Aether Rising

Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Harbor Building, 12 March 1871

After Louisa left, Patrick turned to the aether. He hadn’t experimented any more with it, reluctant to give Cobb more power over him and it. But he also recalled Claire’s experience, how she had managed to communicate with it.

And then the creature that had been released when the laboratory had been bombed… What was it? Before they’d stabilized it, the aether would disappear back to its usual state of being the substance light passed through. Did giving it form allow it to have will? Was the aether biscuit examining him as it slowly undulated in its glass globe just as he studied it?

Patrick shook his head and massaged his temples. Yes, they had seen some strange things at Fort Daniels, but perhaps there were other explanations.

Like ghosts or something. Because that’s much less frightening.

At least Louisa’s mother wasn’t talking to him now that he’d kissed her daughter, and he had no desire for her company since she’d deemed him unworthy. He thought he’d gotten over worrying about other people’s opinions. Plus Louisa hadn’t come from high class stock if what he’d managed to piece together about her past held. Just his luck, her mother’s prejudices had accompanied her beyond the grave.

Back to work.

He needed to do something to make the aether functional in a benign capacity that couldn’t be twisted by Cobb. Radcliffe had used it to heal Claire’s mind of the blocks that the hypnotists in Paris had installed, but he understood the brain and nervous disorders better than Patrick.

I’m better at destroying things.

He focused on the red hairs on the backs of his hands so he wouldn’t recall what he’d done with the aether weapon on the battlefield—the flash of light, then smoke. The smells of charred clothing and flesh and young men shitting themselves in terror—on both sides. The sounds of screams, agony turning to deathly silence. And almost worst of all—almost—the triumphant cry of the Union forces as they watched their enemies, mere boys like themselves, annihilated by a ray of concentrated aether light.

What had that done to the creature inside the weapon? Had it been influenced?

They hadn’t had time to ponder the ramifications should the aether actually have life and will of its own. As far as Patrick knew, the weapon was on its way to Washington for a demonstration for the president and the stabilized aether trapped inside still. He hoped it had been imbued with the noble intentions of the Union soldiers and the joy of the war being over, not the terror it caused or power it possessed.

As for the aether in front of Patrick, he needed to invent a device that would allow him to use the glowing substance to its best capacity. In Paris, he had observed it augmenting negative emotions. What if he could get it to give positive ones? Was something that conferred happiness any less dangerous than something that destroyed?

But wouldn’t it be better to create an angel than a devil?

The thought of angels brought the image of Louisa to mind and the kisses they’d shared. There had been three—one at Claire’s party, one in the airship, and the one in Patrick’s dungeon. In each case, he’d been at her mercy, and each time he’d been left wanting more. Not just physically, although he definitely had those feelings about her, too. He wanted to know her intellectually and emotionally as well, to talk to her, find out her opinions. If he’d discovered anything about her, it was that she sold herself short intellectually. She’d been taught her womanly assets would serve her best, but he’d seen her curiosity. What would she become if she had intelligent friends like Iris, Marie, and Claire to challenge her?

Oh, you poor fool. You’ve got it bad.

He’d watched his friends fall under the influence of women’s charms over the past several months. While he conceded they were all worthy women, he’d thanked any god that might be listening that he’d been spared a similar fate. But perhaps he hadn’t. No matter what happened with him and Louisa, he needed to create his ticket out of that dungeon.

He laid out the tuning forks and pulled the four that, in combination, produced the frequency that stabilized the aether and placed them in a row above the others, their spots empty. His mind made note of the mathematics of the things—the sizes of the tuning forks and their corresponding frequencies were parts of Pythagorian triples, the two sides of the triangle. He guessed the resulting frequency in the aether might be numerically related to what that hypotenuses would be. He’d had a motor in Paris that produced the different frequencies and adjusted them, but he would have to do so by hand here.

First he had to recreate what he’d done and eliminate the frequency combinations that had augmented the negative emotions, pulling out even the barest hint of darkness in the psyches of those exposed to it even as the resulting light had given those around it a rosy, youthful glow. Thankfully Cobb’s men hadn’t taken the leather-bound notebook he’d written his notes in and given it to Paul Farrell to continue Patrick’s work.

Patrick frowned—why hadn’t Cobb handed everything over to Farrell? The man, from what Patrick had seen in the man’s workshop beneath the Théâtre Bohème, certainly possessed a genius for devices.

Focus on your own work.

Patrick studied the tuning forks that remained and moved the ones that would produce frequencies close to the dangerous ones into the top row. That left him with a few possibilities. He cleared a space for his notebook on the crowded bench so he could work out the mathematics behind what he was trying to do. He wanted to promote harmony, so what would be the most harmonious of combinations?

