Steam Ch. 02

Pram patted Kenneth on the shoulder and walked over to the cylinder, popping the round hatch at the end of it open. It was pitch dark inside, as expected, though she could still make out glints of light reflecting off the gold runes inlaid into the sides of the chamber. Pico's head popped out from beneath the chamber, between her legs.

"Holy shit," she exclaimed, resisting the urge to punch him in the face.

"What?" He asked, pushing himself out from beneath the chamber as she stepped aside.

"A little warning next time, maybe?" She asked. "And can I get that torch?"

"Torch?" He asked, standing up and brushing off the front of his overalls.

"Yeah," she said, "the torch. I need to inspect the sigil for damage before ignition and I obviously can't use low point-value spells, right? Can I borrow the torch?"

"This?" Pico asked, pointing to the silver cylinder in his hand. "This is not a torch, this is a flashlight."

"What? No, seriously? It's a torch, an electric torch. Flashlight doesn't even make sense."

"It makes sense inside the Imperium," he said, "where you live."

"No," said Pram, taking the torch from him. "It doesn't, and where we're both from it's called an electric torch. Because it's a torch, that's electric. A flashlight would turn on, like, once and then go off. Because that's what flash means."

"You islanders all the same," Pico yawned.

"What? You're from the ruined isles too!" She exclaimed, running the light from the torch up and down the front of him. He glared at her.

"Yes, I suppose I am," he said, turning around and pulling a clipboard from behind his back. "Don't you have work to do?"

Pram briefly thought about how wonderful it would be to pull a boulder out of otherspace and drop it on his head. She had a high-enough conduit grade to do it to, but just drawing out the spell could potentially take years. Pram wished she were a low conduit grade sometimes, so she could set people's hair on fire when she was mad, just like anybody else. Pico could probably set her hair on fire if he wanted to.

She sighed. Having a massively high conduit grade was such a bullshit gift.

Pram shone the light inside the central chamber, craning her head to look around a bit before sitting on the lip off the opening and letting herself slide inside of it.

The interior of the chamber was a seventeen-point polyhedron with seventeen individual faces, laid out as a sideways obelisk. Intricate golden runes were inlaid into the wrought iron walls of the chamber. Various shapes, geometric and calligraphic, formed what, as a whole, was called the sigil, the esoteric name of the spell.

Pram ran her hand down the polished surface of the panels, only half-reading each rune as her fingers passed them. Speed. Pressure. Power. Old words. Dead words with little meaning outside of magic craft. Much of what she knew she learned during her years at the college in Crosus, not that it mattered much. Complex, high point-level spells were researched and published over lifetimes of work by professionals in their fields.

This momentum spell was written by Hartwell Mary-Compton, who died a hundred some-odd years ago. Hartwell's intention had been to create a spell capable of teleporting rock out of mineshafts, but had instead created a spell that could power clockwork devices. The Imperium named a bridge after her, and she died very rich.

Pram was just the conduit through which the spell's purpose was enacted, a sort of metaphysical tube that connected supernatural energy sources to the sigils they powered. Her massive conduit size meant she could control huge amounts of power, but had little control over the "direction" they moved, whereas small conduit users like Bennett could easily cast spells, but very weak ones comparatively.

It was essentially the difference between a riverbed and a garden hose. Subtle versus overt. Pressure and flow made magic work. Water that would fill the hose would fail to fill the riverbed, and even a fraction of the riverbed's capacity would shatter the hose. People who tried to cast outside their gauge often died, and almost always lost their affinity. They became Enfeebled.

Pram finished her inspection and got out of the chamber, taking a clipboard off the wall and checking ticks down the line. Kenneth and Pico had already finished and left, leaving her alone in the power plant. It was required, people lacking her affinity and conduit gauge would be incinerated if they stayed in the compartment during the ignition sequence. She pulled a conical, black speakerphone off the wall and pulled down on the talk lever beneath it.

"Boss, this is Pram," she said through the receiver.

"Yeah Pram, this's me," Kenneth replied, his voice shot through with gravely static. "You ready to go?"

"Yes sir," she said, "estimate five minutes to ignition."

"Roger," he replied, "all inspections are a go out here. Pass through your clipboard and start her up."

