Aether Rising

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Terminus, 11 March 1871

Inspector Henry Davidson paced outside the train station in Terminus and looked at his pocket watch for the hundredth time. He checked his men’s positions for the fiftieth, at least. Richard sat on a bench pretending to read a newspaper. Colin leaned against a wall in shadow. Lou smoked a cigarette on a balcony in a warehouse that was actually their headquarters, but no one but them knew that. Scratch that—Lou had run out. And Eric was inside the station ostensibly waiting on a train. He’d already sent a message out that two telegrams had gone out from an E.A. to Boston, one to Cobb at the airfield and one to his daughter at their residence.

Now that Henry had evidence that Eliza Adams had Claire McPhee, he knew the older woman should be bringing the girl out to one of the waiting carriages to take her to the airship field. They should have seen her by then. The same went for if Chadwick Radcliffe had been detained and escorted off the train. The train itself still stood at the station, but the noise from the engines said it was preparing to leave.

Rescuing Doctor Radcliffe was the top priority. It wouldn’t do to have him languishing in a Southern prison. Every delay put the man’s life in danger. Here they were waiting to intercept him and confirm Cobb’s plans for Claire McPhee, so where was everyone?

Henry needed this to go well. He thought he’d planned ahead by having Claire and Chad take a midnight train from Danielsville, but Cobb had been ahead of him every step of the way. Somehow he’d gotten hold of the information about their tickets. Before that, Henry had contacted Iris Bailey and her crew and arranged for them to rescue Patrick O’Connell. He’d hated having to deliver O’Connell to him, but he needed someone on the inside to tell him exactly what Cobb planned, what kind of aether device he wanted and why. Henry doubted that Cobb’s interest in the aether was limited to it as a power source, although whoever controlled a viable substitute for coal would be rich. No, Cobb was more subtle than that. At least he hadn’t caught on—yet—that Henry was a double agent feeding information about Cobb to his organization.

One thing Henry knew of Cobb—the man liked to gloat, so he would have likely told Patrick what he wanted from him early on. With that information, Henry could catch the shady businessman red-handed in something nefarious. He only hoped Iris and the others had succeeded.

A dark shadow caught Henry’s attention, and he spied a large bird swooping overhead. Hawks were native to the area, and this one flew directly over the station. It wasn’t after prey, at least as far as Henry could tell. Nor was it circling looking.

There’s something unnatural here. Henry coughed. Richard stood, folded his paper, and strolled toward him. Henry signaled to his other men to hold their positions and followed the bird with Richard a few steps behind him.

This could be a wild goose, er, hawk chase, he admonished himself. I’d never let the others leave their posts like that. But he’d learned to trust his instincts. They weren’t as strong as the special abilities women enjoyed, but he’d found them reliable. So, if there was something unnatural about the bird, he would follow it.

The hawk led him and Richard around the side of the station and past the passenger area to the alley in the back that led to most of the warehouses. The expected carts and wagons were lined up, but there were also a hired carriage and a police cart.

Aha.

With hand signals, he told Richard to round up the other men and split up to watch the different places the cart and carriage could exit the station complex. His priority was to rescue Radcliffe, as Doctor McPhee would be easier to extract in Boston.

“Move it,” someone growled. “Gotta get this uppity n***o to the station, teach ’im a lesson to keep his filthy hands off a white woman.”

Davidson ducked into the shadows and watched as Chadwick Radcliffe was handed none-too-gently into the police wagon. He ducked from the spittle and punches the men aimed at him.

Henry kept himself back with effort. He wanted to intervene, but he was also outnumbered. Terminus city officials’ corruption was legendary, and he had no doubt Eliza Adams or Parnaby Cobb had paid good money for the Terminus police to send two, no three, officers to arrest a harmless man.

And two police wagons. Henry cursed under his breath. Of course Cobb had anticipated what Henry would do.

The alley was wide for cargo, so the police cart had plenty of room to maneuver. Henry pulled his cap low and followed the wagon that contained Radcliffe, but someone grabbed his arm. Henry looked up, surprised, into the toothy scowl of a foreman.

