The Flux Engine (17 page)

“Don’t be such a baby,” Hickok said. “It’s just your foot.”

The man on the ground glared at Hickok, holding the enforcer’s eyes as if daring him to say more. Hickok rose to the challenge. He crouched, grabbed the man by his grubby shirt front and stuck a gun in his face.

“Now Michael,” he said in a calm, almost friendly tone. “My name is Hickok, Wild Bill Hickok, and this here is my airship. I’d take it as a personal favor, if you’d just sit here, nice and quiet like, and keep an eye on her for me.”

At the mention of Hickok’s name, all the belligerence drained away from Big Mike’s face and he took on the pallor of stale milk.

“You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Michael?”

Big Mike nodded emphatically.

“Yes sir, Mister Hickok,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll make sure nobody bothers her.”

“Good,” Hickok said, nodding. “That way you and I will be friends, Michael. It’s important to have friends. For myself, I’ve never once killed one of my friends.”

Big Mike’s nodding head suddenly stopped.

“Now on the other hand,” Hickok said, slipping his gun back into the sash at his waist. “People who disappoint me aren’t really friend material … if you take my meaning.”

Big Mike took his meaning and nodded vigorously.

“Good,” Hickok said again, standing up. “Wrap up that foot,” he said, turning his back on the fallen man and starting to walk away. “Jane dislikes blood on her floors.”

“Jane?” Robi whispered to John, but he just shrugged. There was a short, derisive snort of static from Sylvia and then a tall, lanky woman in a form-fitting green dress appeared in the saloon doors. She had curly hair, cut evenly at the shoulders, that bounced as she moved and framed her sparkling eyes and long, pointed nose. Her face was plain and honest with just a hint of makeup for accent rather than to cover.

“Billy,” she said as she saw him, hurrying across the dock in a rustle of petticoats to seize his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Do I need to get a room ready for you?”

“Hi, Jane,” Hickok said, kissing her hand with a little bow. “How have you been?”

“Business is good,” she said, looking up into his eyes with a broad smile. “Cook’s got supper on, why don’t you and your friends join us and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Can’t,” Hickok said, finally releasing her hand. “I’ve got to talk to the Prophet right away.”

Jane’s brown eyes widened and lost much of their sparkle. “Is this about the incident?” she said.

“What incident?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“Nobody knows,” Jane said, falling into step beside Hickok as the enforcer moved toward the saloon doors. “Some people are saying that there’s been some kind of attack against the Alliance, that we’re at war. Others are saying that some gunslinger or mad architect escaped from Leavenworth.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that,” Hickok said, but Robi could see his face darken with concern. Leavenworth was the Alliance’s securest prison; an escape from there couldn’t be good.

“Stay here,” Hickok was telling Jane as they descended the stairs to the ground level. “Act normal and don’t spread any rumors. Tell cook to whip up as many hush puppies as she can and just keep feeding anyone who comes in. Most people won’t panic with comfort vittles in them.”

“I will,” Jane promised as they reached the front door. As Hickok moved to leave, she took his hand again and held it. “Take care of yourself, Billy,” she said. “Remember you still owe me dinner and a dance at the crystal room.”

Hickok smiled. It was the first full, genuine smile Robi had seen from him and it made the big man seem almost—human.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said, gently touching the plain woman’s cheek.

With that, he turned and led them out into the crowded street. Robi and John followed in his wake as the throngs parted almost magically before him. Hickok walked with his usual, long, confident stride, his enforcer’s badge displayed prominently on the front of his purple duster.

At the corner of the next street, they boarded a trolley car that rode along on steel rails propelled by a pony-engine chugging along behind it. The trolley tracks radiated out from the central spire like the spokes of a wheel. When the cars reached the spire, they rattled onto a roundhouse platform to be turned around for their return trip to the city’s edge.

Hickok led them from the trolley station clockwise around the spire until they reached a marble structure built right up against the tower of rock. Above it, Robi could see a square track cut in the stone that ran all the way up the spire’s length to the temple at the top. At the upper end of the shaft hung a large wheel suspending a steel cable down to a metal cage that was being lowered down the shaft. Robi watched as it descended into the marble building and disappeared.

She followed Hickok inside, where a gang of men was unloading several carts of materials from the enormous lift. The car was easily big enough to carry a wagon and team with room to spare. Metal tracks, like those that carried the trolley, ran up the back side of the shaft and the cart rested against them at a slight angle.

“Lift costs two bits a head,” a bored looking man said as Hickok approached.

The Enforcer tapped his badge.

“Official business,” he said and went right by.

Robi smiled as John pointed to his deputy badge, not managing to look even the least bit intimidating. She was definitely going to have to teach him how to glower properly. Hickok did it perfectly, of course, but Robi suspected the big man came by it naturally.

