Newton's Cannon (41 page)

“It doesn't work like that. Even if we had all his notes and all the French notes, we would still have to
construct
a counterspell. That would be the work of months, not a week. And even if we had an equation to divert this comet—and the apparatus to implement it, which I can't even begin to imagine—it's still
too late
.” His voice rose to a nearly hysterical shout.

“You don't know that fer sure,” Robert said.

“No, I don't, but it's damn probably the truth.”

“Well, y' should be finding out, not cracking y'r teeth here with me.”

“I wanted you to know. I left one friend to die. I won't do it to another.”

Robert covered his eyes with his palm. “I wish I were more completely sober,” he said, “for heaven help me, I'm starting to believe you.”

“Then you'll leave London?”

“A week, eh?”

“Yes. Unless Newton intentionally lied. But by the time I get back, Maclaurin will have checked this all astronomically.”

“Well then, let's go see him.”

Ben stared.
“Us?”

“Aye. I'm no philosopher, but it sounds as if y'r worried about physical danger—that this Bracewell or some wild Frenchman
or even Newton will attack you. That is something I know how t' handle. I'll bodyguard the whole lot of you.”

“That's a generous offer,” Ben said quietly. “But Sir Isaac has philosophical weapons and protections. I'm far from certain—”

“Ben,” Robert interposed, “I'm at home in a lot of cities, but London has a special place in my heart. I'd rather not see her buried under this big rock of yours. Just let me get my sword and pistol.”

“You have weapons?”

“Always, milad. I'll clean up and escort y' back t' Crane Court. And then we'll see what other philosophic heads might have t' say about all this.”

Returning to Crane Court, Ben had to admit that having Robert with him did lend a certain feeling of security, with his confident swagger and his sword.

It gave him enough peace of mind to think, to wonder where Vasilisa was, and he reluctantly considered the possibility that she might be involved in the foreign plot. After all, his assumption that the philosophers on the other end of his aetherschreiber were French was a purely circumstantial one.

“Robert, do you know which calendar the Russians use?”

Robert uttered a guttural chuckle. “What a question.”

“That means no?”

“That means no,” he affirmed. “Russia I've never been to.”

Ben decided to let the matter drop. His suspicions about Vasilisa were probably groundless. A much more likely candidate for traitor
within
the group was Voltaire, who—not being a philosopher—had a rather thin excuse for always being present.

“This is the place,” Ben told Robert as they came up on Crane Court. By now it was quite dark between the street lanterns, but the windows of the former Royal Society were lit from within.

“Let me do the introductions,” Ben said. “For now you are a cousin of mine from Philadelphia.”

“Y'r facility with deception is developing quite nicely, Ben,” Robert whispered.

“Thank you,” he replied as he opened the door.

In the shocked pause that followed, Robert was the first to react, his hand snaking toward the pistol at his belt. Ben was still a statue.

“No, no!” shouted Bracewell from where he sat in the hall, two pistols trained on the door.

Robert did not pause. In an instant he was standing behind Ben, arm straight out as a ramrod over Ben's right shoulder. If he pulled the trigger, the pan would spark right at Ben's cheek. Ben closed his eyes, waiting for the thunder.

It did not come. Instead, Bracewell chuckled and held his own weapons steady.

It
was
Bracewell. He wore an eye patch, and his generous wig could not entirely hide the stippling of scar tissue on his face and neck. Of his two weapons, one seemed a normal flintlock, while the other had three small barrels clustered together. The latter Bracewell gripped in a metallic hand, much too skeletal to be a gauntlet. He wore his uniform jacket, a black waistcoat, and a surfeit of lace about his neck.

“Well, Ben, well met. But I would advise that you have your ape-man lower his pistol, or I shall be forced to shoot through you to kill him.”

“I'm willin' to bet that Ben's body will stop y'r ball,” Robert said. “I'm just wondering where I oughta open a hole in
you
.”

Two more men entered from the hall, each armed with
kraftpistoles
.

“What's this?” one of them asked Bracewell, raising his own weapon.

“A silly situation,” Bracewell explained.

