Dawn's Early Light (19 page)

They gave the streets a strange pattern of light and deep shadow in among the buildings, but it did make navigating much safer. They found Washington Avenue easily enough, and it was there—as Bill had so cheerfully commented—Wellington found a large brick building with the title “Edison Illuminating Company” emblazoned on it.

The roads were full of streetcars, carriages, and the odd hiss of an automobile, a welcome sight to Wellington. One or two of the motorists gleefully waved to him, as if welcoming him to the brotherhood. Many, though, cast lingering glances at his motorcar.

“It seems,” Felicity whispered to Wellington, “your ingenuity might not suit keeping a low profile.”

“Yes,” Wellington said, giving a clumsy wave of his fingers at curious onlookers.
Eliza,
he lamented quietly,
perhaps you were right.

Eventually, the onlookers became fewer and fewer, but in these later hours, Edison employees were still coming and going from the building. It seemed the Paris of the West and its industry did not sleep.

Wellington removed his spectacles and rubbed lightly at his eyes. Much as it bit, Wellington knew Eliza had also been right in having he and Felicity remain out of sight. Both Edison and his hired Pinkertons had seen them. Parked in an alley between the Illuminating Company and the Cadillac Hotel, they still managed to stand out on account of Wellington's unique motorcar design. However, he had a responsibility to the mission and a promise to keep to Eliza. The boiler still hummed and purred, since he knew Eliza and Bill could at any moment demand a quick getaway.

He was uncertain how long he and Felicity had been sitting in what he suddenly realised was a strangely awkward and dark silence, but from Felicity's query it must have been prolonged.

“Wellington?” Felicity asked, peering after him. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes . . . certainly.” He wrapped his arms around himself to try and keep a little warmth. “Just getting a little . . . stiff sitting still. I'll do a bit of walking up and down—that should help.”

He strode up the alleyway a little, still keeping the automobile in sight. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do, leaving a lady alone in the dark. Standing in the shadows, he felt almost blanketed by it, looking out into the white light provided by the towers. For a city still bustling in the evening, it was a remarkably peaceful moment.

Until the yelling began.

“Get your goddamn hands off me!” a male voice boomed. “I'm not going to help. He damn well owes me money and I—”

Wellington peered around the corner just in time to see a group of men struggling to stuff a tall, lanky man into a large truck. Badges flashed in the light from a nearby tower. Wellington could not be sure if the gents were Pinkertons, but then three Shockers, just like the ones they'd seen in the Outer Banks, appeared from the nearby building, their clockwork innards gleaming through poorly fitted human clothes straining at the seams.

“Just get in the truck,” a Pinkerton separate from the struggling party implored. From his manner, he sounded as if he had better things to tend to than this man. “We don't want this to get ugly.”

“What?” the man barked. “Getting ugly is new to you Pinks? Thought it came naturally.”

“Fine,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Back off, boys.” The Pinkertons, struggling with their quarry, as one, released him and took several paces back. “Back off a bit more.”

The tall man kept looking to each of them. He looked ready to bolt.

“Number Twelve,” the Pinkerton leader spoke suddenly, “fire.”

The Shocker closest to the tall man extended its right arm. From there, a tendril of blue-white electricity connected with him. Seconds later, the man collapsed to the ground, a slight smoke rising from his limp body.

“As you were, boys,” the leader said, motioning to the man.

Wellington glanced back to check on Miss Lovelace's safety, but his concerns scattered on hearing the motortruck's boiler engine winding up. Before he reached his own vehicle, the truck was already lumbering away. For a large steam-powered vehicle he admired its acceleration.

He leapt into the driver's seat, released the hand brake, and brought his boiler to full.

Felicity let out a muffled squeak, “Is it Bill and Eliza?”

“Pinkertons. Heading out with a captive.” Wellington spoke louder as his creation lurched forwards and roared out into the street. “I am making a field decision to follow them.”

Felicity did not complain. Indeed, her eyes narrowed with delight. She clutched onto the side of the automobile as they spun around the corner, and braced herself against the frame. As soon as Wellington caught sight of the truck, he slowed the vehicle.