The lift up the Castle Rock spire took five minutes as the heavy car was drawn up by the cable. Every minute or so the car passed by the pilgrim’s walk and Robi could see people moving hurriedly up and down the spiral stair. At the top, the lift emptied out onto a loading dock. Merchants and traders waited patiently to take their mostly empty carts and wagons back down. Normally such crowds of tradesmen were wellsprings of information about the types of goods the people in a specific area bought. The kind of information one needed if one were looking to pull off a few discree burglaries. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any time to mingle as Hickok pressed on.

A quick trip around the perimeter of the spire led to a narrow stair going down to the lower level where a well-armed set of guards manned a wrought iron gate. Unlike the man at the bottom of the lift, these guards seemed to know Hickok and stepped out of his way without a word.

Beyond the iron gate, a wide passage had been cut from the rock. Its walls were smooth and polished and perfectly square, with glowlamps set every few feet to flood the passage with light. Marble tile had been laid over the floor and Robi could hear their steps ringing along the passage as they went. The hallway curved around the spire and every so often alcoves appeared on the outside edge, leading to heavy doors where the residents of the ring lived. Exactly half way around the spire from the narrow stair and the iron gate, Hickok stopped in front of a massive set of oak doors.

Robi felt her heart skip a beat. She’d heard of the Prophet of Castle Rock, but she’d never met him. By reputation, he was the most powerful psychic in the world. He’d certainly used his talents to make loads of money. Robi reconsidered her decision to come here. If this man were really as powerful as his reputation, he might simply look into her mind and take everything—all her secrets. The idea of being that exposed to a stranger made her want to run. She’d rather be naked in the public square. Still, this was the best chance she had, maybe the only chance she would ever have, to avenge her father.

Steeling herself for what might come, Robi held her breath as Bill Hickok raised his fist to knock on the heavy door.

Chapter 18

The Prophet

John watched as the door opened before Bill Hickok’s hand could descend to knock, opening smoothly as if expecting them. A short, portly man in a matching red waistcoat and jacket stood in the doorway. He had thick, iron-grey hair and mustache with intense, hazel eyes that seemed to shift as he looked the enforcer up and down, changing colors like storm clouds. His face was round and his cheeks puffed out a bit, hemming a broad, pug nose between them, and the tips of his mustache were curled upward in delicate spirals. It was a face that could have been jovial, should have been, but instead, it wore a look of haughty indifference tinged with disapproval. After giving Hickok a hard look for a long moment, the man stepped back from the opening.

“He’s been expecting you.”

“Thank you, Alistair,” Hickok said. He nodded and entered.

John hesitated, allowing Robi to go first and earning him a frosty glance from the dark haired girl, then went in.

“I trust,” Alistair said, shutting the door, “that there will be no uninvited guests this time.”

Hickok flinched at the comment and looked sheepish, something John had never seen before. The expression flickered over Hickok’s face and just as quickly vanished, his usual hard mask replacing it.

“You know I had no way of knowin’ those boys had followed me,” he said, forcing extra gruff into his voice.

“Yes,” Alistair replied in an unconvinced sort of voice. “Fortunately, I’ve taken precautions to prevent such things from happening in the future.” As he said it, the portly man dropped an iron bar the size of Robi’s wrist down into a heavy bracket on the back of the ornate door.

“Now,” Alistair said, turning to face them all. “The master is awaiting you in the library, and—”

“I know the way,” Hickok cut him off. “Why don’t you see if the young folk want something to eat whilst I go and have a quick word.” He waved at John and Robi, introducing them in turn. “John’s an apprentice Thurger who sent a bunch of Tommys on a rampage through Sprocketville and Robi here is the daughter of the Cat, you know, the famous thief.”

Alistair looked suddenly ill and Hickok beamed him an amused smile before walking away.

“Well,” Alistair said once Hickok had gone. “Make yourselves comfortable while I pop into the kitchen and see what Cook has available.”

He gave Robi a look that suggested he would also instruct the cook to put away the good silver, then he left.

Hickok had gone through a large door at the end of a short hallway. As soon as Alistair was gone, John moved quickly to it and pressed his ear to the lacquered wood. Muffled sounds of talking reached him but nothing as distinct as words.

“Amateurs,” Robi’s exasperated voice came from behind him.

He turned and found the girl calmly rolling up a sheet of paper she’d taken from a nearby writing desk. She rolled it such a way that it had a small, narrow end that expanded out like the cone of a phonograph.

