3. White City
With the coming of the sun shadows draped my sheets, running cross the white linen like the folds in some ancient roadcut. The wind whipped outside. Blearily I rose on my side, arm holding weight upon elbow as the bedframe creaked. Though my head no longer ached, it pained me to see my chest…a collection of scars, each cut and bullet-hole a unique pain to itself. My feet found the carpet of the floor, and grudgingly I took to the bathroom to wash my face. A fluffy sliding sound came from my side. I turned too late to find my towel falling from its brass rack into the open toilet.
White piles of terry sat there soaking up the commode. My sigh joined the rush of wind outside…the noise of the motors. What the hell was I doing here? In the mirror my reflection looked back, not so gruesome as the other night yet still requiring a shave. I could cross the Atlantic and be done with Crooskshanks and the Morellos…maybe even take up in Paris. I'd be gone…and they'd never know what happened. Beyond the door I heard a porter's trolley. Wrapping a white robe about myself, I stepped to the hatch. In the passage a hunched black gentleman was pushing a cart into an alcove. "Uh, good morning, Sir. Would you happen to have an extra towel? Mine seems to have taken a swim."
Dark-skinned and immaculately accoutered in a white high-collared jacket and pants, the Steward turned to me but not without a glance into my quarters. "Towels, why, Yessuh, I do so happen to. Jus' getting' ready to restock once you kindly folk disembark." Upon his pocket the man wore a brass nameplate with the moniker Greene.
Retrieving a new square of terry cloth from his cart, Greene entered and made for the bathroom. At its entrance he paused, wincing before he fished the soiled towel from my crapper. As he cleaned my mess, I stepped to the blinds and thumbed them open. It was early morning out there, the sun still cutting through the slats in streaks as it burned in the southeast. To the north I could see only oncoming blue and marching whitecaps.
"Looks windy down there." I muttered as the breeze lofted the robe's hem.
"Yes, Suh, but we be in Columbia real soon now, jus da same. Passed over Cape Cod earlier and just eas' O Boston jus' before daybreak." With a twist and tug he wrung the terry out into the bath.
"Safe and sound?" What's your first name, Mr. Greene? If you don't mind?"
"Lionel, Suh. Dat's wha my momma call me."
"Lionel, eh?" Into the passageway he returned, then back to the bath to wash his hands. Retrieving his stack of white from where he'd left it upon the couch, he took them into the bathroom and hung them the brass rail above the tub. "Where are you from, Lionel?"
"Southside Emporia, Suh. Before that ma' family called Chicago home." Caught in profile, the man cut a handsome line, his eyes catching me over the shoulder before attending anew the towel.
"Emporia, eh?"
"Yes, Suh. I was jus' a baby when Father Comstock and his circle took us in." He dropped it into the linen bag, drawing in short order another from the cart's shelves.
"So, uh, tell me about this Columbia..."
"Yes, Suh. Da Flyin' city."
"Flying...city?"
"Yes, Suh...same as dis drigable." By his look he was telling the God's honest truth.
I looked about, having never thought much about how what made airships fly. I'd always thought it was with gas...but a city?" Searching his pockets, Lionel removed a rumpled postcard. Taken at a distance the photograph captured the spread of an entire metropolis...suspended heavenly amidst the clouds…the same as the back of my ticket. "The City of the Prophet upon High." Its caption read. I looked at it spellbound before turning up to him and handing it back. "That does it for the li'l boys room. You sure you don't be wantin' nothin' else, Suh?"
"No, uh, I'm good Lionel. Thank you, kindly."
Lionel departed and I took a short bath, preoccupied by thoughts of this Columbia. Not the 'District of' but simply Columbia.
Flying city.
Striped, gray pants and a leather vest greeted me upon my exit, draped over the chair where I'd left them the night before. Pulling a white-collared shirt from my bag I donned it and the others before tying my neckerchief. The shoulder holster I left in my bag. I sat for a long time before heading up on deck.
Although I wasn't assigned it, I took my meal in steerage along with folks I was more comfortable. I'd never felt at ease amongst my 'betters' and didn't feel the need to start getting so now. As I sat on the port deck eating a pastrami along with some of the other 'lessers,' The Lady found its way through a flotilla of cumulus towering over the Atlantic, shadows and mist playing outside, the droning of the props far behind. I could not for the life of me make sense of all this. In all my time in the Army and jobs as a Pinkerton, I'd never seen a flying city...nor even heard of one. Yet the memory of it festered in my head. Why did this all seem so…reasonable?
Sandwich in hand, I ate silently along the wooden railing. It wasn't long before the clouds parted to reveal a gray airship a few miles away, red and black waterline running its cigar shaped hull stem to stern. Structure jutted both above and below, the small figures of crewmen visible upon it. Like the First Lady, it approached a thousand feet in length, but with a fore swept prow that cut the air like a trireme of old. Above and below eight pair of guns jutted imposingly into the air, while along its flanks smaller weaponry bristled. Smoke belched in quick time from its sleek, side mounted stacks, ahead of a forest of rear mounted airscrews. As I watched, a small scout plane detached from a lower mooring, the pursuit craft racing off amid the billowing plumes. Piercing a cloud not far beyond its gray bulk, I shortly saw another leviathan emerge, hull gleaming fractiously in the mid-morning light. Upon both sterns snapped American ensigns.
Battleships.
"Looks like someone means business."
