Automatic Woman (19 page)

Stoker cleared his throat.

“Don’t you step in with your tale of magic Shiran runes, Bram. I’m not going imprint Babylonian mumbo-jumbo on precision machinery. If that is the secret then I refuse to accept it. Our world is a world without magic and unexplainable rubbish.”

“What about God?” asked Bram.

“God is the proxy in between science and the unknown. All things we do not know about we can attribute to God. The things we do find out about we can attribute to him also, but he is more useful as a catch-all for the unknown. How were the planets and stars formed? God did it. What energy powers the sun? God’s energy. The list goes on and on.”

Darwin turned back to me.

“Barnes and I both wanted what Saxon had. Now neither of us have it. Years ago Lord Barnes had my theories declared religious heresy. I was excommunicated from the Anglican Church. Even worse I’ve had to answer to every fool theologian since. I responded to Barnes’ attacks with petty revenges, discrediting, media attacks, anonymous accusations of sexual perversion, of mysticism. Lord Barnes defeated me over and over again. Not because he was the better man, but because I refused to go hard enough against him. He provoked my ire, and the destruction of his agency was the natural conclusion of my wrath. As I was saying, cause and effect. He will now react. He will react against you. I think we are engaged in the last act of a play that started with Lord Barnes’ words and will end with destruction of everything he holds dear, including his own petty, overestimated life.”

The cabin door swung open. Stevens and Mary entered.

“Oh good,” Darwin said. “Have a brandy, get comfortable. At the next stop we will leave Mr. Stoker and begin our journey home.”

Jolly and Mary Enter Forced Seclusion

Our return trip to London was significantly shorter than our voyage out. We arrived in Budapest, and parted ways with Stoker and Samir. Darwin booked us first class passage on the A.S. Sir Francis Drake, an English dirigible set for a return flight to London. The twelve hour flight to London consisted largely of Darwin getting drunk while Stevens and Samir’s brother kept a watchful eye on Mary and me. The deeper the drunk, the darker Darwin’s mood became. He got mouthy in his cups, pontificating on the functions of the living world, the causality of human interaction, and, of course, the right bastard actions of theHonorable Lord Barnes.

Lord Barnes was the founder of the evolution countermovement. He was the original naysayer of fitness and the origin of species. During our long flight I began to understand the depth and nature of Darwin’s obsession. To be called wrong when you knew you were right, to be held as a fool, to be scorned and ridiculed, was too much for a man of his abilities and disposition to bear. It was during this time that I also realized that Darwin was insane. From age or drink or rage or some combination of those, he’d gone past the edge of rationality. He’d gone to a place where war and murder could be justified, and like all old men who have a taste for war, he’d enlisted younger, impressionable men to do his fighting.

Stevens and Samir’s brother stood in silence. Stoic guards. I imagine they’d heard these rants before, but had become numb to the old naturalist’s raw anger.

Darwin felt that the true sin of Barnes’ attack on his theories, the truly infuriating thing, was that Barnes’ movement was based on faith and thus impossible to counter. A faith-based argument need not follow the chains of logic and can thus never be overturned in fair debate. Darwin would spend the rest of his living days defending what he saw as truth, as scientific law. And when he passed, for surely the day would soon come that old Darwin would shuffle off our mortal coil, his theories would continue to be disregarded. They would be held in scorn by people who did not follow logic, who would not read his books or follow his train of thought. People would dismiss him out of hand. His theories would never be counted as scientific laws because Barnes had fanned the fire of detractors. The old man broke into tears.

“Do you know what it means to hate, Mr. Fellows?”

I shook my head. I don’t imagine I’d felt a hate like he did.

“Hate is so much more intimate than love. When you truly hate someone, you take a piece of their soul. They become part of you, they occupy your thoughts, your attention, like a wound that itches and stings but you cannot reach it. The one you hate is in your thoughts when you wake. They are with you in the quiet moments when you are alone, and they are with you in the dark of night. They enter your dreams. The one you hate lives inside you, Mr. Fellows. A man can always turn his back on love. There are so many songs and poems stocked full of such tripe. But there’s no escape from hate, no turning away, no victory. I cannot expel Lord Barnes from my system, but I will hurt him. It gives me joy to hurt him. It’s the last joy granted to this withering body of mine.”

