Dawn's Early Light (24 page)

“So then if he knows you so well, he expected you to enjoy Bill's affections back in Detroit, yes?”

Eliza remained stock still. That mistake was now costing her.

“I find it very sweet that you are so protective of your partner.” Felicity leaned back in her chair, the morning sun lighting her face up like an angel's. “It is quite a surprise, I must admit, seeing as how you talk to him as if he were a petulant child.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” Eliza snapped.

“So you did compliment him on that amazing motorcar of his, didn't you? Or for his investigative work in Currituck? And what of his rescue of Henry Ford? How did you address him when we arrived in Michigan? ‘Just check us into the hotel and pick us up later tonight, there's a good chap.' Spoken like a true lady of the manor, yes?” Felicity's smile had no mirth or well-being behind it. “Your words. Not mine.”

Eliza's mouth opened to reply, but she had nothing to fling back. Her mind raced to recall exactly when the last time it was that she had said anything nice to Wellington since arriving in the Americas. A compliment, a kind word, anything . . .

“So Mr. Books really has not expressed an interest in you in a romantic way, Miss Braun, since our first meeting in Virginia. This, I would say, makes him fair game. I find his deportment, his wit, and his intellect most appealing.” She smirked, and then added, “His backsides are quite nice as well. I presume you've noticed?”

Felicity could not have rocked Eliza back more convincingly if it had been her delivering the right hook.

“The final decision as to where Mr. Books casts his attentions resides with Mr. Books. Not his partner in the field. And as I am in the field and charged with making notes of this case, upon my word as a fr . . .”—she was going to say “friend” but thought better of it—“colleague, I will not make any record of this conversation, unless you are concerned about the security of this mission. Are you?”

“No,” Eliza replied drily.

“Excellent. It would be terrible for you to be relieved from your duties on account of your judgement being clouded. That would leave Wellington to complete the mission alone.” Felicity leaned in and whispered, “You needn't worry. I'd look after him.”

For a moment Eliza wondered why she didn't sod manners, decorum, and international goodwill, and just throttle this bitch only scant inches from her?

Because the bitch was right.

It had been one kiss with Wellington. Glorious and delicious as it was, it had been only one kiss. She had no idea where she stood with him, and here she was, dismissing him as if he were a rookie agent fresh from training, and paying no mind whatsoever to what he had laboured over in their continental progress specifically for this mission and for her.

And the irony wasn't lost on her. Another solitary kiss had now thrown all of this into turmoil.

Eliza took a deep breath, and then looked around her. Somehow, the dining car managed to clear of people without her noticing.

Losing time. What sort of field agent was she that she was letting this get in her way? Eliza rose from her seat, dusted crumbs from her trousers, and strode off towards her cabin. Maybe somewhere in there she could find the old Eliza D. Braun, the Eliza D. Braun in full control of herself.

D
octor Basil Sound stepped into the lift, tucking the æthernet missive from Agent Braun into his jacket pocket, and pushed the chadburn to Research. The lift rattled and banged its way there, but it was not the only noise to be heard. The doctor winced as the retorts shook the shaft. It sounded like more than small arms fire, perhaps shaped charges of some kind. Research and Design had been established in a strengthened portion of the building; but at such moments as these the director did wonder if builders had quite managed to get those specifications up to snuff.

Still, the lift lurched to a stop, and Sound stepped out—with a hint of genuine relief. The main hatchway vibrated as one more explosion sounded from behind it. For an instant the director thought on how Miss Braun loved visiting this particular division of the Ministry.

She was however one of the few hardy souls that did.

As Sound grasped the handle of the R&D cast iron blast hatch and began to spin it, he watched the light above carefully. The more he spun, the more the light above turned from red to green. He just hoped that those on the other side noticed someone attempting access.

A final retort sounded—making him leap just a fraction—but the hatch had merely shuddered. The blast from the other side must have remained controlled. Or at least as controlled as R&D would make it.

Sound let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding, and levered the door open. It was a relief that there was no smoke to greet him when he stepped into the most peculiar of the Ministry's various branches.

Bearing down on him from behind the blast wall that stood directly in front of the hatchway was none other than the incomparable Doctor Josepha Raven Blackwell. Several other researchers were just straightening up from the shield, but Blackwell was first out of the gate as per usual. Sound had dealt with all sorts of powerful women in his time at the Ministry, from the explosive Miss Braun to the sometimes unnecessarily combative Lady Caroline, but the head researcher of the development team was an entirely different sort of bird.