Beside me a worker paused from his bite and cocked his newsie, gesturing toward towards the behemoths with flopping buns and meat. "Aye, if I'm not mistaken, I believe that bruiser is the dreadnaught Wyoming, and that one, pokin' his big guns through the clouds, why that's Arkansas. He answered in an Irish twang. "Part of Congress's hedge upon our Columbian governance...just to ensure the fair flying city doesn't fly too far...again."
"Fly too far?" I asked, somehow knowing what he'd say even before he answered. It was the second time someone had made mention of that.
"After the last time seems like they learned a lesson. Don't need no more cities burned to the ground."
Peking. As the cloud tops swept by and the battleships fell behind, I wondered even how I knew that. "Mind me asking what business you have in this Columbia, friend?"
"I'd love ta' tell ya' I've a rich job and lots of employees to look over, but truth told I'm just going home to my family. I work the Finkton docks for a livin', though I'd hardly say that's a livin'."
"Finkton docks?" I asked, watching the breeze whipping his short hair. Clean-shaven, the burly fellow had that glow common to his countrymen but an otherwise decent look.
"Jerimiah Fink, Sir, though I say I've never personally met the man. I be rather low on the totem pole, if ya know what I mean."
"Still, Fink..."
"You might know his trade, Sir..." He said, gesturing upward toward the gray overhang of the Lady as it sliced cloud and air. "All manner of devices of the mechanical nature, sold in bulk to the citizens of the fair city and financially gifted notables of the world, this vessel being a fine example." With a pause he glanced outward, chewing as he spoke. "He also owns the only plant in the world for the manufacture of lift cells."
#
I headed back to my quarters thinking about lift cells. I was no engineer nor airship pilot but it seemed they were mighty important to the working of things Columbia. Needing to relieve myself and deciding I couldn't wait, I set about looking for a convenient latrine down a white-paneled hallway. Well pleased to find one, I ducked within, only to be met by a Negro inside with the strangest look upon his face. "Pardon me, Sir..." I heard a toilet flush and another dark-skinned fellow stepped from the urinal behind a white wooden partition. "But you might want to go jus' down the hall there. This, well..." He stammered. "This is the colored stalls."
I'm certain I looked to him as though I'd been struck by a stone. Escorting me gently by the sleeve, he pointed down the hall as a couple of men came round the far corner. "White boy's restroom jus' down the way."
Eventually I located my stateroom with a lot on my mind, wondering what kind of backward place I was headed to. It did not matter...I didn't need to like Columbia. I only wanted to get the damned girl.
Columbia.
Flying city.
The very concept threatened a fresh headache. It was the city that gotten away, yet at the same time I was certain that I'd never heard of the damned place. And the New York skyline and Dougherty's and airships the size of ocean liners? I took a drink of water and lay down...closed my eyes.
It didn't seem like much time passed but the clock showed an hour later when the Lady's steam horn blew, sounding like the angel's trumpets at St. Peter's Gate. My trip was nearing an end. I rose, braving the edge of my balcony doors such that I could see ahead to some degree Amid the clouds a mile away, even atop them, appeared the spires and parapets of a city, perhaps the size of Manhattan or more. Below its waterline, or cloud line, a solid spit of gray bedrock jutted seaward like a keel, supported by a forest of girders in an ornate latticework. Mist trailed from its length, curling and spinning amid a dizzying array of windmills and underhanging structures. Atop it in the cloud swept heights buildings towered, a handful as high as or even taller than the Woolworth.
Hay piles of clouds were spilling about, gradually thinning to reveal the city was in fact comprised of a dozen 'islands,' all arrayed at varying altitudes about this most massive wedge of rock and metropolis. Zeppelins and other air vessels plied the lanes above her, glinting with color. Above the city center another island hung, eight airships moored along its two gantry arms like an echo of Grand Central. All I could do was stare, at least until something more interesting caught my eye. Captured in sunlight amid a raft of pink cumulus, a slender woman appeared, wings impossibly wide and regal, arms outstretched. Over the city she stood perhaps five hundred feet high, looming like a guardian.
Columbia, indeed.
The First Lady inched to a halt alongside RMS Lucanic, a stout British liner whose pennants and Union Jack were rigid in the winds aloft. The unshielded gale was strong at this altitude, whipping across the oncoming yards and passenger terminal as onlookers within the glass waved hankies and little flags.
To the left and right the echelon of airships seemed to ride the gust like ships at anchor, rising and falling slowly but oddly stable for the intensity of the blow. What little luggage I had I took in hand, joining the multitude's disembarkation. Thankfully, there were many boarding arms, unlike the single gangway we'd endured in New York. As we crossed, I didn't make the mistake of looking down again.
Mixing with the crowd inside the terminal I let my heart slow. Here large numbers of people, including the family I had dined with before, congregated about a handful of men and women in black and white robes. In the distance a pleasant melody played, sounding like a piano. Sensing religion I steered well clear, insinuating myself with a mix of businessmen making their way towards Customs.
The Aerodrome, as I heard my new mates refer to it, was a round concourse surrounding a great stone-pillared rotunda. About its encircling promenade high arched-glass windows stood watch over the main arm, a dozen radiating gangways and oblivion. As we trod the outward curve of marble tile towards Columbia's inevitable authorities, I could hear the wind howling outside, thick clear glass creaking against its ceaseless bid to gain entry. Despite being sheltered we were high aloft and the outer circumference of the port was palpably chilly. Gloves and jacket were in order, and I pulled my collar tight.