“Ain’t got no use for lazy men. What team are you with? Get your freckled ass back to work unloading.”

Henry twisted his arm out of the other man’s grasp and ducked away between some crates. He tried to keep sight of the wagon, which gained speed as it cleared the stacked cargo, but someone tackled him. He spit the filth of the alley from his mouth and tasted blood.

“You won’t get away from me so easily, rat,” the foreman said from above him and ground his crotch into Henry’s backside. “I didn’t get my chance at that n****r, but you’ll do, especially since you found us a nice spot all private-like. And don’t try to yell. It won’t do you any good but might get me more excited.”

Henry jerked his head back and felt a satisfying crunch under the back of his own skull. The foreman cursed and rolled off, and Henry staggered to his feet, almost blind with rage, shame, and the stars left from his head punch. A kick to the kidney made sure his would-be rapist wouldn’t follow him. The police wagon was gone, and he limped from the alley, hopeful that the liquid running down his leg was puddle water, not blood, but he suspected not.

“Boss?” Colin came to support him. “What happened?”

Henry tried to wave him away, but he stumbled, and Colin caught him. “The wagon. Did you get Radcliffe?”

“It came out too fast for us to jump it, but Eric and Lou are chasing it on horseback.”

Henry cursed under his breath and limped in the direction he thought it had taken, but Colin held him back.

“You’ll not get far in the shape you’re in. Trust them. They’ll get the target.”

Henry heard what Colin didn’t say—that he should have sent his men in after the police wagon if he had a suspicion, not risked himself.

But when you’re in the business of espionage, trust doesn’t come easy. And I’m used to working on my own.

People stared at the two of them as Colin helped Henry into the alley behind the row of warehouses, but not for long. Injuries were common, the steam contraptions they used to unload the trains not well-maintained and therefore apt to break. There was an infirmary for union workers in the warehouse next to Henry’s headquarters, and sometimes the sounds of moaning and screaming kept him awake at night.

Colin brought him through the back entrance to their warehouse and helped him settle on a wooden chair before grabbing the box of medical supplies.

“What happened to you?” Colin asked and rummaged through it.

Henry shrugged and swallowed the acid that tried to come to his throat when he saw the slick dark liquid staining his left pants leg. He could handle other people’s blood, but his own… He hated the reminder he was human, a bag of flesh and bone like everyone else.

“I tried to follow the wagon with Radcliffe, and one of the foremen tried to teach me a lesson for shirking my duties.”

“They’re beasts.”

“You’re not kidding.” Henry shoved the memory of the brute trying to pin him to the ground to the back of his mind. He’d escaped, but there had been a moment he’d been afraid he wouldn’t.

“I’m going to need to see the wound.” Colin brought out a pair of shears.

“Here, let me.” Henry took them and cut the pants leg away. It was his leg, the reddish-brown hair flattened to the freckled skin by moisture. About six inches above the knee a nasty gash of about three inches bled freely now that the cloth that had pressed on it was gone.

“Sorry, Boss.” Colin held up a bottle of medical-grade alcohol. “This is going to sting, but god only knows what’s in that alley water.”

Hoofbeats in the alley heralded the return of the other two men.

“Do whatever you need to do,” Henry told him. “It sounds like I’m about to be distracted.”

Claire looked for opportunities to escape from her evil aunt even before the train slowed, but Eliza seemed to anticipate her. She confiscated Claire’s money and anything else Claire might have of value except for Claire’s ruby engagement ring, which Claire refused to give her. And Eliza knew Claire wouldn’t sell it. When the train stopped, the conductor and a burly officer came to escort them off the train, through the station and into an alley, and into a waiting steamcoach that locked from the outside. Padding covered all the surfaces inside, including the benches.

Claire alternated glaring at her aunt with refusing to look at her during the entire humiliating process. As a neuroticist, she knew what such coaches were for—to bring people to places where they would be processed and disappear. She suspected her fate, should she and Chad fail to get themselves out of their respective pickles, would be similar, but in nicer surroundings with a brute of a husband her aunt would pick for her.