“Director,” she said, peering over her glasses at him as she removed the corks from her ears, “your timing is excellent. I was just about to head up to your office to demand an explanation. This shipment of blasting caps is far below an acceptable standard for my new project.”

Movement from behind the director brought him around to her colleague, Professor Hephaestus Axelrod. Apparently, he had been behind a blast shelter by the hatch. Currently, his mouth was opening and shutting, as if trying to find the right words but giving his face the resemblance of a fish. Sometimes there were no “right words” with these two.

At first it was impossible to tell what the researchers had been doing since there was a contained but dense cloud of smoke at the far end of the long room. As if sensing the query forming on his tongue, a battery of fans spun up to full speed and cleared the room. The hazy curtain suspended before the target of Blackwell and Axelrod's research slowly rose, along with Sound's eyebrows at the sight of man-sized, brass riveted armour.

“I take it this little creation,” he began, pushing back the lapels of his jacket as he looked the MechaMan from top to bottom, “is based on the designs we salvaged from the Phoenix Society?”

“With a few modifications of my own,” Blackwell replied tartly. “I found that there were a couple of weak points when we scaled down the design of the MechaMan Mark II . . .”

“I don't remember signing off on any armour development,” Sound cut in. Had he missed some mandate stating his orders were to be regarded as “light suggestions” to Ministry personnel?

“Last month, Director,” Axelrod, his voice finally found, began, “if you recall I asked about beginning automaton development based on those plans and—”

“And I realised that it would make for a most suitable protective armour for our agents in the field,” Blackwell interjected. She motioned to the target, the metal not even showing signs of burns or abrasions from the explosives. “Scaling it down makes many of the seals stronger and the welds a little less likely to burst under pressure.”

“That is why we need a higher quality of explosives,” Axelrod said, his smile bright and confident. “We must test our model thoroughly. Find out what its limits are. I wouldn't want to send our brave lads and ladies out in something not up to snuff.”

Doctor Sound was always unnerved by Axelrod as he carried himself as if he knew far more than Sound did, but was far too charming for Sound to be offended by his superiority complex.

Granted, Axelrod was brilliant. In an eccentric sort of way. So was Blackwell. Individually, they created an odd assortment of gadgets and weapons that could be best described as ridiculous and outlandish. Together, they brought agents home alive.

His gaze considered both of them for a moment, trying to decide if his mad-scientists-in-residence were working from a place of genuine concern for their fellow Ministry workers, or just attempting to get hold of more ordinance.

Blackwell wants a bigger boom,
a tiny voice in his head warned.

Josepha's perpetually wide eyes really made it hard to tell. He was going to have to be politic.

The director ran his hand across his belly—which had grown larger in recent years than he might have liked—and spread his hands wide. “Unfortunately, I don't think the test room is certified for taking anything larger than the charges that you've been supplied, Doctor Blackwell.” Both Blackwell and Axelrod appeared crestfallen. Rather endearing. “I find alternatives come to me quite faster when stepping away from a project.” He leaned in, a wry smile across his face. “I have need for you in the field.”

“A field assignment?” Blackwell and Axelrod chimed in together, and there was no mistaking the notes of excitement in their voices.

Sound straightened. “Delighted to see you are so excited to be providing support to Agents Books and Braun.”

Blackwell sighed, appearing disappointed, while Axelrod's eyes lit up with delight. “Wellington Books,” he said brightly. “How fortuitous!”

“As a matter of fact, yes, they are handling a most delicate case,” Sound said, his smile widening as he added, “A delicate case that directly involves one of our off-site consultants. One I believe you have been petitioning me to bring on-site for the last three years.”

The two researchers glanced at each other. Blackwell's eyes were so large they almost threatened to engulf her whole face. Axelrod was now rather pale.

“You mean,” his voice broke a little, and he had to stop and clear his throat, “Nikola?”

“We have to get ready,” Blackwell uttered to no one in particular. “We have to finish proposals.”

“We have to finish a few prototypes.”

“Quite a few,” she agreed. “Testing?”

Axelrod shook his head. “We can always run trials at a later date. Worth the risk.”