A large party had gathered before a smaller airship...an ornate one. Amongst the number at its center, I recognized Morgan and his wife. Pressed onward by the flow of the crowd, I found precious little time with which to follow their embarkation. Eventually the concourse met its opposite from the other side, joining at a marble stair to an atrium below, a spouting fountain and placid reflecting pool circular at its center. Atop the pool's watery ramparts white marbles of Washington, Franklin and Jefferson knelt, toga clad, Franklin offering in his hands a key, Jefferson a scroll...Washington held a saber, hilt first. Nearly twenty feet tall, they surveyed the milliard of people on the tiled rotunda about them.
I joined a queue after my business associates. Many stood beside me, some hopeful, some sullen. My line led to a Columbian officer customs officer, clad in a gold trimmed, olive gray coat, golden belt and wheel cap. A large badge dominated the latter, 'Columbian Police Authority' reflecting in the polish of its leather brim. A similar brass shield adorned his left breast.
"Good day, Sir. And what might I ask brings you to the White City?"
I set my bags upon the counter before him, not quite returning his smile. "I have business with Fink Industries. A meeting about, uh, lift cells."
"Oh, I see." He took a cursory look inside my bag...sifted my clothes. "Lift cells, eh? You represent a concern in the States?"
"Yes...Pinkerton." Opening my wallet, I flashed my old card. With a grim turn of mouth, he seemed to approve. There was, of course, no way for him to know I was lying through my teeth...not, at least, without a wireless to New York.
"Anything else of significance on your person?" I did not enlighten him as to the sidearm beneath my vest, though from its bulge he must have suspected. Our eyes met, and in his gray I saw approval. "I believe Mr. Fink..has been expecting you. What with this Fitzroy character having the people in such a fever and all the nasty rumors on the street. Talk of a strike on his plants here and on the Continent, I hear." I listened but didn't reply, instead keeping my mouth shut. Closing my bag, the officer thrust its leather gently to my chest. "If you need help finding your way, just catch a zepp for Finkton or ask the attendants at the gondola out of here down to Emporia..." He extended his hand, a crooked, white gloved finger unfurling toward the exit. "Just down the promenade. Either should do. And if you need help anywhere else, just ask a Constable...and mention everything you did to me."
"Thank you kindly." I concluded and walked off.
Amid a sea of hats, I was the odd man out, even more so when the promenade dumped us into the Aerodrome's Welcome Center. The Rotunda's stained-glass atrium was obviously dedicated to the Founders and this Elder Comstock, whom over the last day or so I'd gleaned to be the self-proclaimed 'Father of Columbia.' As I looked at the man's image in the glass, the sun seemed to catch the reds quite strikingly. Unexpectedly my head swam, my balance wobbled and the whole of the Aerodrome listed. In the swoon I had the oddest vision of a skyline, caught in the blinding light of the sun, after a moment seeing the light not that of the sun but a city aflame.
New York City.
I don't know how long I'd been standing in the sanctuary when I realized my place. I do know that passersby were looking at me. With my hand I leaned back upon a statue to find blood coming from my nose. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my jacket, regaining my bearings. Avoiding the nearby baptismal chapel, one that was doing brisk business with my fellow new arrivals, I hastened from the Rotunda, out through a colonnade and to the fresh-aired outdoors. My head ached and I tried hard to understand what had just happened...what I'd just seen. Whatever it was, I needed McSorley's or the next best thing to it. Seeking a landmark to figure out where the hell I was, I spied a sign welcoming me to "The Garden at New Eden Square." Somewhere in the distance I heard fireworks going off. For a moment I froze, feeling the hair standing on the back of my neck. I knew what they were, but that never seemed to help. Turning my collar against the wind I caught myself with hand on a nearby tree and headed onward.
#
Outside the garden I followed my fellow new arrivals to a broad circle, at the center of which towered the marble statue of a man in greatcoat fifty feet tall. Beard caught in turn of head, he grasped in his upraised hand a sabre as if for war. About the circle trolley stops marked each adjoining street, all heavily attended. A ring of brickwork shops rose about them three stories tall, shelter against the diabolical wind that snapped the festive pennants and flags on poles above. Advertised upon these establishment's sturdy brick walls was everything from soap to meat. Upon one, a place named Hudson's, I saw the name Saltonstall, emblazoned in a scroll of black backed white paint. Beside me a couple was passing, arms entwined, muttering something about the statue's likeness or lack thereof. My stomach was angry. Against my better judgment, I approached.
"Excuse me, would you mind telling where I could get something to eat?"
After a moment, the man realized that I was talking to him. "Oh, good day. Fancy a bite to eat? Well...which way are you going?"
"Emporia?" I gambled.
With a turn of cane, the gentleman gestured down the widest boulevard, a tree-lined avenue that shaded a central strip of grass and flower beds. At its end loomed another rise of buildings. "That certainly narrows it down." He chuckled, glancing to his wife. "Well, if you're looking for something quick, you've chosen the right day, which just happens to be the anniversary of Secession! Just down the way you should find gondola service down to Emporia and the Fairgrounds. Of course, all of the islands are celebrating today, so food and sundries will be plentiful everywhere, but the Fairgrounds will be the place to be. If you are looking for more refined fare, or perhaps something quick, there is the Blue Ribbon. It is just down the way here, at the end of the trolley line. Charlene thinks it especially fine. Don't you think so, Dear?"
"Oh, I do." With pale hand she patted the back of her up done hair. "It is lovely, though a bit early for dinner. I take it that you're not here for the fair?"
"No, not exactly, Ma'am. Business."
"Do you mind me prying as to what sort?"