“Move,” she commanded, stepping up to the door and deftly inserting the small end of the paper cone into the keyhole below the bronze doorknob. The buzz of voices that John could barely hear through the door suddenly resolved into faint words and he and Robi leaned close, their heads almost touching.

“… Not going to lift a finger to help us,” a strange voice was saying. “If we don’t want to end up like Dakota, we’d better figure a way to stop this new weapon on our own.”

“You sure it’s the boy’s crystal?” Hickok’s basso voice rumbled.

“It is,” the voice John presumed to be the Prophet said. “The day of the attack my detector spiked higher than anything before. Whatever these people are doing with that crystal makes the boy’s Tommy experiment look like child’s play.”

“And that tore up half of Sprocketville,” Hickok said.

“Just imagine what that weapon could do to Denver, or Frisco, or us.”

The voices fell silent for a moment and John heard the tread of Hickok’s boots as the man paced.

“Your report said that the girl knew these people, by sight at least?” the Prophet said.

John imagined Hickok nodding.

“That might help,” the prophet said, a sudden weariness in his voice.

“I have a concern,” Hickok said. “She’s out for blood. I can’t have her tagging along gumming up the works. Something’s going to have to be done with her.”

John felt Robi tense at the words.

“For that matter,” Hickok went on. “I’m not thrilled about taking the boy. He’s a good kid and all, but that Morgan fella is playing for keeps. It’s going to be difficult taking him on while I’m keeping one eye on the kid. Like as not, it’ll get us both killed, or worse.”

John wondered what a man like Hickok might consider worse than being killed.

“You have to take him,” the Prophet said. “If he doesn’t go, your mission will fail, of that much I’m certain.”

“I thought you told me you couldn’t see the future,” Hickok growled.

“Not as such,” the Prophet said. “But I see the present, more clearly than you can imagine. I’ve gotten very good at predicting where events will go.”

A pause stretched out between the two men as Hickok considered the Prophet’s words. John realized he was holding his breath. He’d been nervous to meet the Prophet. The idea that he was going to be in the same room with someone who could just peek inside his head at any time made him nervous. He’d been a pretty good kid most of his life, but there were things he wasn’t proud of, and he didn’t want to share them with a complete stranger. He thought about the time he’d kissed Maddie Barnstok behind the orphan asylum’s tool shed, and felt his face burn as he blushed to the roots of his hair.

He tried to calm himself as he let out his pent up breath. Like it or not, this Prophet seemed to be on his side, practically insisting that Hickok take him along. John steeled himself. Whatever this Prophet wanted from him, he resolved to give it. Anything to keep on the trail of his mother’s crystal.

“All right,” Hickok said at last. “Let’s get this over with.”

It seemed like an inordinate amount of time had passed, but John knew it had only been seconds.

“I’ll go get the children.”

“Don’t bother,” the Prophet’s voice came again, this time much louder, as if he were very close to the door. “They’re right outside listening to everything we say.”

Robi jerked away from the door before John could even think to react. The doorknob clicked and the white, lacquered door swung inward, carrying the paper cone with it, still stuck in the keyhole. In the space the door had occupied stood a whip-thin man in a white shirt and black pants, the latter being held up by a pair of suspenders that were so dark a red that they looked black. He was gaunt, with sunken features and dark circles under his brown eyes, as if he slept irregularly. The cuffs of his sleeves were turned up, revealing bony forearms that ended in slender, almost delicate fingers. He wore gold and silver rings on each hand, but they were small and tasteful, without ostentation. A gold watch fob hung from his shirt pocket and swung back and forth as he beckoned them to come in.

The Prophet swept his sunken eyes over John as the young man stood up from where he’d been kneeling by the door. The gaze didn’t linger, but John shivered as if the look had somehow come into physical contact with him. The Prophet shifted his eyes to Robi for a moment, then rolled them in his head with an exasperated sniff.

“Miss Laryn,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Despite the fact that you felt no compunction about invading my privacy, I have no intention of invading yours. Please stop singing
Camptown Ladies
in your mind. It is not an adequate defense if I wished to invade your thoughts and it is extremely annoying to have you projecting it like that.”

Robi flinched, blushing at the rebuke, but John saw a flicker of fear in her midnight eyes. She’d thought she could keep the psychic out of her head, but he’d detected her defenses without even really trying. If the man wanted the information Robi intended to barter with, it was obvious he’d have no trouble just taking it, and Robi knew it.

John followed the Prophet’s beckoning hand through the open door, down three steps and into a massive library. Or at least John assumed it was a library. The room was mostly round with a high vaulted ceiling that ran up a full story into the housing ring above. A railed balcony ran along the second level and the walls there were lined with neatly ordered bookshelves and glass-fronted cabinets that extended up to a ring of large windows just under the ceiling.

