Part 10 (2/2)
Keating grunted his agreement, albeit reluctantly. ”I want to see progress.”
Tobias bit his tongue, calling on long training as a diplomat's son. ”Of course, sir. I'll return to the problem first thing tomorrow.”
Alice arrived to herd them to the table. The dining room was a modest size but showed off her taste. The colors had been chosen for a sense of light and air, and the ornate plaster of the ceiling had been painted a plain white. Alice herself was the brightest thing there, the deep green of her dress like the first leaves against the snow.
They sat, the soup was served, and they began to eat with the determination of people obliged to be polite to one another. Normally, dinnertime conversation between husband and wife was pleasant and of late had become comfortable. But tonight, Keating's impatience hung like a pall in the room.
Alice cast a glance at her father, speculation in her wide blue eyes. ”How goes the development of the battery-powered generators?”
Keating cast his daughter a cool glance. ”You have a good memory. It's been a year since I worked on them.”
”I have an interest in that project.”
Tobias looked up from breaking apart his dinner roll. This was the first he'd heard of it. ”How so?”
Her face took on a sharpness that said she was engaged by the topic. ”Small generators have so many uses, especially in rural settings, or where people cannot afford a constant power supply. It could ease a great deal of hards.h.i.+p if the poor could pay for only the fire or warmth they needed as opposed to an ongoing charge.”
”And what about revenue?” Keating said, his tone slick with contempt.
Tobias set down his b.u.t.ter knife. ”There are many who can only pay now and again.” The cost of power was an ongoing grievance against the Steam Council. It wasn't hard to see why the rebels had gained a foothold.
Keating flicked a hand, consigning the subject to the dustbin. ”Unpredictability is the enemy of sound business. Besides, I have more pressing affairs, as do you.” He turned to his daughter. ”Raising Jeremy must fill up your days. I'm sure you don't have time to ponder what goes on in your old father's factories.”
She flushed at the rebuke. ”I will never grow weary of hearing what you do, Papa.”
The next course arrived, and Tobias exchanged a look with Alice, whose heightened color said she was fuming. He raised an eyebrow, doing his best to take the sting out of the moment. She rewarded him with a small, tight smile. And then she tried again. ”So what are you engaged with, Father?”
Keating dusted salt over his potatoes. ”There are always a number of projects in hand.”
”It seems odd for me not to know each and every one,” Alice said with the slightest suggestion of an edge. ”There was a time I think I was as informed as your foremen.”
But she was no longer part of Keating's plans. By marrying and producing an heir, she had served her function. Unfortunately, Alice refused to accept her irrelevance. Tobias wondered if the meal would ever end. He cast a sidelong glance at his father-in-law, who was chewing as if his dinner had done something to offend him.
”When Jeremy is old enough, why don't you bring him to the London factory for a tour? You can see it then,” Keating said.
”I'll look forward to it,” she said, her eyes downcast as she abandoned her plate.
Tobias guessed what she was thinking. She would only need to wait a decade or so to see the business she could have run as capably as any man. Whether they meant it or not, parents had the power to wound as no others could.
Frustration burned and he set down his cutlery before he was tempted to use it on his guest. If so many people hadn't been counting on Tobias to keep Jasper Keating on good terms, he would have slammed the man's face into his veal roulade. Restraining himself took a special kind of fort.i.tude.
He turned to Keating, a smile fixed on his lips. ”Would you like to try the pinot?”
”Please,” said the Gold King, pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.s forward.
The servants were out of the room, so Tobias poured, his mind churning with useless resentment. Keating lifted the gla.s.s to his lips, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the wine.
Tobias watched the man the way he would a deadly spider. Others might have daydreamed of poison in the wine, or a knife to the throat, but Tobias just wanted his household to be left in peace.
Unfortunately, the price for such freedom would be far more complicated than simple murder.
London, September 25, 1889.
THE GOLD KING'S WORKSHOP.
1:15 p.m. Wednesday.