"Roger," she said, hanging up the receiver and letting the lever go. She passed the clipboard through a slender metal slot by the door and slid a thin metal shutter down over it. Kenneth pounded the hull to let her know he received it, and she pounded back that she heard.

Pram stripped off all of her clothing besides the black thermals and stowed them away. Thermal underwear was more for modesty's sake than for comfort, they weren't very warm, but they also wouldn't get incinerated in the chamber like everything else she had been wearing. On more than one occasion her clothing locker had malfunctioned and been ripped open during transit, leaving her with nothing to wear until one of the engineers fetched her a new uniform from her baggage.

The torch went in with the clothing as well. The engine compartment was pitch black without the artificial light, but she found her way well enough by feel and memory. The Bella had been her home for two years now, and every step across the cold steel was as familiar as a midnight trip to the bathroom. Her finger found its way to the face of her watch, feeling the steadfast ticks through the glass. It would survive the fire, it always did.

She lay down inside the drive chamber, not bothering to close the door behind her. Activating the spell would do that on its own anyway. Her eyes closed, despite the darkness, and soon the compartment began hum.

White fire trickled down from the tip of the sideways obelisk, following the latticework path of embossed gold. The steel door clanged shut as though it was being pulled closed by a magnet. She floated up above the floor of the obelisk as it began to rotate around her, the same white fire on the runes dripping out of her mouth, nose and eyes. Temperatures outside the compartment rose dramatically, until, with a soundless whump, the oxygen inside the engine room ignited and was gone.

Pram's skin, blood and muscle melted away, disappearing into the light until only a skeleton was left, and then not even that remained. She felt nothing but transcendental bliss, a purely euphoric absence of thought. Pram was light itself, filling the chamber and leaking out into the cabin, into the electrical systems, the clockwork, the miles of pipework. Into the Bella herself. Water evaporated, became steam, and the Bella roared to life.

Nash found that he rather enjoyed working on the railway. One of his superiors, a slop-faced lady named June, had instructed him to do a secondary sweep of the back compartments for any hiccups in the electrical systems. Commonplace work for a commonplace man, he thought, noting nothing out of the ordinary on the hundredth car in his 295 car (that's strange I counted a clean 300 outside, haha) inspection. He whistled as he went about his work, checking the inside and outside light fixtures as he moved down the train.

"I don't know why," June had said, "but Cartwright personally wants you to check the electrical all the way to the back. Is there some big issue with electrical right now? Why do we need a standard maintenance guy onboard anyway?" Nash had just smiled with Bennett's face, apologized for "bullshit bureaucracy", and walked off down the train. Of course he knew the answers to all of those questions, though he wasn't entirely sure Bennett would have, though offing his next target would give him all the information he needed. But that was a ways away, for now, he could just wander the surprisingly wide cars of the Bella and enjoy the simplicity of living as the proletariat do.

Many of the cars he passed through near the front of the Bella were passenger cars, most of which hadn't been loaded yet. First class, big rooms and sleepers, were on the opposite side of the kitchen and the store rooms from the lower class cabins, which had mostly just seats and few awfully uncomfortable looking sleepers. There were bars and storerooms on either side of the kitchen as well, to further buffer the highbloods from their prole cousins down the aisle.

Past the passenger cars were the modified, windowless cattle cars that the soldiery used for transportation. Long, pitted wood benches ran down the line for all ten of the troop cars. The first eight had loaded and were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with sleeping infantrymen. The last two were to remain empty until Coalton according to the manifest. Nash caught a bit of graffiti carved into the face of one of the wooden boards.

MARY CONTRARY IN DULLES DANE MILLS SUCS DICK FOR PNNIES / INQUIRE AT THE DRWND BOAR

And then below.

DONT DO IT THAT CNTS FULL OF RAZOR BLADES

Nash found himself surrounded by strapped up bindles of heavy steel track line, bound for the frontier where Compton E&L was still laying rail to push further east. Many of the following cars carried a similar payload, boxes of rail ties, spikes, and new excavation and construction equipment for laying rail.

We have to be heading toward Granger Pass, he thought, noting the contents and doubling back when he forgot to check a light fixture. More and more cars brought him to more and more cars full of nothing.

