Chapter 7: Modus operandi

"Method of operation"

Once, when she was a girl, around nine or so, she witnessed her father argue with the Duke of Barrington on the Empire's necessity on the coast of Alexandria. The subject of the revolts is nothing she thought even mildly enlightening, but that her father in good standing, lacking significant peerage, challenged a man of much higher respect on a trivial matter, while he chose to ignore the blatant shortcomings of Baron Carlton. Later, in the privacy of their home, he consoled her on the possible repercussions the family might suffer from his actions. Despite her mother's displeasure at her blatantness, she dared to wonder aloud to him, why the influential Duke and not the slandering Baron? Her father answered, 'To be angry with a weak man, is proof that you are not very strong yourself.'

She learned an important lesson that day and the years that followed about the measure of a man, and later still, about a son's silent anger with his father. The shade that hung over Robert was greater in his universe than hers. While her damnable sex was always her contention, the distinction of father as cavalier cost the son dearly. He received no grants from generous benefactors, no surplus of social invites, no easy friendship in the schoolyard, or so he hinted. So with his back turned to the Prophet of Columbia after having put him in his place, Rosalind considered deeply why he chose to unveil his emotions to a man who could turn the city on them in an instant. And she had never seen him act this way before, never seen him act with such audacity. She would have been frightened if Comstock had not been preoccupied with his own self.

The man already knew to occupy the chair from the desk in the corner, and he crossed his legs impatiently while they began the necessary startup. From the side closet, she retrieved the blackboard specifically used for the occasion. Every caution was made to ensure it remained out of sight—on it was every major event Comstock chose to use for his preachings; dangerous to all of them, like Robert's tense shoulders and clenched jaw. That he had not looked at her since he entered the room was troubling.

"Would you power up the second floor generators?" she asked him, equally as delicate and commanding. She would do it herself if she was not concerned of what the outcome leaving both men in the same room would be. Robert peered at her over his shoulder, nodding silently, and he exited through the drawing room. Rosalind followed him to activate the generator there, but he told her coolly, "I'll get this one as well," leaving her with just the one closest to the Contraption.

The generators scattered throughout the house were always so cumbersome, but it was necessary to keep them in different wings because they discharged enormous amounts of heat, and less significantly, created minuscule Lutece fields. Separately, they were not problematic, but putting them all together in their residence would give way to trouble. They were her machines, and while they worked efficiently, they didn't work perfectly. Built in haste, she had to ensure they worked, not that they were pleasing to the eye—such was the downfall of many "scientists," like those not too long ago at the Exposition; their machines were sleek, but aesthetics did not convince observers, especially when accompanied by smoke. Perhaps sometime in the future she and Robert would perfect the generators, but for now, they worked absolutely fine. She could manage the bulk of extra wires and a machine in the corner of the room in place of an armchair. First and foremost, this was a laboratory.

Robert's steps were light and quick throughout the house before being drowned out by the generators coming to life. She flipped the lever to activate hers, pleased with the needles of all the meters holding at the right numbers. Powering up the Contraption took careful coordination. She and Robert practiced a strict general rule to never step within the tear aperture unless necessary, and never when it was on. They were well aware of what would happen should they get caught between universes; the girl's finger, an apple, and a bird were demonstrative enough. So it was to Comstock as well, which was good on their part. No hassle dealing with his impetuousness.

She cast a glance at him in the corner. He seemed to be entertained by the visible arcs of electricity that crackled at the tops of the coils. Bored, with that though, he rolled his neck and a random journal on the desk caught his attention, and he started rifling through the pages of it. Rosalind frowned, annoyance tugging at her mouth. Luckily, it was an old notebook of hers about electrical currents and magnetic fields, and not one Robert had written in. This new awareness of his sketching habits, and their personal subject matter, was cause for her to consider careful placement of those as well. Was her house no longer private? She rolled her eyes, in the process catching glimpse of Robert upstairs through the hole in the roof. He stared at her intently with a look that concerned her. She gave him a half smile that seemed to break his concentration, and he rubbing his neck sheepishly before heading down the stairs.

Comstock seemed to sense that they were ready to begin the session, with the Contraption humming and crackling, but she never started until she could see where Robert was with her own eyes. A moment later, he walked back through the drawing room, and he nodded at her. Now that everything was in place, Robert standing next to her, Rosalind pulled the switch that opened the power sluice, feeding all power into the main collider.