When he sat, he knocked one of the remaining tuning forks to the ground. A large one, it hit with a low bell-like tone that reverberated through the room. Patrick grabbed it and silenced it, but the vibration continued through the air. Every hair stood on end, even the ones no one mentioned in polite company, and he resisted the urge to rub himself in case Louisa’s mother’s ghost still lurked around.

The back of his neck tightened with an electric tingle, and he turned to see Paul Farrell watching him.

“What do you want?” Patrick asked. Perhaps Cobb knew that Patrick still had something to work out and had sent Farrell to help him and then steal his work.

Farrell mouthed something, but Patrick couldn’t tell what he said, only that Farrell didn’t completely block the view of the stairs behind him.

“Are you a ghost?” Patrick asked. The air stilled, and Farrell’s image disappeared, leaving Patrick covered in a cold sweat. What just happened? He realized he tapped the tuning fork against his palm and stopped lest he cause something else to occur. Then he set it above the line of others—no reason to risk that happening again, although he was curious.

I can experiment to my heart’s content when I get out of here. He wished he could do something to allow himself to escape.

“First you kiss my daughter, and then you bring that in here?” A golden glow to Patrick’s left revealed that Louisa’s mother stood there, and she had the same furious expression from earlier.

“How did I bring him in here?” Patrick sat, his pencil poised over his notebook. “And why do you object to him?”

The ghost crossed her arms. Patrick wondered if she felt the same chill he did.

“You stupid man. Don’t you recognize that every time you introduce a vibration into the air, it doesn’t dissipate for several hours? You’re pulling at the fabric that holds all this together.” She gestured to their surroundings. “As for that creature, he is now the discarded refuse of Parnaby Cobb’s machinations. He would be better off dead.”

Patrick scribbled furiously, making note of the tuning forks he’d tried to this point and trying to determine which one would add to the vibration in the air in the most harmonious way. When he finished, he found the implement, one of the smaller ones, and struck it. The very air picked up the bell-like tone, and Patrick found himself grinning and feeling that the dungeon wasn’t so bad, after all. The ghost disappeared with an emphatic huff for a being that didn’t have lungs.

I’ve done it.

He finished his notes and without thinking, straightened up his workspace, lining the tuning forks back up and putting his notebook in a spot on the desk that created the most visual harmony. His logical self noticed how that euphoric feeling made him want to make the rest of the place more orderly.

Could that effect have reached the guard outside? He crept up the stairs to see. Perhaps if the guard was in a state of euphoria, Patrick could convince him to let him free. A small chance, but he had to see.

Patrick saw a long shadow under the door rather than the two that would have been there if the guard had been standing. Of course the door handle didn’t budge when Patrick tried it, so he knew the guard lay in front of it. At least Patrick had the hairpin Louisa had dropped and the wire Artemus had left.

He glanced over his shoulder—should he free the aether? There wasn’t time—there was no telling how long the guard had been out. Was the man’s unconscious state due to something Patrick had done?

He used the hairpin and wire to pick the lock, nudged the eerily still guard out of the way, grabbed the man’s weapon, and crept down the hall.

When Henry had met Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe in Paris, he’d been struck at the man’s inner strength and composure. Nothing seemed to ruffle him, and now was no exception. Henry guessed Chadwick hadn’t eaten since the previous day, at least nothing substantial, and the stiff way he moved told Henry he’d been beaten. Indeed, bruises showed on his dark cheeks, and one eye was almost swollen shut.

“It looks like you need a doctor more than I,” Henry said. He gestured for Radcliffe to sit across from him, but the doctor shook his head.

“Not likely. I’m just bruised. You’ve got a nasty gash.” He took the seat beside Henry and leaned over to examine the wound. “Looks like you cleaned it pretty well, but you’re not resting it. You do know that overuse can lead to more inflammation and make it harder to fight off infection, right?” Even with his own injuries, he managed to give Henry a classic medical admonishment.

“Sometimes life doesn’t give you the luxury of taking a rest. How did you escape?”

Colin set a mug of tea and a plate of eggs, sausage, and toast in front of the doctor. Radcliffe blew across the top of the tea, and his eyes flicked between Henry’s wound and the food.

“Eat,” Henry said. “Then you can tell us how you escaped. And what I need to do for my leg.”

Radcliffe managed to talk and eat at the same time. “I’m not sure how exactly I escaped, only that a cloaked figure came into the prison, unlocked my cell, and let me out. The guards lay about like they’d been drugged. There was a horse waiting for me, and this address was in the saddle bag.”

Henry looked at Colin. “We’ve been compromised. Go find the others and tell them to return. We’ll be leaving for Boston on the next airship.”

“The trains and airships don’t run on Sunday, Boss. And you have your meeting.”