HEAT WAS A PALPABLE FORCE INSIDE THE BUILDING, SO thick it might have been sliced and s.h.i.+pped for s.h.i.+llings a pound. Sweat trickled between Tobias's shoulder blades, adding an extra layer of irritation to his foul mood. He'd been hard at work investigating the bra.s.s bug, but this was the third time he'd been called away. Nothing was working right.
He was in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, his coat and vest tossed over a reasonably clean crate. All around him, the vast warehouse pulsed with the noise of engines, a rusty light s.h.i.+mmering from the coal-powered furnaces. Workers swarmed like jungle insects, hands and minds busy with one project or another, turning plans into prototypes. Tobias had designed most of the machines there, but every unit built was for the greater glory of Keating Industries. Here, the Gold King ruled all.
Sadly, Tobias's latest invention wasn't about to be ruled by anyone. At eight feet in height, it stared down at him with that insouciance peculiar to malfunctioning machines. Go on, make me work, it seemed to say. I have all the time in the world to watch you try.
Tobias wasn't impressed. b.l.o.o.d.y fart bucket. By now there had to be enough steam inside to send it rocketing to Mars. Why wouldn't it run?
”We checked the pressure, guv,” said the man standing beside him, whose name was McColl. ”And there's not a leak anywhere. I looked myself, every inch.”
Tobias nodded, hearing but not bothering to waste mental capacity on speech. He was rechecking his math and reimagining his diagrams, comparing them to the monstrosity a dozen feet away. Keating had asked for weaponized ground transport, and this was it-a steam-driven engine surrounded in armor plating. Or rather, it was a steel and bra.s.s dome on wheels, somewhat taller than it was wide, with enormous gunports on the roof. It had an extra k.n.o.b on top, giving it the appearance of a huge covered dish. However, the k.n.o.b was the greatest feature of the thing, because it allowed the contraption to fly. Then again, it could also explode the entire warehouse.
”Have you checked the aether distillers?” he asked McColl.
The man mopped his s.h.i.+ning brow with a sleeve. ”I had a look at 'em, guv, but I'm no expert.”
Tobias's neck went rigid, and his temple throbbed-but he kept his tone civil. Decent workmen were in high demand all over London, and McColl was better than most. ”If they're not calibrated, they can drain power from the main engines. That could explain why nothing else will work.”
”All I know is that they were green and bubbly.”
Despite himself, Tobias's tone went sharp. Bubbles meant the distiller was growing volatile. ”How bubbly?”
”Like a good stout sir, with a bit of froth on top.”
Tobias's heart lurched. There was no time even to curse. ”Gloves!”
McColl stripped his own off, handing them over. Tobias lunged toward the machine, pulling them on as he went. ”Turn off the engines!” he roared. ”Power it down!”
He vaulted from the ground to the lip above the wheels, then clambered up the dome, using the overlapping plates as hand- and footholds. When he got to the smaller half-sphere on top of the dome, he balanced precariously, digging the edges of his fine leather boots against the housing, and attacked the wing nuts holding the faceplate. The gloves were clumsy, so he grabbed the fingers in his teeth, tasting the heavy oil-soaked leather as he pulled off the right one so he could work more quickly. But as he feared, the metal was scorching hot. The thing was overheating. Faster, faster!
The principle of the distillation device was simple: it took ordinary air, separated out the aether, and then concentrated it into a liquid form that could be stored. When needed, the aether could be converted back to gas to fill a balloon, providing greater-and much safer-lifting power than hydrogen. Tobias's domed invention was equipped with storage canisters and a tightly folded balloon. In the event a rapid escape was needed, the balloon would inflate and an interior cage would separate from the rest of the machine, floating the operator and key equipment to safety. Because the distiller itself was on board, there was no danger of running out of fuel.
But ironically, that safety feature was about to combust them all. He burned his fingers for a few twists and then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the glove again, using it like a pad between his skin and the nuts. When he finally freed the cover, he tossed it aside. The thing clanged and skidded across the floor. Tobias could hear McColl working below, hopefully shutting down the boiler.
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