Darwin hiccupped and slumped into his couch. He returned to his place of dreams, the place of his thoughts. I assume Lord Barnes was waiting for him.

Time stretched as it does when you’re bored or frightened. At some point Mary found my hand and squeezed it. I looked at her delicate fingers, up to her eyes, and suddenly we were on a separate island. We were our own entity existing outside of danger and despair and Darwin with his violent goons. The lifts and whirls of the dirigible twisted my stomach and competed with the twists of Mary’s smile. Darwin could keep his hate, keep his rants, his grudge. Nothing was more important than that which was in front of me. Darwin said I could turn away from love, and that was his weakness. I disagree. When you’re in the thick of it, there is no turning away.

The A.S. Sir Francis Drake began its descent. Darwin snored loudly in his chair. Stevens broke from his stoicism and took the seat across from Mary and me.

“It goes without saying that you’ll miss your trial tomorrow,” Stevens said. “Rumors will blossom in the underworld that you’re in hiding and under the protection of Arabic smugglers. Those who have a deeper understanding will see Mr. Darwin’s hand in this. They will assume that Mr. Darwin is repaying you for your part in the destruction of the Bow Street Firm. We have a nice little place for you outside of Oxford, in Marley Wood, ideal for honeymooners such as yourselves. Mr. Hannosh and myself will be attending to you and will be apprehending any assassins who attempt to snuff out your life.”

“What if they succeed?”

Mr. Stevens cheeks dimpled as he frowned, giving him the air and look of petulant, mustached child.

“Were I a betting man, I’d say the precautions placed by Mr. Darwin give you a better than average chance. He’ll never admit it, but he was greatly distressed by Nouveau’s demise. He never makes the same mistake twice.”

“What exactly happened to Nouveau?”

“It just so happens I was there. We were in his workshop in the Bureaucracy. He was pacing the room, muttering in French about gear ratios, about sentient life, about finding himself a new line of work. I don’t think he knew I spoke his native tongue so his monologue was tragically unfiltered. All of a sudden, he turned, raised a finger in the air, shouted ‘
sacre bleu’
and his head exploded. Top to bottom the whole back of his head was shorn off, like a Viking axeman sundered it. The walls, the Swan, myself, everything got a little piece of the great mind of Jacques Nouveau, the genius engineer, artist, Frenchman. At first I was speechless. The room was secure, our guards were out the front door, I was inside, and there were government agents crawling all about the place. Then I looked up. The ceiling had a near opaque skylight, maybe a meter diameter with a steeple slant. Across the street from Central Bureaucracy sits St. Clemens Dane. Whoever Barnes’ hitter was must have scaled the bell tower and waited, rifle trained on about twelve centimeters of visible space, through that God forsaken skylight. Lord knows how long he waited for Nouveau to walk his skull into the line of fire. An amazing shot, really. I can’t wait to get my hands on the shooter.”

I figured then was a good time to stop talking to Stevens. He was doing little to boost my confidence.

We landed on London Airstrip One, the first airport of the United Kingdom and a crowning achievement in our current rebuild. We disembarked before the other passengers and were met on the airfield by two horseless carriages. I’d never actually ridden in one of these marvels; neither had Mary. We were escorted into the rear seating area where we were joined by Stevens. Mr. Hannosh placed himself in the driver’s seat. Darwin took a separate car, I imagine to distance himself from this part of the adventure, to return to his pretend life as a benign scholar.

Mary kept silent, but the grip she kept on my hand spoke more than words. I envied her philosophy, accepting one day at a time, finding joy in the joyless. Her time as a prostitute certainly prepared her for partnership with me. I’m the polar magnet of bad times and surviving days by the sweat of my brow or skin of my teeth.