“Why are we slowing?” Felicity called to him.

“It would not do to be spotted,” Wellington replied, allowing the truck to rumble far ahead. “I'm not looking to engage. Not yet, anyway.”

The truck emblazoned with the Edison name continued for another five city blocks, and then Wellington noticed he was closing distance again. He allowed his own speed to drop until finally he pulled over to watch the truck roll to a stop outside a small brick building located by what appeared to be a series of massive generators.

Glancing around them, Wellington secured his motorcar and motioned Felicity to follow. The two of them crept down the lightly illuminated sidewalk, sticking close to the few shadows available.

Granted, Felicity's pinks, whites, and light beiges were offering challenges of their own.

When the Pinkertons appeared, Wellington and Felicity ducked into an alleyway and peered around to watch the man, groggy but alive, lifted from the motortruck's bed by a Shocker. With a quick look around the truck, the remaining Pinks and Shocker disappeared into the building.

“Arc Light Power Plant?” Wellington read off the building where the truck had parked. “From death rays to power plants. Your summation, Agent Lovelace?”

“This is bad,” she replied.

His mind was racing with what the Pinkertons and their captive could be doing in such a building. Above the plant were two tall smoke stacks, and out in front was the far more elegant, but just as tall form of another moonlight tower.

“Who do you think that poor fellow is?” Felicity asked.

“I'm not sure,” Wellington said, adjusting his cravat. “Shall we go and find out?”

Wellington took a step towards the building when another motorcar came around the corner at the end of their street. Grabbing Felicity, he scrambled for the front of the truck and crouched low. This new motorcar parked close behind the truck. From the driver's seat emerged a silhouette resembling Elias Gantry, Edison's Usher contact. Wellington and Felicity remained crouched as they countered around to the other side of the truck. Gantry joined his passenger at the door of the Arc Light Power Plant. There was a moment's hesitation when Gantry made a silent
“After you . . .”
gesture to the door. Wellington dared to peek around the truck for a better look at who the second person was.

“Wellington,” Felicity whispered when he whipped back around to join her. “The passenger!”

“I know. Edison was supposed to be in Chicago,” Wellington said, patting the pistol Eliza insisted he carry alongside the Nipper. “Just to make sure we are clear on this—our respective partners are waiting for Edison to arrive from Chicago, and we have him here presently in a power plant specializing in high voltage electricity.”

“And,” she added, “Edison has a prisoner.”

“Yes,” Wellington said, looking Felicity up and down. “Miss Lovelace, I need to know something about your undergarments.”

“What!?”
she said, far too loud for Wellington's liking.

“Do you have a weapon of some sort concealed there?”

She stared at him, swallowed hard, and after careful consideration, blushed as she replied, “After North Carolina, yes, I have a weapon.”

“Then I believe it is our duty to go in after that man and offer whatever assistance we can.”

She pressed her lips together. “Yes, Wellington, that is our duty.”

Together the librarian and the archivist crept out of hiding and slipped quietly into the building. Inside, there was a distinct humming noise that cast a foreboding in the air.
Rather unpleasant,
Wellington thought. Deeper inside, he experienced sensations that made him somehow more relaxed: the rumble of steam engines at work, and the smell of oil. This was the heart of the city's lighting generation, and thus the perfect place to find the inventor. They were in the heart of Edison's empire where, Wellington supposed, he might make mistakes out of overconfidence and arrogance.

Just ahead came echoes, shouts that Wellington recognised straightaway. The mysterious prisoner was awake and fully aware. They followed the rantings into the boiler house where machines fed hungrily on the precious steam created here. It was hard to make out any words, but apparently a change of location and a Shocker's wrath had not altered the captive's outrage. The engine room was impressive in size and score, an array of spinning dynamo wheels at its centre, driven by engines that were laid along the floor in rows. These half dozen metal brutes made perfect hiding places for Wellington and Felicity as they crept closer to the commotion.