Passenger luggage, crew luggage, food and medical shipments to the front, three cars full of nothing but three-point sigil weaponry and two mail cars full of tamped down crates, burlaps mail sacks and brown paper packages tied up with string. All ending, of course, with the five nonexistent cars he had found on no other manifest than the one Bennett had been given. Cars that had shiny new Imperium padlocks. Padlocks only he had the key to.

He knew what was in the cars now, which was one of his mission objectives despite his superiors being correct in their hunches about the contents. Correct of course, except for the recent addition of a former Compton E&L employee. Once he had figured out the identity of the last of his four targets, things would begin to get very interesting. The first three were easy to find, but his last target was a professional, like him. This was going to be so much fun, though it was a shame that he would have to kill the cute little Steam Trainer girl.

Nash shrugged and pursed his lips, despite nobody being around to see the gesture. Work was work, and you had to take the good with the bad.

Speak of the devil, he thought, as the electric lights above him flickered to full power above him. The Steam Trainer had ignited the Bella's engine, which meant it was essentially time to take off. A sudden burst of power kicked through the drive train a kilometer up the line, jerking the train forward and nearly taking Nash off his feet. He stumbled and caught himself against large crate simply marked: BLACK STUFF.

"Folks, this Perry Cartwright, your conductor." Cartwright's voice came out loud over the tinny intercom speakers. "Sorry for that little bit of a jolt, just some pre-departure hiccups. As a note, the Bella Faccia will be departing Old Bailey Hub momentarily, so please find your seats and place for your belongings. Thank you, and thanks for riding Compton E&L."

Nash righted himself and continued his inspection of the train, humming aloud to himself car after car. It was an old song, one that he couldn't quite place, but that he knew he'd remember the name of as soon as he forgot the tune. Oh well, he thought, it's always best to look on the bright side of things. Something was off. He sniffed the air. Hairs rose on the back of his neck.

Sulfur.

Chills ran up the back of his spine and he found that his good mood had quite suddenly vanished. His searched the car around him, quickly scanning the labels of the crates. Boots, bandages and BLACK STUFF, but nothing that would smell so strongly of sulfur. His eyes darted to both sides of the cabin, wondering which door would be his best bet. Which door would be the one to lead him back to the safety of crowds. He looked back to the rear of the car on instinct and saw it in the window of the car, looking right at him.

Nash turned and ran, focusing the little magic he could on powering the sigils tattooed onto his legs. Doors burst out of his way as he ran through car after car, some slapping the side of the car so hard they rang like a gunshot in the following cabin. It had climbed onto the roof. He could hear it keeping time with his pace above, clomping the hard soles of its feet down step after step.

Ten cars down in nearly twenty seconds. Nash's lungs burned from the effort, and he could feel the wavering blur of magic burnout encroaching over his eyes. Blinding him. Choking him.

There was no way he could outrun the thing, and no way he could make it back to the relative safety of being near people who might fight on his behalf. It was final stand time. Ozone stink and white heat crackled from the sigil on his palm as he turned to face the door, readying himself for whatever came through. Sweat burned his eyes. He blinked it away. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing but the stale air of the luggage car and the soft clatter of the train picking up speed as it headed out of the station. Nothing but the grey glow of dust motes as they passed through the sunlight streaming through the window in front of him. Nothing but the acrid stink of the shimmering white blade of heat coming out of his palm. Nothing but him, alone and wearing another man's face, in a dark, lonely luggage car near the back of a doomed train. Nothing at all.

Nash sucked in air through his nostrils and extinguished the blade in his hand. He regained his posture and then his composure, taking a few more deep breaths and trying to wave away the ozone-scented tendrils of smoke from his hand.

Okay, he thought, I definitely saw that. But, I am definitely not dead or being tortured so that is an obvious plus. A very, very obvious plus. He nodded to himself. Yeah, I'll be just fine. The door slammed shut behind him and he nearly pissed himself. Nash's head whipped around just in time to see Kittredge's beaming face walking toward him.

"Oh...hey," he said, trying not pant.

"Hey...man, what's up?" Kittredge asked, a worried look on his face.

"Nothing, you know, just... uh," he gulped, "finishing up my inspection of the rear cars."