"Actually, yes." I winced. "Uh, sorry, that, uh...came out wrong." I followed up seconds later. "I just...meant that I...didn't think you'd find it interesting."
"We find all manner of endeavor interesting, good Sir." The man said with a straighten of his tie. "We were only hoping to make your visit a little more pleasant."
The wife grinned, spun her parasol before the breeze grabbed it. "Absolutely." She said, clawing it back with consternation. "Picking the right events to attend and places to indulge on a day like today is serious business, you know. You can't be everywhere at once...you'll always miss something."
I thanked them and headed across the way, dodging boys chancing fate with fireworks and the still heavy crowd. As I approached it's stop a well-attended electrified trolley was waiting. I boarded it, clattering afterward down prominently announced 'Aerodrome Avenue.'
After a few minutes it came to a halt beneath an edifice named Vanderwald's. Disembarking, I headed for the railing that surrounded the gondola station's landing. I'd thought we'd been high up at Grand Central, but here the view was stupefying. With reticence I approached the railing of the veranda, panning about to take in Columbia's skyline. Precisely like Lionel's picture, its buildings and industry seemed to fly on cloud...but this was no photograph. Instead, it was real and in the most brilliant color. How such an engineering was possible boggled the mind, and though the science of it eluded me the beauty did not.
In a near continuous arc marvels of brick poked through the clouds, blue rooftops with white trim. Above, sleek and powerful airships glinted in their transit of the spaces between the islands. Looking downward I could see the main island, streets teeming with traffic between soaring edifices every bit worthy of Manhattan. Upon its rim a handful of stacks were unusually dormant.
As they boarded the gondola my fellow passengers held their hats, the doubtful conveyance rocking in the gust. I'd heard of these things, used on the ski slopes of Europe. Judging by the myriad of wind-singing lines that arced between the separate enclaves of the city they seemed the preferred way of travel. I neither liked Europe nor cable cars. Redoubled in my intent to find a stiff drink before I took the ride, I found not far from the gondola station the restaurant the man and his wife had recommended. Along the way a handbill pasted upon a Vandervald's brickwork bearing wall caught my eye:
"You shall know the False Shepherd
by his mark!"
Emblazoned upon the back of a gnarled hand were the letters "AD".
"Are you all right, Mister?" A boy was looking at me, black haired in jacket and knickers, face concerned at my obvious shock. "You done look like you seen a ghost."
"Yeah, kid. I'm fine." I answered uncertainly, still looking to the poster. "But thanks for asking."
"Anytime, Sir." He smiled and waved, looking back over his shoulder as he skipped off to join his trio of friends. They headed off to a nearby candy store. Judging by the poster's stain and fray it looked as to have been placed some time ago. Deciding the drink was going to be a double, I mounted the steps and entered the Ribbon.
They didn't accept greenbacks, but to my surprise I found Laslowe's coins the legal tender of Columbia. Called Silver Eagles, each had upon its face a sword, set upon a key, set upon a scroll. The reverse bore the sabre wielding image of the Angel Columbia. One of my remaining twenty-three bought me two shots of decent whiskey at the bar and a handsome rack of spareribs to boot. The sign outside the entrance had advertised them with a man riding a pig, extoling the 'finest quality,' and as I sat digesting the evidence, I had no reason to doubt. Toward the front a lean but well-dressed piano player hammered out patriotic melodies to a modest noontime crowd. Firecrackers still popped in the distance, but thankfully his music drowned them out.
Outside through the window I saw cloud passing, ephemeral streamers whipping through the streets. As they cleared, I could see in the distance the golden tower of Columbia. I took out the card and the photograph, looked at the girl's profile. "Return safely to New York." Read Laslowe's handwriting, scrawled hastily in black ink upon the back.
As I returned the papers to my vest I heard other guests talking about the Irish like they were plague. Despite their laughter, the more I listened the more it seemed their denigration veiled ill-ease, with whispered worries about the 'present state of affairs' and rumors of 'unrest among the 'blacks and mulattoes.' One of the men I heard mutter that it was the 'Founders' fault, Comstock's in particular.' There was a mention of the shuttering of rival churches and the deportation of dissenting congregations. From the evil looks that followed and silence of a nearby family, I garnered his opinion unwelcome.
I stepped up to the bar and got the attention of the bartender, a middle-aged fellow whose name on my first round I'd discovered to be MacCaffrey. I handed him another Eagle and he splashed me some Hayner, turning back four bits and asking if I was new in town.
"Just in off the boat." I replied, draining the glass with upturned chin. I was pleasantly warm now, looking to be warmer by the time I spread my wings once more.
"Well, fella, make sure you smile and keep your head low in Columbia...it ain't the shining beacon the postcards make it out to be."
"Isn't it?" I muttered beneath my breath, surveying the crowd from the corner of my eye.
"Good grief, I do believe it's Mr. DeWitt." The voice was familiar but only vaguely, not that of MacCaffrey. That anything here was familiar, let alone two, was unnerving. Glacially I turned to my left and discovered Andrew Edmonton having joined me at the bar.
"Would you like a drink, friend?" MacCaffrey asked, bushy mustache tweaking as he spoke.
"Indeed..." Edmonton smirked, studying the shot glass I'd thwacked to the lacquered bar top. "I'll have one of what he's having." For a moment he appeared preoccupied, not with the drink but my gloved hand. Faintly he coughed, cleared his throat. I saw MacCaffrey's subtle turn of ear from where he'd been putting the fifth up. "Perhaps we should chat." Edmonton continued, gesturing toward a vacant, out of the way table. Neither wishing to cause a stink nor to be distracted from my task, I grimaced. "Before you put me off..." He said with a raise of hand. "I would like you to know that I believe we have much in common."