She had no desire for a gilded cage, but she lacked opportunity for escape, as two officers from the airship met the coach at the airfield, which was situated in a flat field south of the town. They escorted her to a private room with a water closet in spite of their only being on the airship for a day. Eliza had stayed behind to supervise the loading of luggage, including Claire’s battered trunk, but soon joined her along with a young man who carried a lunch tray. Claire took note of the dull utensils and lack of knife.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked, thankful she could muster a neutral tone in spite of the pressure that built in her chest and wanted her to explode with a mixture of tears, shouting, and shaking—not what she needed to convince the steward that she wasn’t a hysteric. Instead, she drew on her professional training, which had taught her to stay calm in the face of strong emotions, even her own.

“I don’t want you hurting yourself, dear niece,” Eliza said and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We’ve all been so worried about you, running off to the battlefront to be with that negro.”

The steward’s eyebrows raised, but he didn’t say anything. Claire bit the inside of her lip because she needed to do something to express her frustration, even if it was painful to only herself. How had her aunt managed to cut off any potential allies before Claire had a chance to recruit them?

Oh, right, because Eliza was an expert manipulator, as all the women in her set were. Claire didn’t want to be dragged back to that world, but circumstances seemed to be conspiring to bring her there.

“You can indulge in all the delusions you want, dear Aunt,” Claire said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I am of age, and you are bringing me along against my will.”

Now the steward’s eyes narrowed. Good, let him doubt her word.

Eliza turned to the young man. “She has delusions. Ignore her.”

“I am well within my right mind and would like to speak to the captain,” Claire told him. “Please arrange for me to do so immediately.”

“He’s busy with takeoff, ma’am,” the boy said, his voice cracking. Claire hadn’t realized how young he was until he spoke. Indeed, the ship lifted, and Claire’s stomach dropped through her legs and stayed on the ground. Or maybe her heart stayed behind to be with her love, whom she didn’t know if she would ever see again.

She sank to the bed, and an electric-feeling jolt made her clasp her hands, locking her fingers so they wouldn’t tremble. Chadwick was down there in danger—why could he not be in a newly emancipated city where emotions, particularly resentment, ran high? Claire had no doubt her aunt had arranged for him to be shipped off to some prison, where he would be harshly treated. He wasn’t good at playing humble, either, which would make things worse.

“All the more reason for me to speak with the captain,” Claire said and tried to keep her voice from shaking.

The boy nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am. Uh, do you want your lunch?”

“No, thank you.” Claire didn’t trust that the food wouldn’t be laced with laudanum or something else that would put her to sleep. “Please let me know when someone is ready to escort me to the captain.”

“If you insist on going along with this game, then I insist on being in attendance,” Eliza said. “I am her aunt and I will not allow her to risk her reputation to bring others into her foolishness.”

Claire shrugged as though she didn’t care. She had no doubt Eliza would do everything in her power to besmirch Claire’s credibility, but Claire could figure out how to handle the situation. She’d been dealing with neurotic people for years.

“This will be your laboratory.” Cobb opened the door to a basement space with a key that looked like it belonged more to a Gothic tale than to a warehouse that had been converted to offices near the wharves. Patrick couldn’t help but notice the expressions of the three men around him, the guard Cobb had designated from the airship field to town. The thugs’ pugnaciousness had been replaced by caution, and two of them held back such that they stood closer to the nearest door than the one Cobb had just unlocked. Only Morlock stood near, tethered to Patrick by the rope that confined Patrick’s wrists.

“So I’m to be the damsel in the basement?” Patrick asked. “What kind of monsters should I be worried about?”

Cobb laughed, but his men didn’t. “Don’t worry, no one’s actually seen anything down there.”

“Nay, there have just been noises, bumps, and equipment turned over,” Morlock said with a gleeful tone. “I wouldn’t sleep too soundly if I was you.”