“Bother.” Henry drummed his fingers on the table. “Once the others get back, we’ll go to the backup headquarters. Then we’ll leave for Boston first thing in the morning. Double guard duty until then. Oh, and send a telegram to Mrs. Bailey that we have the doctor.”

“How is everyone?” Radcliffe asked. Ever the gentleman doctor, he didn’t speak with food in his mouth, although Henry was sure he must want to inhale the meal. “And where is Patrick? I thought he left Fort Daniels with you.”

Henry shifted in his chair. “I had to let Cobb borrow him so I could have a man on the inside, but I miscalculated. I didn’t count on Cobb treating him as a prisoner, and I lost track of him once he left Cobb’s airship. I do know he’s somewhere in Boston.”

“You did what?” The coldness in Radcliffe’s gray eyes matched the damp chill Henry still felt from outside. And inside, if he were to be truthful. This whole mission had been one mistake after the other. He suspected his superiors had wanted Patrick to go to Cobb so he could sabotage whatever Cobb’s plans were for the aether.

“We had to ensure Cobb and Paul Farrell wouldn’t take what Mister O’Connell and Professor Bailey had discovered about the aether—you as well with your therapeutic device—and do something nefarious with it.”

He expected Radcliffe to become angry, so the man’s calm concerned him. Or perhaps exhaustion overtook him now that he ate and was safe.

As safe as one can be in a nest of spies.

“I can see that. The combination of the aether, which we don’t entirely understand, and Farrell’s genius with devices could be very dangerous.” His shoulders slumped. “And what of Doctor Claire McPhee?”

Henry would have preferred for Radcliffe to be focused on his wound. “She is with her mother and aunt in Boston.”

Radcliffe slumped in his chair and put his head in his hands. “I had hoped that you had at least managed to rescue her.”

“We were focused on you.”

Radcliffe stood so quickly his chair toppled with a bang. “I am not important. You should have let me rot in that prison.”

“Or be sold so far South you’d never be heard from again?” Henry tried to rise, but his wound sent a spike of pain into his groin, and he flopped back into his chair, which scraped back a couple of inches with a shriek.

“If Claire’s aunt has her, I will never see her again.” Radcliffe rubbed his eyes. “This is a nightmare. I need sleep to be able to think this through, find a solution, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to.” But he swayed and had to grab the edge of the table.

“I suspect Colin made sure you’d sleep this afternoon.”

Radcliffe blinked, and his eyes took on a faraway look. Henry rose, and leaning on each other, the two of them made it to the second floor, where Henry allowed Radcliffe to collapse on to an appropriately named fainting couch in the office.

“When you wake, you can have a bath,” Henry promised. “Then we’ll figure out what to do about Doctor McPhee and Mister O’Connell.”

He made his way back down the stairs and straightened up the kitchen—he couldn’t stand a dirty kitchen—and was headed toward the stairs when he heard the others come in. He glanced at the clock—Colin had barely been gone twenty minutes. The area where they’d lost track of the police coach was twenty minutes’ hard ride outside of the city, and he suspected the roads were clogged with Sunday traffic.

“What are you doing back so early?” he asked Richard, who was the first to appear.

“You’re looking rough there, Boss.” The dark-haired man shook his head. “And I wish I had better news for you, but something strange just happened.”

Henry sat on the steps. “Oh, do tell.”

Colin entered next. No Lou, but Henry suspected he was having a cigarette. The grim look on Richard’s face made Henry say, “Out with it.”

“We were riding down the road where we lost the coach yesterday, and we saw this large dust cloud coming up just over the next hill.” Richard moved his hands to indicate the size of it. “There were ten riders, all in black. They had the Pythagorean symbol on their cloaks, and all of them wore hats pulled low over their faces. Lou and I skedaddled to the side of the road and hid in the trees, but they saw our tracks and followed us. There was something odd about them, but I don’t know how to describe it.”

Henry looked up at him. “Try.”

“They, I don’t know, it wasn’t smell… They felt funny. Like the air around them prickled. Like when you go to the fair, and you get close to the Faraday ball.”

“They had electricity?” Henry frowned. “How?”

“I don’t know. But that’s not the weirdest thing. We had to calm our horses, of course. They acted like the men and their horses were ghosts or something.”

“Right.” He wished O’Connell had been there. Perhaps he would know what could produce that effect. “Did any of them speak to you?”

“The leader said that they had Chadwick Radcliffe and to go back where we came from. Then they turned and rode off, but they disappeared.”

“Because you lost sight of them?” Henry wanted to put his head in his hands—now he definitely owed the Pythagoreans for the rescue.

“No, they just vanished. Like they went over one hill but not the next one.”

The implications tugged the corners of Henry’s mouth downward. “That was a show of power.” The thought chilled him further.

What had he done, bargaining for Chadwick Radcliffe’s release?