"Why are you sweating?" Kittredge asked, cocking up the world's most infuriating eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm, uh, trying to get back up to the kitchen before the cooks start putting on the roast for the first class passenger's dinner," he said, dragging through the dredges of the mission file for something, anything to get him out of this jam. A fat bead of sweat fell off his face, scattering dust when it landed on the floor. "I'm starving, but the cooks won't make nonessential staff food after they've started cooking for the highbloods."

"Highbloods?" Kittredge chuckled, "you sound like a Crossian dignitary."

"Oh yeah? Ha. Ha."

"So what're you doing in here?"

"Oh, uh." Think Nash, think. Hide in plain sight. Show the ace to hide the pair. Got it. "You smell that ozone in here? Like air burning?" Kittredge sniffed the air and nodded.

"Yeah, kinda."

"Yeah, uh, well you see this light right here?" Nash asked, pointing to one of the fully functional lights hanging over the luggage racks. He climbed the rack and ripped the wire out of the side of it, shutting the light off, and then reinserted the wire, which turned the light back on. "This wire's loose. I noticed in flickering and I tried to get it to stick back in, but..." He shrugged, playing with the wire until a fat spark popped and made the air stink of ozone. "You see."

"Ohh," Kittredge said, "that's pretty crazy. You qualified to repair that sort of thing?"

"Uh, no," Nash replied, jumping down off the rack. "But I figured I might save somebody some time if I could get it back in." He pointed at the clipboard in his left hand. A wet spot had formed around his fingers. "Cartwright told June to send me down here and check out the electrical systems after takeoff, I guess he expected some degree of malfunction, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so," said Kittredge, turning around to leave. "Either way, let's get out of here so you can get your sandwich, and I can catch up on the sleep I've been missing out on." Nash breathed a sigh of relief, he'd done it.

"So, uh, Kittredge," he asked, "what're you doing back here?"

"Oh," he said, stopping momentarily and raising his eyes to the ceiling. "I thought I saw something out of place, but I guess, maybe, that I was wrong. Either way, it's no big deal." He slapped Nash on the back. "Let's get out of here man, luggage cars give me the creeps."

"Yeah, me too," Nash said, thinking of a gaunt, pale face wreathed by a stringy black mess of hair. And the eyes, he thought.

Black eyes.

Staring right at me.

Sylvia curled up into the great expanse of the red cloak Caan had draped over her. The fire her and the other survivors had been led to crackled softly before her, warming the stones beneath her feet. Only the cold wind at their backs gave her any discomfort, howling as it did up the side of the jagged cliffs behind them. Soldiers cawed and sung beside their own fires throughout the camp, reveling as though the sun had never rose behind the twisted fang of Mount Granger. She wanted to sleep. She would not.

All four survivors sat around her. They had all taken the oath, cast their belongings into the flame to stand before Caan. Each of them was given the same red cloak to hide their bodies from the cold. She wished her hair would dry soon. It hung in wet clumps around her face, bothering her neck and shoulders. Baths had been drawn for them by pyromancers, who melted snow into great old graven bowls in the ruined castle. In silence, they had bathed together, until the bored looking guard had gestured for them to dress and leave.

Now they sat quietly around the fire, gnawing occasionally at the hard chunk of bread they'd been given for breakfast. Only four, from a train staffed by hundreds. There were no tears left for dead bodies in the snow. She tore off a mouthful of bread and chewed slowly, gazing into the fire and at nothing at all. Boots scraped across the ground behind her, and Sylvia turned to see Foucault looming over their circle. He held his hand down to her.

"Come with me," he said. She obeyed. His hand was large, perhaps twice the size of hers, but he lifted her gently. It was like being lifted by a tree, pliant. Unstoppable. She pulled the cloak tightly around herself as she stood, saving herself any more embarrassing nudity.

Foucault was light on his feet for a man of his size. Heavy footfalls belied a lithe sense of poise, and Sylvia could tell by the brisk pace he kept that the man was extremely fast. Unlike many of the lower ranking soldiers, who carried guns, swords and staves, the colonel remained unarmed, save a five point rend sigil engraved into the back of his gauntlet. A sharp bit of rock bit into the bottom of Sylvia's foot, and she gasped and fell forward.