Sound raised an eyebrow at that, but both Axelrod and Blackwell were lost in preparations. “Yes, I will send a reply immediately then, shall I? Oh, and due to urgency, we will need to employ the æthergates. Are you all right with that?”

Axelrod, fit to burst, slapped his hands on top of his head.
The hair had grown back rather nicely there after the last incident,
Sound thought. From their collected enthusiasm, the æthergate option made this assignment practically a visit from Father Christmas. The technology was a convenient way to travel, but not without its dangers. Still, it was the only means to reach Agents Books and Braun before it was too late.

Doctor Sound clapped Axelrod on the back, knocking him onto the tips of his toes a fraction. “Calibrate the gates on their Ministry ring signal and all will be ready.”

It was catching sight of Doctor Blackwell checking her appearance in the reflective surface of a nearby centrifuge that made Sound's breath catch in his throat. There had been an incident four years ago where Josepha had met Nikola while visiting Europe. The weekend in Vienna to this day was still referred to as “The Lost Weekend.” Working together again opened the door for dangerous outcomes, but it was just the kind of chaos that might tip scales to their advantage.

Sound wrapped his hand over Axelrod's shoulder and guided him to one corner of the laboratory. “I am relying on you to be”—the director paused for a second, glancing over to see Blackwell now turning in place to inspect her fashion, not quite able to believe what he was about to say—“a voice of reason over there.”

The researcher blinked at him for a couple of moments, as if he couldn't quite believe that either. “I will try my best,” he managed to grind out.

“Good man!” Doctor Sound slapped his back again. “Just make certain your compatriot Blackwell keeps her wits about her, respect Tesla's idiosyncrasies, and you should be fine. Once you are packed, pop up and see me.”

Axelrod gave a curt nod and returned to what Sound could only assume was a checklist of items for the journey. Just as Sound reached the iron hatch, he heard the scientist call out, “Sir, might I ask, what will you be doing in preparation for the journey?”

Sound gave a long, low sigh. “I'll be enjoying what may be the last good cup of tea for a spell.”

T
he town of Flagstaff reminded Wellington of his time in the Queen's Calvary: hot, dry and unwelcoming. Immediately on exiting the hypersteam, Wellington exchanged his spectacles for ones with tinted lenses, and breathed deep of the warm Arizona air. He removed the heavier coat he had needed for Michigan, and hoped their luggage would arrive tomorrow as promised by the hotel they'd not enjoyed fully in Detroit. He was feeling the lack of his portable analytical engine and his car.

As America—Detroit, in particular—was deep into the embrace of industrialisation, the town of Flagstaff looked as though it remained stranded in the past. During their carriage ride from the hypersteam terminal, Wellington wondered if they were riding through the picture books of his youth depicting the rough and tumble world of the Wild West. They reached their hotel, the Royal. Hardly the splendour of the Hotel Ste. Claire but civilised enough. The four of them followed their porter up polished wooden steps to their rooms. As Bill and Felicity disappeared into their respective rooms, Wellington decided now would be the best opportunity to discuss the current status of the mission with his partner, without the Americans being involved.

Perhaps, if things went smoothly, he could also share with her opinions of a more personal nature. Again, free of American interference.

Sharing a room—even if it was in fact a suite—was something they'd done before, but he wondered if it was going to be even more uncomfortable now. They opened the first door to the bedroom and went in. It was light and airy, painted a duck-egg blue, with simple dressing furniture and a large bed. A door to the right led to their parlour, while one to the left led to the bathroom.

Eliza was just heading in that direction, when he managed to forestall her. “If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to debrief, I think,” he said, in what he hoped was a cheerful manner.

His partner frowned slightly, but came out into the bedroom once more and folded her arms in front of her.

The room itself might be far more modest than the Carolina resort, but as Wellington strolled to the window he realised the view was just as marvellous.

Instead of brilliant gold and ivory beaches and a serene Atlantic expanse, the view from the suite in the Royal looked out over a small grove of trees, and a range of red rocks reaching up into a bright blue sky. He took a moment to admire it before turning to Eliza; she was still wearing that eye-catching corset-trousers ensemble that she had worn at breakfast. Staring at him, one hand on her hip, the other already clasping a glass of water, Wellington completely forgot what he wanted to talk about.

After she'd taken a sip, she looked him up and down. “Well, what sort of briefing is this then? Something hush-hush for our ears only or some such?”