“You haven't fired yet, so it can't be all that silly,” Ben managed.

“Oh, but I
will
fire,” Bracewell said. “It would be more convenient for me if you were to live a bit longer, that is all. But I assure you, rather than let you escape again, I will kill you. There are three of us.” This last to Robert.

“I don't care about the other two,” Robert clarified. “It's you I plan t' kill.”

“Do we know each other, sir?”

“I don't think so,” Robert said, “and I would certainly remember a face such as yours.”

“Tish,” Bracewell said. “You can do better than that, I expect, if you wish to insult me. Ben, where did you find such a droll acquaintance? Quite unlike that other fellow—what was his name? John. Yes, John.”

“What did you do to John?”

“Why, I'm not obliged to tell you that,” Bracewell said. “Though if you ask nicely—and have this good fellow point his gun elsewhere—I might.”

“Robert—” Ben began.

“No,” Robert said evenly. “Whatever happened t' y'r friend is over and done. I don't know this fellow's game, but I do know that if I put this here pistol down, you and I are both dead men fer sure.”

“You are dead men no matter what. Though I would prefer Ben live long enough to see what he has accomplished.” Bracewell still hadn't moved a muscle below his neck.

“Sir?” one of the men said. Ben thought he might have a French accent.

“We have time—a few moments, at least. You see, Ben, in the end I am delighted that you failed to heed my friendly advice regarding the scientific. If you had, certain acquaintances of mine might still be frustrated. It was necessary to kill you afterward, of course, but you eluded me. Very clever.”

“Why are you bothering with this now?” Ben asked. “We found your plan out too late.”

“That may or may not be so,” Bracewell said. “When I came upon Maclaurin, he was hard at work on a counter formula. You see, as we expected— Oh, hello, James.”

James Stirling had just entered the room. “Mother of God, Bracewell, what's going on here?” he said, eyes darting about at all the gun barrels.

“Well, you neglected to inform me that young Ben here had a watchdog.”

“I don't know this man. Ben, step inside. Tell that man to put down his gun.”

“You!”
Ben said.

“Ben, where is Vasilisa?”

“Safe, I hope. She left after I—” He shut his mouth stubbornly.

“Ah. You worked it out,” Stirling smiled.

“But you knew all along.”

Stirling's face changed. A kind of concern had overwritten his normally bland expression, but now his lips parted in a grin that showed teeth. “And you
announced
yourself to me. Didn't it occur to you that when you used your schreiber to send your brilliant little communiqué to F that
two
machines would receive the message? F's and the one that his was originally paired with? For better than two months I fretted about who the hell Janus could be, and then here you appear, with your notes to Newton, right here in London. Janus! I still didn't believe it could be that simple—that you were just a boy who blundered into the situation. I imagined some crafty, unseen opponent, a brilliant tactician, using you as his pawn. You scared the hell out of me, Ben, especially when you and Newton started having your little meetings. I had to keep Bracewell off you until I was certain, and that wasn't easy at all, I promise you.”

“It's true,” Bracewell replied.

“You've been here this whole time?”

“No, of course not. I only arrived a short time ago, really. Still, it has seemed quite a long time. I
do
hold grudges.”

“You were trying to
kill
me.”

“Yes, and you should have cooperated,” Bracewell replied.

“My arm's getting tired,” Robert grunted.

“I don't know who you are,” Stirling called to Robert, “but if you back out of the door and leave, no one will hinder you. Keep your gun.”

Ben blinked and then tried to hold his face steady. Something was coming up the hall behind Stirling, something wavering, hard to focus upon.

“Generous as a whore on Sunday, an't you?” Robert sneered.

“We have to get them out of the doorway,” Stirling sighed. “Else Vasilisa will see—”

Suddenly the atmosphere above Bracewell's head condensed, gathered substance, and a red flame lit within it as it darted toward
the shimmering in the hall. Bracewell cried out, and his head snapped around to follow his familiar. Ben heard a hiss at his ear, screamed as flame licked his cheek. His voice was drowned by the air breaking, and smoke stole his vision.

