.

“Don't get off
topic,” he retorted. “The point is that this little piece of craftsmanship is
going to get us into the city. I call it the Half-Luck, my personal Tesla
scattergun.”

He put the grin
back on, expecting compliments, I'm sure.

“Half-Luck,” I
dryly said. “Because it'll blow up half the time?”

“Hmph, lotta fun
you are, Pocket. Just get in the driver seat.”

I slid over in the
Prospero.
“Okay,” I said, then stopped and added. “Why?”

“Because I can't
drive, aim, and shoot, that's why!”

“I don't think I'm
following your plan, Gren.”

“Look, it's
simple. You just keep your head down and get this thing to as high a speed as
possible. I'll fire a few shots, get them to scatter, and we'll just roll on
through.”

I crossed my arms
at him. “No.”

“We have to.”

“No.”

Gren put on a very
sour look, thought things over, and pointed his gun to the sky. The weapon made
a loud whine and, moments later, the attached bulbs filled with a glowing
light. Gren pulled the trigger and a loud round shot into the air followed by
smoke and sparks that emptied out of the barrel. The soldiers in the distance
immediately turned their attention to us and lifted their weapons.

“Aw, gee,” Gren
said, “looks like they've spotted us. Guess we'd better go ahead with my plan
before they shoot us dead.”

“I hate you,” I
muttered, starting up the steam car.

Gren jumped back
into the vehicle and down the way we went, barreling furiously upon the
opposing force, dodging our heads around their flying buckshot. Bullets smacked
with a tinging rhythm against Gren’s plating as he stood up in his seat.

“The bastards are
ruining this shirt,” he said, aiming the Half-Luck.

“Gunfire will do
that!” I said, terrified.

A low whine came
from Gren’s weapon as the coils charged up. We continued to speed directly into
the ammunition, and as we ventured closer, our left propeller was shot out of
position.

“Gren!” I yelled.

“Almost,” he
promised, lining up a shot. Then, the twin light bulbs filled with that wildly
electric white-blue glow. The whole damned contraption seemed to jump and shake
in Gren’s hands, and I couldn’t determine if that reaction came from the
unstable nature of the firearm or the fear and excitement of its wielder.
Either way, I was less than relaxed.

“Hey there!” Gren
shouted to the now-very-enraged troops. “You boys want to see something great?”

He squeezed the
trigger, and in a loud, volatile, and searing blast of active, animated, fiery
technological ingenuity…the gun misfired, and in a nasty bit of black smoke,
Gren was thrown backward out of the
Prospero.

“Gren!” I stupidly
yelled, momentarily angry at him for ending up in the dirt. Larger problems,
however, soon commanded my attention. I was still speeding toward the mob, and
panicking, I turned the wheel sharply to the left. Magnates swore and dove out
of the way as the
Prospero
spun. One gunman got a shot into the back
right wheel and the whole steam car bucked wildly. I was losing control.
Fighting with the wheel, I somehow managed to steer the
Prospero
off of
the road and towards the patch of forest at its side. Quickly glancing back as
I rode into the woods, I saw a flock of Magnates swarming on Gren as others
began to chase after me on foot.

I rode blindly
through the trees for the next few minutes, eventually losing each soldier who
had given chase after me. When at last I felt that I was free of them, I made
one more bad decision, taking the
Prospero
over a small hill that I
thought might serve as decent cover while I gathered my very shaken and
unsteady nerve. Why was this a bad decision? Because the small hill wasn’t
small. I yelped, fingers desperately clutching the wheel, as the steam car
rolled and romped dangerously down the slope at breakneck speed. I remember
thinking in those terrible moments that I was disappointed not to see the
envisioned chapters of my life pass before me. I had always hoped that, as a
living man of flesh fated someday to die, I would have at least one final bit
of entertainment before it all went black. Perhaps, the depressing thought
struck me, my life lacked any scene interesting enough to appear before me.
That seemed to me the greatest tragedy a man could endure, to go to death
without truly knowing life. Was such to be my fate?

Of course not, I
told myself. My life as a whole may have been thus far underwhelming,
admittedly, but the events of the last few weeks had more than made up for
that. I had raced through the shadows of New London, flown with sky pirates,
fought my way through lucid nightmares brought on by the steam of a mystic tea,
met and loved a woman composed of clock parts, and this,
this
was how it
was all to end? Slapped against a tree down a steep hill, without so much as a
few memories appearing?

Maybe then this
wasn’t my moment to die. Or if it was, hell, I wasn’t satisfied with it, so I
rejected it. Holding my breath, I leapt from the falling
Prospero,
landing
hard on the sloped land with my arms tucked. I bruised my torso, as the thick
glass bottle I still wore on my side bounced against the ground and into my
ribcage. My tumbling body finally came to rest on the slope, and a loud crash
in the distance informed me of the
Prospero’s
fate.