"In common?" I said, perusing his straw hat, matching white pants and jacket. Edmonton was handsome in a thin way, made more so by his neatly trimmed hair and straight teeth.
"Indeed." He tapped the bar once more for MacCaffrey's attention. Garnering the shot he'd been waiting for, he tapped again, procuring another for me. "We're both here on a mission. I presume you're American?" With a draw of his hand, he pulled a tapestry to half encompass our retreat, tucking us away from the prying eyes of the crowd.
"Generally." I answered, taking a seat, still wary of the man's approach. "And I presume you're English?"
"How ever did you guess?" He chuckled with a thin smile. "The reason I ask is that loyalties tend to be divided in New Jerusalem. I suppose that it is poetic justice that you and your countrymen have had to deal with a secession of your own, but I wouldn't want to rile you before I make my proposal." In no mood to be toyed with, I stood. He caught my forearm. "And I believe your loyalties are particularly suspect, considering the adornment on the back of your hand."
I glared at him, looked down to see my work glove askew. Pulling it tightly to my wrist, I settled back into the seat. "What the hell do you know about this?"
"Very little. Other than what I'd noticed at dinner last night. And the posters slapped all over the Aerodrome. I'd actually hoped to learn more from the so-called 'False Shepherd' himself."
He'd spoken quietly those words, but in light of the Columbian 'artwork' their pronouncement made me cringe. "I ain't no False Shepherd, pal. And I ain't got no idea why that wallpaper had my claw on 'it."
"Would you mind me asking those letters' meaning, then, seeing as it seems to be a great coincidence that the Prophet himself has seemed fit to condemn you over them?"
"I do mind you asking. Get to your damned point."
He paused a moment, taken back by my ire. "Mr. DeWitt...I am uncertain as to how well versed you are in the matter of politics, but certain parties are quite concerned about the notion that there might be an unpleasantness here. You are aware of affairs on the Continent?"
"Which one?" I sneered.
"The one that matters." Downing his shot, he glanced out the frontage window to the mid-morning sunlight. "Should the Bolsheviks gain a toehold here, or heaven forbid depose the legitimate authorities, the Lutece Liftworks might be compromised along and with them the Crown's capacity to procure irreplaceable lift cells. The Empire's battle fleets are growing, Mr. DeWitt, out of necessity and we need free trade with both America and Columbia. Insurgency is the gateway to anarchy and not in the interest of either the Crown, America nor the Columbian governance, regardless of whether or not this is American soil.
"I keep hearing about these Lift cells. Mind enlightening me as to what they are?"
Edmonton smirked. "The method by which not only Columbia but modern airships' buoyancies are made neutral. Surely you did not suspect hot air balloons a viable mode of levitation for such mass?"
I paused. "I don't give a damned how the city flies, Edmonton, and I think our business is finished." Again, I rose and again he caught my forearm. "Do that again..." I hissed, and I'll rip your arm right out of its socket."
"No need to be angry, Mr. DeWitt." He said hands raised. After a moment of locked eyes, he invited me back into my seat. "But surely you realize that the leadership of this city has not been able to forestall the might of the United States government for all these years without some Providence. They do call him a Prophet, after all...one who has the sight. Perhaps..." He said sardonically, looking again at my gloved hand.
"I ain't done nothin' to get anyone after me."
"Perhaps you haven't..." Edmonton smirked with a nod toward my hand. "At least, not yet."
#
Despite my desire to ditch him, Edmonton and I departed the Ribbon together, the Brit trailing until he caught me up at the thinned Gondola crowd. Following Edmonton's conjecture, I couldn't help but notice the men in green upon the streets here and the park below, looking at people's mitts...comparing them to scraps of paper that featured a rough sketch of a man's face.
"It seems I might have been correct in my assumptions. You didn't exactly tell Saltonstall the real name of your family friend last night, did you?"
"Sure, I did." I tried to remember my lie. "Walter Pigeon."
"You're certain it wasn't Walter Pinkerton?"
"What do you want?" I growled, wondering how the hell he'd gleaned onto my Customs angle.
"Mr. DeWitt..." He whispered. "I assume that you are acting at your Government's behest. Comstock has an eye for American spies and therefore you. We should establish an alliance for our mutual benefit."
An agent for the government? Mutual benefit? I almost laughed. "You were watching me at Customs. I didn't see you."
"I have a keen eye." He smirked, his impish face making me want to punch it. "Still, I find it interesting that an agent would bear the prophesied mark. By the way, my sources inform that Mr. Fink has been expecting you for days now. There have been rumors of labor unrest."
"Expecting me? You think I can get you access to him."
"Actually, I was more thinking the Liftworks itself."
If Edmonton believed I was still with the Eye or one of Roosevelt's goddamned G men, I figured I might as well play along. "Hate to break it to you, but that was just an excuse to get me into the city. I'm not here for this Fink or your lift cells." As we boarded, my grip upon the hand railing seemed to inform Edmonton about my affliction with heights.
"Interesting. I believe he shall be most disappointed. If not them, what is a Pinkerton doing in Columbia?"
"None of your business." I muttered, stepping toward the fore of the filling car.
"I see." As the gondola detached from the landing, he cast a glance outward. We began to descend, the car lurching back and forth like a drunken sailor.
It wasn't the only thing that lurched.