The Contraption jolted alive with a searing magnificence that resonated throughout every fiber of her being, increasing with every whirring pulse until she scarcely dared to breathe, paralyzed by the stillness that bloomed. The suspension flooded all her senses that she felt she might deconstruct into an infinite of particles. It was like the breath of the universe sweeping over her skin, raising every strand of hair, an ancient comic scent, like a fiery heart of a star, scorching her lungs, but she could only fix her gaze upon the aperture of the machine, waiting to witness the veil of the universe lifting to reveal another. When she experienced these things, she thought of Robert, always; if he breathed the vapors of a dying sun, tasted the dust of creation, hovered on the edge of diffusion. She thought always, afterword, that she might ask him if he felt the same whenever a tear opened, and she thought always, if they could ever experience the stillness together.

An eternity passed, or perhaps a second. She blinked and breathed, and the tear materialized. A new world, unsuspecting of their prying eyes, carried on without knowledge of the glorious door that had just opened. She glanced sidelong at Robert, who peered into the world-window with the open-mouthed amazement of a child. Comstock leaned forward in his chair eagerly, waiting for the edges to expand and clear. One of them was to be disappointed, and she knew it would not be Robert. Once the Prophet saw there was no great prophecy, he irritably called for the next one, like it was some episcope slide of diagrams she could change because the demonstration was over. But, that was how he chose to use the machine, with a dulled mind, and she impassionately complied. So it was of every session with him. Tedious, but good for gathering data for later ones when he had gone.

This world they opened to was not Columbia— there were ice cream parlors and women in knee-high dresses and young men in leather jackets. A bridge over water in the distance clued them in to a possible location. A young lady with a large bow in her hair dared to cross the street with her suitor, laughing at the blaring horns of motorized carriages they stepped in front of. She glanced up curiously at them, whispering into her partner's ear and pointed.

Rosalind pulled the switch to close the tear immediately. A window worked both ways, she learned, and she could not choose where she opened them, per se, unless someone or something in that universe created a connection—such was the case with Robert. Often times, the tears they opened were useless; back alleys, office buildings, mundane things. Some were interesting enough, to her and Robert at least, to warrant further study. On one occasion, they had even opened up a tear to themselves, another pair of Rosalind and Robert with their Contraption. Truly, it was thrilling. The four of them conversed for a small time-what point in time they were at, recent breakthroughs, theories, but their meeting had to be cut short because they had Comstock with them. They parted with the hypothesis that they would meet again if they were destined to do so; her and the other Rosalind at least. Robert and his counterpart were skeptical.

Over the course of the next hour, they opened eight tears, most of which were indeterminable, and they spent far longer than necessary trying to see if there was anything they could use. These were Columbia now, but it could have been Columbia yesterday, or three months ago, or even three years ago—a Columbia that took flight earlier than theirs. She was of the opinion that they should continue to look elsewhere at other tears, but Comstock insisted they look. Robert gave her an expression that looked like he insisted Comstock go through and check for himself if he wanted to know so much. She grimaced at the fact the single stick of chalk in his hand was quickly becoming several broken pieces.

Wary of another altercation, she instead collapsed the one now for another. Better to press her luck with that than with the men. There was a pattern emerging, though she did not quite have all the data she needed to be certain, that the longer they spent opening tears, the more they were influencing the subject matter and able to open it to an event they were looking for. She'd have to discuss it later with Robert.

"There, that one," Comstock murmured, finally. He got up from his chair and walked closer to examine the tear, scratching at his beard.

It was evening, and snow fell beyond the large windows in the room. An elaborate clock sitting on the edge of a desk declared it to be 11:18.

"Yes, this is my desk," he said. He stepped to it with an air of possessiveness, and Rosalind half expected him to step through and sit at it. She glanced casually at the meters of the machine to make sure the tear was stable. She'd warned him enough times that she didn't really care to do so now. It wouldn't stop him from his greedy curiosity. She caught Robert's eye again, and he shrugged indifferently at the Prophet's actions. They watched him reach into the tear gingerly and gather a document on the desk. He brought the paper back into their world, reading it quickly. The light from the electricity coursing through the Contraption was unforgiving to his aged face, illuminating every crease. It unnerved her how they were so close in years, but his visage was becoming very much like the Forefathers and Prophets he venerated.

"Write this down," he told them. "40 at 49 Revere Way."

The information didn't seem nearly as important enough to log down on the blackboard and a head tilt from Robert as he rolled the chalk in his fingers told her didn't think so as well. Still, Rosalind went to a desk and wrote on the corner of an old pharmacy statement, if only to placate the man. There was the sound of a door opening and she heard Comstock snarl angrily, "What the hell are—"

She whipped around at the voice, only to see two Prophets, one on each side of the tear.

"-You," the Comstock in the tear finished, now with recognition.

"What's the date?" the Prophet on this side asked. He handed his other self back the document.

Sniffing as if he had been out in the snow himself, he answered, "December 28th, Brother. The Lord will grant you an opening. Be swift." He brushed aside the document between them."Take it," he said. "I'm done." And he was, for he turned around, retrieved an item from the drawer of his desk and left the room again. The Comstock here returned to studying his new treasure, silent for several seconds.