Daring a peek over their chosen shelter, the archivist could make out in front of the power plant's main control panel a group of five Pinkertons huddled around Edison as if they were his personal rugby team and he the coach. The tall man was now seated in the middle of the group, unable to protest on account of the beating he appeared to have taken. Even with blood streaming down his face he did however look unrepentant, and was in fact waving his finger in the direction of the nearby steam engines.

“Mine,” he panted. “That is my invention, and you can have it when you damn well pay me the agreed price.” His voice remained firm, though his posture was not.

Edison held his hand up to his ear, as if he could not hear him. “What's that, Henry? I could have sworn you were making demands.”

“This is bad business, Tom. Very bad,” he said, shaking his head. “And I'm not one to indulge in it.”

“Are you telling me you've developed a conscience about this?” Edison guffawed. “Well, a conscience with a price? Allow me to give you a counteroffer.”

He gestured to the Shocker, who stomped over to Henry. The automaton lightly touched its metal hand against his arm. The man lurched in his chair, his yelp echoing throughout the power house.

“So that's your second sampling of a Shocker tonight, Henry. Do you really think you will survive a third?” Edison tilted his head, as if he was a father delivering a lesson. “You are still under my employment, and simply need to finish the task I set for you.”

Wellington's engineering brain began to become very curious indeed. A new kind of dynamo to generate electricity would be most fantastic with many applications far beyond lighting.

Edison bent over a device in front of Henry. It could have passed as a younger brother to the many engines surrounding them. “You solved the problem of size and portability, but you're not telling me everything. You're not telling me the breakthrough, are you?” His gaze hardened as he considered Henry, then motioned to the onlooking Pinkertons. “Is this some kind of bid for negotiation? I do hope not. You know how much I hate negotiation.”

Henry wiped his hand over his moustache, clearing away some of the blood. “Oh, I know full well, Tom, but I also know how important it is for you to understand how things work. You can figure it out. I have no doubt.” His mouth formed a smile, albeit a painful one. “I also have no doubt you don't have that sort of time. Just pay me our agreed upon sum, conclude our business, and we both walk away from this as happy men. We agreed on ten thousand—”

Edison barked out a laugh. “Henry, I was making a joke when I mentioned such an outrageous number. Sometimes, I'm beginning to wonder if inventors simply lack a refined sense of humour.” The surrounding Pinkertons joined Edison in a chuckle. Henry merely scowled. “You should remember who you are, and remember your wife and son. I really don't think you want to go back on our agreement.”

“All right . . . all right . . .” He took in a long, shuddering breath, and then looked up at Edison. “The dynamo is not running on steam. It's a completely different kind of engine. It runs on a new fuel source. Not as clean, but it's got more kick to it. A petroleum-derived oil called gasoline.”

“Gasoline?” Edison asked.

“You're going to need a lot of it. The dynamo's a thirsty little sonofabitch.”

Wellington felt raw panic swell inside of him. With a portable dynamo, using a fuel source as volatile as gasoline, Edison's death ray could be transported anywhere, constructed at a moment's notice, and possess output far more lethal than seen in the Outer Banks. Nowhere would be safe.

“I wish to change my assessment, Mr. Books,” whispered Felicity. “This is
really
bad.”

“I agree,” he said, ducking back into full shadow of their dynamo. “Obviously, we cannot allow Edison to get away with this portable dynamo. This leaves us with only one thing to do.”

Felicity's brow furrowed.

“We must attract Eliza's and Bill's attention.”

“But how—oh you cannot be serious.”

Answering her with a single, crooked eyebrow, Wellington braced the Remington-Elliot Eliza had loaned him against their hiding place.

Three bullets. Too many Pinkertons, especially when you factor in the Shocker.

Wellington took his aim to the right and fired. A hose snaking along the outside of a nearby dynamo exploded, engulfing two Pinkertons. Their screams were barely audible over the high-pressure bombardment.

Everyone, save the Shocker, who took a step towards Henry, ran for cover behind spinning engines surrounding them. Once the pressure was spent, a silence fell over the plant.