The Brit's eyes scanned the approaching skyline. Below I could see us headed toward the island's rim of grassy green parkland. Toward its center verdant woodlands were split by narrow gray lanes, encompassing here and there the occasional small lake that reflected almost mirrorlike the azure sky and clouds above. A multitude plied those streets and knolls, milling amid colorful tents, bunting, and balloons, all set to a palette of red, white, and blue. To the south the city proper's skyscrapers towered in a gray and tan forest, the sun glinting off a million glass windows. It was an almost perfect mirror of lower Manhattan.
"This 'family relative' wouldn't happen to be the occupant a certain tower, would she?" I turned and glared. "Oh, don't act so surprised...I've seen so many tracts on this 'Lamb' that your head would spin. If not the Liftworks then it surely your goal must be the tower. They will catch you. You must know that." Once more his eyes were upon my gloved appendage.
"Not everyone's seen the posters."
"But they shall see the handbills, thanks to the efficiency of Columbia's Constabulary. Those are not Comstock's only methods, my friend. The old trickster was able to elude your countrymen for years before Dewey finally caught him up, and I see no White Fleet behind you. I shall tell you what, old fellow. I, too, have a passing interest in this tower, as our best men seem to think it might be part of Columbia's power puzzle. Let us make a deal. Because I have interest, I might assist you in your endeavor. In return, you shall help me with access to Fink and his properties. He is, after all, expecting you."
"Expecting me?"
"The posters?"
I didn't like working with others and I didn't like debt...but the posters had me worried. "Power puzzle?"
"Surely you've noticed the dormant stacks of old coal plants about the city? Lutece cells require power to function, and for a metropolis such as this that bill must be substantial. Yet...the coal plants have been shuttered. My government finds this a great mystery, one we wish to unravel. As you know, London is not celebrated for its fresh air."
Pointing toward the opposite side of the city, Edmonton marked clusters of said smokestacks, all of which I had to agree were unusually idle even for a holiday. His hand carried onward, out along a high bulwark. Above its rim soot stained, thousand-foot monoliths hung three in a row. Until now the clouds had concealed these behemoths' scale, but with the vapor's passing I saw that they exceeded even the most gargantuan edifices of New York. Without even the support of bedrock they hung there, enormous pillars in the sky surrounded by a lower crust of habitation that trailed into the heavenly distance.
"There's your plants." I said, glancing at the numerous power cables strung along floating stanchions to them.
"Sorry, but that's Finkton." Skirting the uppermost fifth of the towers snaked a periphery of docks, a myriad of small craft along them in the air and at berth. Not waterfronts...skyfronts. In the brickworks' lee plumes of black smoke issued.
"Finkton?"
"And Shantytown trailing off from it. So, furnaces, yes, power stations, no. The smoke comes from chimneys for industry...Fink's smelters."
"What about that brick affair with the white quoins on the north end...the one with the glasswork roof?" Even as I looked the sun above gleamed brilliant of its glass.
"That, old chap, is the Liftworks proper." He said, nodding towards a prominent cluster of nice that rose from the less than nice about it. "The slums below it are where we need to go. I have contacts there." I looked away, wary of the others in the car. Below people milled at the park side station, awaiting the return lift up. "So...do we have a deal?"
As the gondola jostled into the Fairgrounds landing, I turned to face him. The doors opened and the crowd piled out, an older man looking after us in his departure before leaving us alone. He offered his outstretched hand. "You seem a solid fellow, Edmonton, but I'm afraid I work alone. Good luck with Fink..." I turned and walked off, brushing past the puzzled conductor. "As far as the Liftworks...I'm sure you'll find a way."
#
Leaving the Brit disabused of any notion of cooperation I slipped through the waiting throng. The day was bright and cheery as my boots ground the brick, blue skies arching above with nary a cloud in the sky. High over the Atlantic it was cool, cool enough to relish the warmth of the sun.
About the northern rim of the park airside shops and buildings rose much like the Aerodrome, each a handful of stories, similar in architecture to anyone might find on Main Street Peoria. For the holiday people were attired in their Sunday best, ladies elegant on their husband's arms, children frolicking as they strolled tree lined streets. To my left the park rolled, grassy hills and glinting lakes, sunken amid copses of wood.
Comstock Gardens, a sign arched overhead in calligraphic iron letters. Above it and the treetops to the south rose the brick and concrete clad heights of Emporia, glass windows gleaming in the late morning sun. Amongst the fair goers wandered olive uniformed men armed with brass badges and Billy clubs. It seemed that a uniformed man of some sort stood upon every corner. Scanning back to the spires of Emporia's downtown, I saw something else...the wings of my angel rising above the skyline.
Wandering toward a dais that housed a glass covered woodcut of the park, I found after a moment's search a trolley on the park's eastern embankment. Unfortunately, my escape from Edmonton had deposited me upon Emporia's western flank, an airy outlook dedicated to quaint walks, ornate balustrades, and yawning terror. Far below I could see ocean.
It was a long way down.
I emerged from a knot of holiday goers to discover a check point ahead, the two Constables manning it pouring over a metal and leather arm brace. At its end, a triple hook spun furiously. Choosing a lesser traveled path, I found myself in a thin copse, emerging from its overhanging boughs to a congregation near the Garden's center.
The terrain ran downward here in a shallow bowl, and beyond the milling waves of picnickers and families I could make out a whitewashed bandstand upon the green, rising fifty or so feet a quarter mile away at the bottom. Upon its wooden flanks pristine Columbian pennants snapped and furled, caught in the breeze. The organizers had some sort of loudspeakers at its sides, and in scratchy tones I could heard an announcer detailing in folksy yarn the upcoming events of the day.