The room below was a study in contradiction to the sanctuary above. The dark, hardwood floor was littered with rugs, some Persian, some Aztec, and all violently stained with various liquids. Chairs and couches were strewn about the room in no discernible pattern, most of them covered in an array of newspapers, books, notes, and ledgers. In the spaces between the chairs were more than a dozen end tables, ottomans, writing desks, and even a small piano. These in turn were littered with books, papers, used plates, tools, crystals, scientific equipment, and bric-a-brac of all description. Along the walls stood a row of disheveled bookcases interspersed with tables filled with scientific experiments, some of which seemed to still be in process. There was even a Chinese cabinet standing mysteriously between two tables like the arbiter of a duel.

Hickok stood leaning on one of the less cluttered tables, just to the side of the bank of windows that poured light into the room. At the foot of the stairs that led down into the sunken room stood a mostly clean round table with four chairs around it. The Prophet beckoned them to be seated.

John held out a chair for Robi, then seated himself.

“My name is Elijah Cavanaugh,” he introduced himself. “As you may know, I am a psychic of some renown. I am also the richest man in this territory.” He paused a moment for that to sink in. John wondered if he was supposed to be awed, impressed, or frightened by this information.

“I don’t tell you this as a boast,” he said. “I merely wish to impress upon you the idea that, if I say that I am in a position to help you, you can take me at my word.”

Impressed. Definitely supposed to be impressed.

Almost on cue, Alistair returned bearing a silver tray piled high with tea, muffins, and shortbread cookies. The Prophet waited for him to pour, watching John over steepled fingers from the depths of a high, wing-backed chair. When Alistair finally finished and withdrew, the tall, lanky man spoke.

“I must confess, I’ve been fascinated with the story of you and your crystal,” he said, his unblinking gaze fixed on John. “Bill here has told me much of it, but I think I’d like to hear the story from you, directly.” He paused and then added, “That is, if you don’t mind, of course.”

John opened his mouth to comply but before he could get a word out, the Prophet interrupted him.

“Please be specific and as detailed as you can. The more I know, the better I can help.”

John took a deep breath and started again, relaying his earliest memories of his mother, her disappearance, and the songs of the crystal she’d left him. He told of his youth in the Saint Archimedes Orphan Asylum and his apprenticeship to Doctor Shultz. When he got to the events of the last week, the Prophet’s eyes seemed to go out of focus, though he never took them off John.

When the story was finally done, the Prophet closed his eyes and just sat, slumped down in his chair. A pregnant pause hung in the room and John sipped his tea quietly, making sure not to let the saucer clink when he put down his cup.

“That was a very interesting story, John,” the Prophet said at last. “Thank you for telling it to me.” He opened his eyes and they were still fixed on John.

Creepy.

“It might surprise you to know that several people in Castle Rock know your story,” he said.

“How— John began but the Prophet silenced him with a smile and a tap to his forehead.

“Once you finished your story, I sent my mind out over the city,” he said, “and found several people who knew either of you or of your crystal. Someone has been looking for you and that crystal, John. The minds I touched are his agents. They’ve been living here, seeking you, looking for signs.”

John felt the icy feet of imaginary scraproaches scrabbling up and down his spine and he shivered. He knew that the Prophet was a psychic, but the man had apparently scanned the entire city below in the few moments after John’s story ended. That kind of power was staggering. As the shiver passed, John suddenly processed what the man had said.

“Who’s looking for me?”

“I don’t know,” the Prophet admitted. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Whoever he is, he’s smart and cautious. None of his minions seem to know his real name or what he’s up to; they call him
Shokhlar
. Does that name mean anything to you?”

John shook his head. The prophet shrugged.

“No matter,” he said.

“Can’t you just …” John put his fingers to his temples and wiggled them. The Prophet’s face split into a weary grin.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t probe the minds of everyone all at once; all I can do is listen for key words or phrases among the din. It’s like when someone says your name in a crowd. Sometimes I get lucky and find someone who knows something important. Usually they just have bits and pieces.”

“Why does this Shokhlar person want John’s crystal?” Robi asked.

“He’s building something,” the Prophet said. “Or rather he’s built it and needed John’s crystal to complete it.”

“What?” John asked.

“Have you ever heard of something called a Flux Engine?” the Prophet said.

John searched his memory, then shook his head.

“Engines run on steam, not flux,” he said. “Flux keeps crystal arrays energized and working.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me either,” the Prophet said. “But I’ve heard the name over and over since your crystal went missing.”

“Let me get this straight,” Robi said. “Whoever the Shokhlar is, he’s built something terrible, something he calls a Flux Engine, and John’s crystal is at the heart of it.”

The Prophet smiled.