His mouth was abruptly dry. He wanted privacy. Now he had it, and he had not a clue what to do with it. “A lovely view, don't you think?”

After carefully placing her water down on the table, she smiled. “Look, Welly, it's been a long trip and I'd like to clean up. I'm not terribly interested in the Oak Creek Canyon at present, but I know the sandstone is quite lovely, and also there is a very nice vantage point for a sniper on the lower ridge facing east.”

“Oh,” he whispered, as understanding washed over him. He had wanted to brief her on his assessment of the mission and, perhaps, his own emotions, and yet it was she who was schooling him.

Eliza smiled lightly. “Remember, this is an assignment, not a holiday.”

“Of course,” he muttered, feeling particularly dense.

“And as I am the senior field agent, please, tell me what you can about our current locale.”

With a quick nod, Wellington cleared his throat and looked out over the property. “There is a solitary entry point in the back, a servant's entrance no doubt. That means the Royal has one door at the front, exiting into the street, and another leading to this modest grove behind us. A small stable with room for at least ten horses. No surprise as this is the largest hotel in Flagstaff. The establishment probably caters to the needs of professional gamblers.”

“Very good, Wellington,” she said, sitting on the large bed and crossing her legs.

He went to continue, paused, and tried not to look at Eliza. She did have very fine legs, which were especially noticeable in the current outfit. Such an evaluation was highly inappropriate. Wellington yanked his mind back to the task at hand. “Well, there is my motorcar. Once it arrives from Detroit, I need to make sure it receives attention, preferably when it is not high noon as the heat can be rather unpleasant here.”

“Rather,” she agreed.

“Out of the ten stalls, there are seven occupied. That would mean the Royal is not full to capacity but quite well-off as I'm sure being one of the largest buildings in the town, it could serve many people on their way west.”

“So are you insinuating that if the corral is full, so is the hotel itself?”

“Hardly,” Wellington said, shooting her a satisfied grin. She was trying to trip him up, but he would not disappoint. “The corral is but a courtesy offered from the Royal. Once the tenth stall is occupied, I have no doubt that patrons are offered, for a reduced rate, accommodations for their steeds at the stables we passed only five doors down.”

“Excellent.” She got to her feet and went to the window. “And the rooftops—what did you note about them?”

Wellington frowned. He glanced through the curtains, parted them slightly for a second, longer look, and then shrugged. “Some are flat, some are at angles. Quite common for modern American architecture.”

Eliza motioned to the continuous row of wooden structures. “The buildings are far enough apart that anyone cannot simply leap from one rooftop to another. Until we get closer to the centre of Flagstaff, it is not a concern for us.” She glanced to either side and then to the ground. “We are quite secure in the Royal and should not have any issue if under siege.”

Wellington's eyes fell on the trough of water. That area, far enough from the horses so as not to disturb them, could serve as the best to park his motorcar. He would need to fill the boilers, just to be certain they were ready for any unexpected occurrences. Around Eliza, the unexpected was rather to be expected. He wanted to be ready, ready as she was. This was, after all, the world he had been bred and trained for, but turned his back on, those many years ago. How his choices had disappointed his father.

There is always room for redemption,
a whisper echoed in his mind.

“If you must know, you're exceeding my expectations, Wellington,” Eliza said, bringing him back to Arizona and the here and now. “You handled yourself with exceptional aplomb in Detroit.”

“Thank you, Miss Braun.” He checked his watch and caught his breath. “Oh dear, I do believe we only have a few minutes until our meeting with Doctor Sound. Shall we head down to the reception area in ten minutes?”

Could he say what he wanted to in ten minutes? He didn't want to part company at present. It was rather nice having Eliza next to him. He wanted to let her know how he felt, how he felt about seeing Bill kiss her. That was his fault, he wanted to admit, spending too much time getting the motorcar shipshape and Bristol fashion, as it were.

“Right then,” Eliza said, her smile oddly mirthless, her voice definitely cold. “Off you go.”

Wellington turned to leave the bedroom, however each step felt completely wrong. He needed to talk to her. Desperately.

“Tosh, man,” he chided himself, as he prepared the small, curved couch in their parlour into something that he might be able to sleep on.
This is Eliza. She is back in her element. Let her do what she has longed to do, and then, on the way home, perhaps you can discuss things over tea. Now is not the time.