Motioning skyward, he stretched out his hand to point at four approaching zeppelins, each about three hundred feet in length. All were heavily armed. As their drone captured the attention of the thousands assembled, eyes turned upward, hands holding hats. They began to clap and cheer. The smaller three were led by a more powerful ship before them, gray and black and twice as long. Behind its armed length trailed a red, white and blue pennant emblazoned with the city's solitary white star. Though bred for battle, on this day all were dispensing fireworks and sparkles, trailing favors behind them high in the air, men on the decks waving and tossing a rainbow of confetti and candy from the sky. They passed overhead perhaps a hundred feet, horns blaring, sending the copious hordes of nearby children into frenzy. A piece of saltwater taffy nearly struck me in the eye. Now I knew why all of the gentlemen and ladies had insisted upon keeping those hats.
Up on the stage the Marshal, a black-haired man in fine attire ventured forth from the knot of dignitaries to the assembly's renewed applause. With a finger of his handlebar mustache, he praised Columbia's 'Aerial Squadron' before announcing the city's elders and visiting dignitaries. Behind him those bigwigs looked on, ten men including to my surprise Saltonstall and Morgan, whom he introduced as "James Pierpont." Despite his composure my acquaintance from the night before seemed ill at ease. Beside him in the position of honor stood another man in dark coat and heavy shoulders, one with a beard and mustache of purest white. I'd seen this man on posters. His statue towered just outside the Aerodrome and New Eden above.
The priest beside him strode forth upon the stage and raised his hands. At his approach the thousands quieted, leaving only the sound of bells ringing in the distance. "Shhh!" A mother said, quieting her two sons next to me. "Father Witting is going to lead us in prayer!" Retreating backwards toward the movers and shakers, the dark-haired man smiled and surrendered the microphone with a squealing tip of his silken top hat.
"God's chosen, shall we bow our heads in prayer?" Upon the stage the row of men followed suit, hats in hand before them. "Every year on this day of days we recommit ourselves to our city and the vision of our Prophet, Father Comstock." The breeze teased the bony eyed preacher's thin hair. "We recommit through sacrifice and the giving of thanks and by submerging ourselves in the sweet waters of Baptism. Today we count our blessings, and they are manifold! Should we count them?"
"Amen!" The crowed replied, a wave of sound washing the valley. My voice was not among them.
Witting smiled. "Yea, we shall count them! If the Prophet had struck down our enemies and not railed against the Sodom beneath us, it would have been enough. If the Prophet had just railed against the Sodom beneath us, but not accepted the three golden gifts of the Founders, it would have been enough. If the Prophet had just accepted the three golden gifts of the Founders and not prayed for our deliverance, it would have been enough! If the Prophet had only prayed for our deliverance and not led us to this New Eden, it would have been enough! If the Prophet had just led us to the New Eden and not purged the Vipers of the Orient, it would have been enough. If the Prophet had just purged the Vipers of the Orient and not given us the Lamb, it would have been enough. But the Prophet did give us the Lamb, she who shall watch the city and fulfil our destiny!"
There was much praise in the late morning air now, whispers of Amen and Hallelujah. "How then shall we repay God's kindness for and the blessings the Prophet has bestowed upon us? With no less than the full measure of our devotion, our thoughts and our prayers! For each of us the Prophet has seen a future, and for each of us in his full devotion it lies within the Glory! Yet, the work at hand is underway but not complete, not until the Sodom below from which we have fled is made right, and by the Prophet's vision all men made closer to God! Amen."
"Amen." Responded the crowd, punctuated by the occasional 'Hallelujah' and, "Praise be to the Prophet!" Witting opened his eyes now and turned, nodding to the bearded man. Beside him to his own entourage Morgan sighed.
With a humble smile the elder ambled forward, up to the microphone and very edge of the stage. Some ten feet up he was, and the people beneath him might have been forgiven for believing they were looking upon the face of the Lord Almighty himself. "Shall I recount the miracle?"
"Yea!" Responded the crowd, eyes enamored of the fellow.
He grinned. "After the great victory at Wounded Knee..." He began, pausing to address the swath of mesmerized citizenry about the bowl. "The Angel Columbia did present herself to me. I said to her, Angel, what hast I done to deserve thy wrath?!" With a smile she said to me that, 'I bear no wrath upon thou, instead I come to show thou a vision, for thou shalt be a Prophet to a new and chosen race.' And what did she show me?"
"A vision of a great city!" The crowd cheered about me, hands raised, all a smile.
Comstock continued, pleased with his flock. "And so, with my divine task I gathered the minds and resources and faith to lead our people away from the Sodom below into a new land, a land of God's making and construction. Here in the clouds, he has created that even more perfect union! And how could that have happened without God's blessing? Had it not been for him, I should not have had the resources to support the building of Columbia in the first place, and were it not for him, the World's Exposition might have sought another venue! Were it not for him, the American Congress, venomous snakes though they are, might never have appropriated the funds to support the building of the White City and were it not for him, I might never have met the brilliance that have made this White City fly! And had not the brilliance that made the White City fly been nurtured, our escape from the sinful world below would not have occurred!"
"This day of days we celebrate our separation, our independence from the land that birthed us, the land that fouled its holy and august Fathers by falling into decadence and willful sin, from the waters of life into unholy debauchery. How good it is to be shed of that burden!"