In the Grotto of Thetis, Adrienne met Torcy as if by accident, finding him already there as she escaped the fearsome eye of the sun into its cool interior. Aquamarine light rippled gently from the ceiling and floor, making it seem possible that this
was
the dwelling place of the sea goddess Thetis, mother of Achilles, comforter of the resting sun. Beneath three darker arches in the grotto, statues of the goddess and her nymphs clustered around the weary Apollo and his steeds.

“Are you alone?” Torcy asked.

“No. Nicolas is just outside, watching for us.”

“Good. My own servants are at a discreet distance. Have you been in this grotto since its construction?”

“No. It has only been finished for a month, and as you know, I have been otherwise occupied.”

“This is the second Grotto of Thetis, you know. The first was torn down forty years ago to make way for the Northern wing.”

“I don't believe I
did
know that,” she replied.

“You should inspect it closely. You may not get another chance.”

His words prickled in her ears, but she obeyed him and walked quietly over to the statues.

Apollo was Louis, of course. The statue of Thetis bore her
own
face.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Torcy said. “I asked you to meet me here to give you a last chance. I cannot have you failing at the crucial instant. You see how the king adores you? Can you still help slay him?”

“I won't falter,” she answered. “I can't.”

“Then we proceed,” Torcy said, “for your method worked.”

“Worked? What do you mean?” But she already understood.

“You knew I would test it,” Torcy replied quietly. “It was a mercy, really. Poor Martin was entirely mad. He had to be moved from his own shit—”

“By God, tell me no more,” Adrienne snapped. She had never seen Martin and had tried not to think of him as a human being, and now she had
killed
him, a boy whose only crime had been to be ill at the wrong time.

“Come. His suffering has ended. Ours has just begun.” He handed her a wrapped package. “This is the device,” he said. “Have a care with it: There is no time to build another.”

“What night?” she asked instead.

“Tomorrow night, I think. Nicolas will know to come for me when he arrives. You must wait—”

“I know what to do,” she said.

Back in her room, she unpacked the device in front of Crecy. “If something happens to me,
you
must know how to use it,” she explained.

“It doesn't
look
like a weapon,” Crecy observed.

It was a translucent crystal cube, impaled by a key. Inside, a few gears could be seen, along with a looped silver tube that also projected several inches from the surface. Near this was a hemispherical depression large enough to accommodate the small silver orb that rested nearby. This second piece had a diameter of perhaps an inch.

“It's not a weapon exactly. It will neutralize the effects of the so-called elixir of life.”

“So-called?”

Adrienne nodded. “Given all of the effects of the elixir on body and soul, I expected a complex formula. Consider what it has done: It cured the king of advanced gangrene and the gout; it restored his eyesight; it protected him from incineration by a discharge of energy.”

“Could not all of these things be accomplished by augmenting some natural healing virtue of the body?”

“What I understand is that these results weren't caused by
the direct action of the elixir, since it is composed of only two things: water and a fine suspension of philosopher's mercury.”

Crecy stared at her for a moment. “I'm afraid I don't see the significance of that.”

“Philosopher's mercury is highly resonant with aether. It mediates between physical vibrations and aetheric ones. It is the key element in the aetherschreiber, transforming the motions of the pen into aetheric vibrations and then back again.”

Crecy nodded. “And if one ingests philosopher's mercury?”

Adrienne held up her hands. “I would have predicted that it would pass through the system, but it remains lodged in the body. Or at least this was the case with Martin. The result, somehow, is that those who drink this potion become like the chime of an aetherschreiber.”

“You mean to say— You mean that—”

“The king has been healed by someone elsewhere, his body manipulated by something or someone else.”

“Do you see who looks out of the king's eyes, whom he mutters to in the night, who sends him vigor when he should be dead?”

“No. This is all a surprise to me.”

“What my device does is to search out the harmonic upon which the king resonates and interrupt it.”

“Thus cutting him off from this force that animates him?”

“Yes. While he is thus separated, he is susceptible to ordinary means of—” She paused, her throat constricting, unwilling actually to pronounce the words.