The horseless carriage did nothing to calm my nerves. It rattled and hummed unnaturally. At one point Hannosh accelerated to pass a horse buggy and I swore by the whine of the engine that the entire machine would explode, would consume us in a ball of fire and steam. I observed Hannosh manipulate the lever. There were two for left and right movement and a third for drive levels. There were what he called gears, and foot pedals for acceleration and breaking.

We reached Oxford as fast as any train. We passed the university and turned off the primary road onto a dirt path that bounced the horseless carriage unmercifully. We ventured deep into the woods, where elms and crack willows swayed and held a court all their own. The sun itself was held at bay in these thick woods, allowing only the shifting speckles and rays admitted through leafy branches and a never-ending breeze. The cabin was a rustic rectangle of stacked oak and mud mortar. It looked like a landscape painter’s idea of country seclusion. Mary put her hand to her breast.

“Isn’t it brilliant!” she said.

“I could die here,” I said in grim seriousness.

She took my hand and held it to her breast and the smile on her face told me that my worries had not registered, that she had retreated to this moment and this moment was beautiful. I loved her for that.

Stevens lifted a canvas sack out of the carriage boot.

“Here are the rules,” he said. “You stay in the cabin. You do not leave the cabin. No one goes into or out of the cabin. You are not to use the doors or the windows. Your use of the windows are a moot point seeing as they are sealed shut. Everything you need is in the cabin. Food, supplies, lav, water, books… we’ve even been gracious enough to stock you with liquor and beer. We stay here and wait for your assassin.”

“What if he’s successful? What if I get taken like Nouveau?”

Stevens gripped my shoulder.

“Never fear, mate. Barnes does not have enough men left to come at you with numbers. He has to use the same plan as us; low numbers, precision shooting. But precision shooting takes time, placement, and patience. Any man who comes for you is going to be on the bastard end of time. He’s going to have to find you, spot your routine, set up a good shot, and execute it. Time is our ally. Hannosh is a tracker, I’m a tracker. We will disappear into these woods and come upon any would be assassins.”

“I would feel better with my guns back.”

Stevens shook his head.

“Your feelings aren’t part of this plan. Now be a good boy, and attend to your location. I’ll check on you at intervals.”

Stevens let go of my shoulder. I escorted Mary into our cabin, our honeymoon prison. Stevens was correct. The cabin was well stocked with fresh loaves of white bread, strawberry preserves, tins of fish, tea, a wood burning stove, water, and a dozen bottles of hard liquor. They were quality brands of whiskey, gin, vodka. There was even a cylinder phonograph, though the only music stocked was the Bolshoy rendition of Swan Lake. Darwin has a vicious sense of humor. The supplies occupied what I came to think of as the living room.

The cabin had one other room, adorned with a double bed and a clothes rack with apparel for Mary and myself. Mary hooted and spun and rifled through the provisions, treating each find, each discovery, as a gift, a celebration. The first day we spent in Darwin’s cabin was very much what I imagined a honeymoon to be. Hannosh and Stevens vanished into the elm groves. Mary fashioned a lunch of pan-fried sardines on slices of oiled bread. We drank whiskey with our lunch, after our lunch, and throughout the afternoon. We listened to the cylinder phonograph. We shared stories of the not-too-recent-past. When the sun dipped and the forest darkened, I opted not to light the stove or any of the lanterns. No need to make an assassin’s job easier. Mary found me in the dark and we kissed and fondled and made exhaustive drunken love. Willow branches brushed our windows and Mary fell asleep, but I couldn’t; not with a killer in the woods. Nor could I sleep with the knowledge that no matter who was searching for me, Darwin was setting the stage for him to find me.

The next day found me in a dark and sullen mood. Mary took her time choosing a new outfit. I changed my shirt, but kept the same trousers and jacket. My old jacket had served me well. In fact, it even had my syringes in the lining. There were three tubes of seven percent solution and one of a special little surprise no one had found or thought to look for.