"Amen!" The crowd shouted sporadically
"How good it is to be shed of that sin, and to live a life for God!"
"Amen!"
"How good it is that that life has purpose, to live for others, to bring those with an ear also to God! Yet, I am saddened to say that this is a long work, and though holy one I see shall not be completed in the years left to me."
At this mention I cocked an eye...though the man was wizened, he did not seem in ill health. Cries of "No!" wafted from the hillocks of people, and I could tell Comstock's words had not been ones they'd intended to hear.
"Only God knows a man's final day, and I leave it to him to decide mine, yet I know this...much as Moses was not allowed into the Promised Land, I shall not be permitted to see the resumption of our ties with the old home. That task...the task of purification...is reserved for her and her alone, our Lamb, our Miracle Child. It shall be she who secures the future of this city and its people." He turned, looking over the trees behind the surrounding thousands to the wings of Columbia upon the skyline. "It shall be she who leads the people of the Sodom below into Righteousness!"
"Let us see the Lamb!" Someone shouted from the crowd, which I felt more like a congregation than happy go lucky assembly. "When shall we see her?!"
"Soon." Comstock said with raised hands and smile. "For I know you wait anxiously. In keeping with God's will, she shall be revealed in due time...when the time of her danger is passed. That time, I am afraid, is not yet. When she comes to my side, it shall be in glories unseen since Moses parted the Red Sea, for I assure you that God walks with her!"
I'd gotten now an uneasy feeling about this whole affair, and, wishing to be on with my affairs, slipped off through the knots of people. Few were leaving so my slow but steady exodus turned heads. Comstock had continued speaking, though I was no longer listening to his tripe. 'Victory at Wounded Knee?' The papers had had a field day with that in '91. Were these fools blind as well as dumb? Just as I'd made my way through the bulk of assembled idiots the hair stood upon the back of my neck. Slowly I turned, looking over shoulder to see the old man looking across the crowd…directly at me.
"One man goes into the waters of Baptism..." He said, eyes fixated. "A different man comes out. Born again! But who is that man who lies submerged? Perhaps that man is both sinner and saint, until he is revealed unto the eyes of man." I froze. After a tense moment his eyes moved on, searching the nearby citizens as he continued speaking. Could he have seen me?
I left in haste, leaving the majority of the fair goers behind, plowing headlong away from him up the tree-lined path. Ahead I heard sound and came to a meadow to find a barbershop quartet singing upon a sparsely attended stage. About me a man and his wife stood, boy in hand at the skirt of her dress. A sign announced:
'Columbia's Albert Fink presents'
"God Only Knows"
'Columbia's Gayest Quartet Barbershop Quartet!'
They were singing a song I'd never heard. Though pleasing, I had little time for such things...time was wasting and I no closer to the girl. With the gathering still in progress I figured a good portion of the populace would be out of my way, yet the urban canyons of Columbia still loomed ahead. If I were to make any progress, I would have to find another trolley or other form of conveyance.
Twin brick columns announced the Fairgrounds proper, the section's prominent signage calling the area out as the 'Carnival.' To either side of its twisting lane lay whimsical attractions, one booth encouraging me to "Cast the Out the Devil," while a nearby shop peddled "Voxophone recordings." Behind it I noticed a tent of the Columbia Flag Company, draped like the bandstand with various buntings of the same and patriotic pennants. Nearby a woman and her band played 'Wild Prairie Rose.'
There were apparently enough heathens in Columbia to keep these tents in brisk business. I smirked at the human penchant for debauchery, right up until I was struck fast by a true carnival act.
Ahead of me to the right a giant of a man stood upon stage, outsized mechanical arms, feet and legs topped by a smallish human head. Were it not for the ridiculousness of the sight I might have been terrified...he looked nothing less than a person welded with a mechanical ape. "Live Forever with Betterman's Autobodies" the tent's sign advertised, and in vertical calligraphy, "The Amazing Handyman!" This wasn't amazing...it was abomination. As the crowd surged and flowed about the exhibit a photographer took pictures. Much like an ape might do the poor man cringed. How was such a thing even possible? Within his chest I spied something even more gruesome...a crystal window to a pulsing, beating heart.
Sickened by this and wondering how anyone could so rob a man of his life, I hastened down an adjoining street accurately christened "Shady Lane." Amongst the thousands whom I'd served with in the Dakotas, I pondered which commander Comstock had served under. It certainly hadn't been Forsyth, I knew his men. Nor Miles. Both had suffered Congress' withering wrath for the debacle. But who else could it have been?
Passing a horse drawn ice wagon, I followed the sound of drums and brass to the side of a major thoroughfare. Down its broadly bricked swath the Columbian Band was marching, a sinuous snake of red, white and blue through Emporia's bustling downtown. It could only have come from the park, as floats followed with thousands of gleeful people in tow. I'd dallied at the carnival too long.
Venturing down an arbored way, I passed three boys at play at an open hydrant, water running down street into a sewer grate. How was I going to get across that river of people? Looking for a way around, not long after I came to a gate guarded by two constables.
"I take it this way is closed?"
One of them smiled. "That's right, fella...closed for your safety. They're prepping tonight's fireworks back there. "There's enough TNT back there to blow Peking to kingdom come...again." Together they chuckled. "You a worker here?"
"No." I answered, glad I'd not be around for their party. "Just looking for a way around the festivities."
"You mean the parade?" His mate said. "Might try down by the Raffle there. Just east of the Augney Amphitheater is an underpass."