Tea. He did so long for a proper cuppa, but sadly this country did not seem to regard the ceremony of tea with the same reverence as the Empire did.

He took a moment to splash some much-needed water on his face, take a breath, and then changed his shirt. He opened a pair of small windows opposite one another in the hopes to encourage a cross breeze. The Arizona Territory was hot, but at least there was very little humidity in the air.

Eliza emerged from the bedroom, giving him a silent
“Are we ready?”
glance. She too had changed, by placing a fresh white blouse over her corset, accenting the new look with an ivory, long-line jacket. She had gathered her hair into a bun at the base of her neck. From underneath the coat, he could see her two pistols.

“Eliza . . .” And again, he was at a loss. Why was this so hard? Stiffen sinews, summon up the blood, and all that. “I know this has been a delight for you . . . returning to the field . . .”

His partner sighed dramatically. “Wellington, we had ten minutes, yes?”

Most assuredly, on the voyage home,
Wellington pledged to himself silently as they made their way down to the Royal's reception area.

Bill and Felicity were waiting for them in a small atrium of circular couches. Settled into wide-back chairs, both of fine wicker make, Bill was reading the newspaper while his colleague enjoyed, with outward, obvious interest, her new surroundings. Felicity, rocking back and forth on the chair slightly, made eye contact with Wellington and smiled at him brightly.

“You all settled in?” Bill asked, as he folded the newspaper and tossed it on the wicker table before him. His smile, Wellington noted, was aimed squarely at his partner.

“Quite,” Eliza replied with an inclination of her head that hid the tiny smile on her lips. “The Royal is a lovely establishment.”

“I apologise for the room sharing we've had to do,” Felicity said. “Apparently, Flagstaff is booming so much they are struggling to keep up with demand.”

“No need,” Wellington said, waving a hand dismissively. “We will manage.”

“I'm sure you will.” Felicity looked between him and Eliza. “But if an inconvenience arises, do let me know. Straightaway.”

“Certainly,” he said, furrowing his brow slightly. What was Felicity implying exactly? Dear Lord, when it came to women, sometimes he felt all at sea. “Learn anything from the paper, Bill?” Wellington asked, desperate to steer the conversation in another, safer direction.

“These local rags?” Bill shook his head with a snort. “Barely worth the ink. No, I'm reading what is happening out west. But I do have some great news: unexpectedly our luggage—and that motorcar of yours—is all arriving this afternoon.” Wellington gave a sigh of relief as he continued. “And the prototype from the Outer Banks is already here. Our people expedited it as they deemed it ‘real important.' It's at our safe house. We also had a message waiting for us at Reception.” Bill took the telegram out of his pocket and read, “‘Anxious to see you in Flagstaff. Keep your shadow close. Cheers.'” He looked up. “Well, that makes as much sense as a lawyer running a church.”

“I know the code seems a bit much, but we were using the open wireless, Bill, so we had to be careful.” Eliza touched his arm in an entirely too familiar fashion. “The House of Usher has a wide reach, and they probably know by now we're on their trail.” She checked her pocket watch and gently bit her lip. “So ‘Keep your shadow close' is in reference to when they want to meet. Your shadow is closest to you at noon. Which it nearly is.”

“Then let's get goin'.” Bill nodded to Felicity and rose to his feet. “Follow us.”

The Americans led Wellington and Eliza out into the warm streets of Flagstaff. The desert sun was strong, and so many were seeking shade underneath the awnings of the various buildings and stores. Traffic along the main causeway was very different from the traffic of London, mainly stagecoaches that Wellington had never expected to see for himself. As a young man on the grounds of his father's estate, he was being groomed for a life in the Empire, not serving at the Queen's pleasure in the United States. The dust from the road didn't seem to hang long in the warm air of the desert territory, but it was immediately kicked up again even by the slowest moving of carts.

“Poor idiot,” Bill muttered as a third wagon slowly ambled by.

Wellington looked up sharply at the American agent, but noted that the man's eyes were not cast on him. Instead an older, portly gentleman, his rotund belly seeming to bounce and tremble with his own cart's cadence, had caught his eye. The white in his beard was a brilliant, shocking white, popping against his own darkened, weathered skin. With the older man were some folk that surprised Wellington—two other men, perhaps a decade younger, and of African descent.

“I beg your pardon?” Wellington asked in a whisper to Bill as they walked down the street a little further.