Patrick would have stroked his beard had his hands not been tied. Putting both of them to his face would have looked ridiculous, so he stuck with a sage nod. “Good thing I’m Irish, then. I’m well versed in supernatural beasties.”

“Then you’re just the man for the job.” Cobb gestured for Patrick to precede him into the gloom. “Plus we men of science don’t believe in such things, do we?”

Patrick decided not to contradict Cobb even though the man was holding him prisoner in order to chase the supernatural abilities of a strange substance. And he certainly wasn’t going to agree. Patrick descended the narrow stairs and suppressed his wince when the echo of the door slamming behind him reverberated off the stone walls. The space was lit by gas lamps with what he’d come to recognize as the Cobb design, enclosed with extra tubes into the glass for gas and oxygen intake and exhaust, perfect for poorly ventilated spaces where carbon dioxide and monoxide may build to dangerous levels. He sniffed the air—mold, the acrid edge of coal dust, an overtone of street smell and just the barest hint of saltwater. He guessed there was a grate somewhere and that he wouldn’t be able to fit through, but he would check once they left him alone. Holes could always be widened.

“What was this place?” Patrick asked. The feel of age told him it preceded the buildings atop it.

“Old Revolutionary gunpowder storage turned coal cellar.” Cobb gestured to the rough-hewn walls. “None of that’s here anymore, of course, but I find it useful for keeping precious things I don’t want others to know I have.”

“Ah, I didn’t know you cared, but I can’t say that I feel the same about you. Perhaps we should just call things off, then.”

Patrick moved toward the stairs, but Morlock stepped in front of him.

“Nice try, Red,” he growled. “I’m looking forward to not having to see your ugly mug on my ship anymore.”

“Now that feeling I can say is mutual.”

Morlock cut Patrick’s bonds off none-too-gently, and Patrick flexed his fingers, relieved the thug had missed his skin with the knife. He thought about making a dash up the stairs, but the other two bruisers waited up there, and he didn’t want to give Morlock the opportunity to shoot him in the back. Instead he flexed his fingers to get through the pins and needles faster so he could think.

“I’ll have your equipment delivered later,” Cobb said. “Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable.”

“As comfortable as you can,” Morlock added, his crooked-toothed grin frightening.

Cobb ascended the stairs followed by Morlock, who walked backwards up the steps, gun trained on Patrick, until he rounded the bend. Patrick continued to rub his hands, gritting his teeth against the stabbing return of sensation. When it had subsided to a merely uncomfortable buzz, he walked the perimeter of his prison, alert for any draft that might give him a direction for escape. As he suspected, there was a grate over the nook where a stone privy stood, but it was too narrow for him to fit through and too high for him to reach even if he were to stand on the toilet.

Patrick cursed under his breath. He hoped Cobb had been lying to him about Claire being in her Aunt Eliza’s custody and Chad being gods only knew where. He paced back and forth in the space that made up his prison, about ten by twenty feet with the alcove for the privy. A straw mattress lay on the other side. He walked up the stairs and paused at the door. A narrow crack underneath let the light through, and he made out the shadow of a guard standing outside shifting his weight from foot to foot. Patrick remembered the guards’ consternation and Morlock’s glee and wondered what exactly they’d been afraid of.

And how he could use it against them.

When he descended into the former coal cellar again, the light flickered in spite of being enclosed so it shouldn’t, and the sensation of cold mist on his exposed skin made his hair stand on end. When he ran a finger over the back of his other hand, he found it to be dry except for the sweat that had popped out.

“I see I’m not alone down here,” he said. “Whoever you are, show yourself.”

Nothing appeared, but the temperature rose, and the light returned to its normal steady illumination from its fixture.

So it seems the monster isn’t accustomed to being addressed. However, he didn’t know what it would do when he let his guard down. Was it a normal generally harmless ghost or something more sinister? If it could knock over equipment, he would have to befriend it if possible. If not, he would have to sleep with one eye open, as Morlock suggested.

Patrick shivered again, this time from a draft from the grate, and pulled his coat more tightly around himself. It seemed he would have to be on his guard no matter what.