"Do you want to investigate further?" Rosalind drawled. If they were done here, she had other work she'd like to return to.

"Hrmm?" he looked up suddenly from the paper as if remembering they were still here. "No, no. That will be all, my dear," he said cheerily, heading for the drawing room.

She arched at eyebrow at Robert. My Dear? He must have gotten something very prized to leave him in such a good mood.

"Very well," Robert said. "Will you inform us of the next time you arrive?"

She winced. So he was willing to press his luck as well.

"We'll work something out," he murmured and left.

Robert closed the tear, beginning to power down the machine. She peered though the drawing room room to make sure that Comstock had really left, then stepped closer to Robert.

"You shouldn't have spoken to him like that," she chided.

He looked up from the control panel, his lips thin. "But he's allowed to speak to you as he pleases?"

"No," she iterated, "But I can handle a few lashes, if it means everything else." The moment she heard herself say it aloud, she regretted it, because it gave her the image of a loyal hound bringing in the hunt for its master.

"I know I wasn't here for much of this…arrangement," he said bitterly, "But I dislike having this pussyfoot nonsense. You gave him everything; his Lamb, his City, his Sight-"

"-We gave it to him," she corrected, which made him start as if she had said something absurd. "We did," she said again. "Which means, yes, he needs us."

His features softened, and she saw how weary he was again.

"And we need him?" he posed.

As much as she would not like to admit it, yes, they needed him too. They needed his interest, since he gave nothing else. His funding stopped when his interest did, and as they witnessed, he was very interested in keeping his power. Would that change any time in the near future?

Rosalind licked her lips. "For now." Robert said nothing, merely considering her words, and his silence unnerved her. "Let's shut off the generators," she waved. He made for the drawing room, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"We'll switch," she told him with a small smile.

After a grateful sigh, he uttered, "Thank-you," and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

While he handled the one in this room, she set to deactivate the rest. There was no designated order to shut them off, but she preferred to do it in the order they laid around the house. After the one in the main room that Robert took care of, it was the drawing room next, then the one at the top of the stairs, the two in the guest bedroom, and the last one at the end on the second floor corridor. A more personal preference of hers was observing what got caught in the small Lutece fields around them. usually it was dust, a perfect sphere made visible by the grainy particles. Often she found stray bolts and paper fasteners in the suspension, and as the fields collapsed, they were first pulled toward the magnetized machines before falling to the ground.

The house became silent again without the heavy thrum of the machines and her footsteps down the stairs echoed loudly.

"I apologize for my behavior earlier," Robert called out, hearing her steps. From the staircase, she could see him as he sat on the couch with his arms resting on his knees. He groaned and leaned back against the cushions. "Today's events have been exhausting." She said nothing until she reached the bottom step.

"This week has been quite busy, hasn't it?" she said, entering the drawing room.

Slouching on the couch, legs spread undignified, Robert slid his eyes slowly to her as she made her way to the tray from earlier.

"Unbelievably."

Her stomach growled while she tried to salvage the now cold cup of tea. He chuckled lightly.

"Do you want some?" she asked.

He waved his decline.

"If we can't find a viable stabilizing solution for the reactors," she started between bites of hardened croissant, "we may have to assemble a seasonal team to handle this."

He hummed his agreement.

"Oh," he exclaimed, sitting up slightly, "I've nearly forgotten to mention about this morning! I met a rather interesting young man. A chemist from the Authority-" He paused to yawn and settled back down again. "Excuse me. Leander Sinclair. Developed a compound for our deicing solution that further lowers the freezing point. I supervised the usage of it on one of the reactors at his residence, and I'll collect results tomorrow. Hopefully, it works."

"Ah, that does sound promising."

"Details are in today's journal," he pointed to the table near the window. "I've asked him to prepare a formal presentation if it is."

Rosalind followed his direction to retrieve the journal. The prospect of a new deciding solution-one that worked-was really good news. They might have to rework all the calculations they'd done this entire week, but in the future, it could save them much more; her patience and energy, being the most to benefit. She lifted a few books, unable to find the one she was looking for.

"Which one?" It was a red one with green trim, if she wasn't mistaken. Maybe it was outside with Gwendolyn?

"Robert?"

She turned around, only to find him asleep, cheek pressed against the couch back, arms crossed, breathing deep and regular. She would find it amusing if she wasn't aware of how tired he was. Rather than wake him, she decided to get an afghan from upstairs and cover him. It was nearly 6pm, but there was still work to be done. For him, though, his day was over.

A/N: Whew, I bet Robert's really glad that day is finally over.

Things to consider for next chapter and beyond:

- What do you think Comstock has planned from his encounter with the tear? A hint: It ties in with one of Lady Comstock's voxophones.