The Eterna Solution Read online

  Eager to take the focus off himself, the nervous man gestured to the great turbine machines past the window. “Now. As I mentioned, there are several jumbos on each floor,” Volpe explained. “Number nine alone could power the square I showed you, but of course we have backups, in case of unanticipated outages. And to supply our planned expansions, of course.”

  Darting to a desk, the clerk produced, from a drawer, a handsome little pamphlet positing the company as a sure bet and inviting patrons to invest in the future and illuminate the world. Spire pocketed it with a smile.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he assured.

  Rose glanced at the few workers in shirtsleeves and suspenders, tinkering and reading valves, before turning back to watch Volpe’s face. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this plant was, somehow, doomed.

  They were soon on their way, sent out the door with friendly waves. Once they were several paces away and Rose could speak without shouting, she shook herself, realizing how taxing the roar and vibrations had been.

  “He was lying about efficiency and safety, as well as their control of the market,” Rose stated.

  “Glad you noticed, too,” Spire replied. “Of course, it would be his business to lie.”

  “Something there is spinning slowly out of control, charge by charge,” Rose murmured as they strode up Pearl Street, away from the shadow of the great Brooklyn Bridge behind them, a bridge whose brown, stone feet stood mind-bendingly grand above them, the rough-hewn legs of giants.

  Across the street, as he had demanded, stood Mosley, staring. The man jerked his head to the side, gesturing up the street. He turned and began to walk toward the East River, away from the downtown confluence and toward the great bridge. He looked back over his shoulder, clearly waiting for them to follow.

  Spire remained expressionless and began walking after him. Rose kept pace. They wove up through Manhattan’s busiest, most dense district, full of people and businesses. Between the brick buildings and industrial stacks, Rose glimpsed the masts of ships, moored in their narrow slips. They were close enough to the waterway to hear the noise of seafaring: bells, whistles, and deeper, resonant horns of ships, the calls of stevedores loading and unloading cargo. Trolleys and ferries plied the rivers, adding to the bustle. As they broke out toward the heart of the seaport, beyond lay busy Brooklyn, its own vibrant city, rival and sister to Manhattan.

  Nearly complete, the Brooklyn Bridge was a masterwork of German engineering, a great testament to the Roeblings’ vision and sacrifices. When Washington Roebling suffered caisson disease, an ailment that took many who worked on the bridge when the casks below water were brought up too quickly, it was Emily Roebling who stepped in to manage the situation and ensure the near completion of the project. Bridge and woman were awe-inspiring and fascinating, making Rose feel that it put London’s bridges to shame.

  Mosley sped toward its vast stone feet, two Gothic arches lifting unto heaven, bearing a webwork of coiled wire rope—enough wire to wrap around the earth, it had been boasted. Ships passing beneath were dwarfed by its leviathan scope; their passengers and crews looked up as if at something divine. A cathedral of traffic and a monument to engineering, when completed it would bear the crown of the tallest man-made structure on the North American continent.

  Mosley darted up a side street at a sharp incline, leading them up several streets, toward City Hall Park, and turned to where the pedestrian and vehicular level was to meet with the park and allow for flow of persons, carriages, and trolleys.

  The opening was presently slated for the next spring, interestingly enough, on Queen Victoria’s birthday. At the moment, layers of great steel reinforcements were being laid on the roadway. The grand structure, with its wire rope web streaming from those Gothic towers in an attractive lattice, teemed with workers.

  Spire and Rose had kept as fast a pace as they could but they were both out of breath by the time they reached the higher ground. Mosley was awaiting them before a chained metal gate that barred anyone from walking out onto the still-unfinished bridge.

  The thin wisp of a young man studied them. Rose found him to be a terribly unnerving presence but she tried not to let that show, tried not to stare at how his eyes were not just piercing, but sparking.

  “What do you know about electricity?” Mosley asked quietly. A sudden gust of wind off the harbor blew his thin brown hair over his moist forehead. Rose put a hand to her sensible little hat, worrying that its pins might not withstand the winds.

  “I know enough. What about it?” Spire asked, playing the safe tack.

  “Do you understand what direct current requires every mile or so?”

  “An outpost? A tower? I don’t know the technical term,” Spire replied.

  “A booster station to continue the flow of current. They are being built all around the city. Something’s off about them,” Mosley replied. “And about the plant, too.” The man screwed up his face in disgust. “Gone off like soured milk.”

  “Is there meant to be a booster station here? At the bridge?” Rose asked.

  A gust of smoke and steam rose from the Edison plant like a dark cloud and passed through the skeleton of the bridge.

  “Not at present,” Mosley said. “Though there are electrical plans for the future.”

  Again gesturing for them to follow, Mosley kicked open the gate without a second thought, a spark springing off the chain as it clattered to the ground.

  The wind picked up grandly the moment they stepped onto the walk. They’d walked a good distance across the span when a ruddy-faced worker approached, waving them off with worn, brown gloves. In deference to the wind, his dusty bowler hat was pulled down close to his brow.

  “You there, no, stop,” he said in a thick Irish accent. “The bridge isn’t open yet. ’Tisn’t safe, ye can’t continue forward.”

  Spire reached into his breast pocket and with a fluid motion pulled out his silver Metropolitan Police badge. Though he was technically off the force, he was an officer to his core, and always carried this token, wielding it with sense and purpose, and Rose expected he would ask to be buried with it.

  Without looking closely at the badge, the Irishman lifted his hands in a show of deference. “Is there anything we should be worried about and looking out for, Officer?” the fair-headed man asked. “Save, of course, for the danger that is this bridge itself,” he muttered.

  Rose tried not to think about that aspect as she noticed the patches of open slats that had yet to be filled in. Watching her step and her skirts against the construction supplies and debris, she stared in wonder as the city fell away from them; they were gods above it.

  Mosley quickly explained their presence, gesturing down at the Pearl Street dynamos. “We’ve concerns regarding the electrical plant.”

  “That makes four of us,” the Irishman muttered. “I don’t mind the soot and the smoke coming up, that’s what all factories do, but I’ve heard places can just blow up with that direct current. Dangerous, if you ask me. And with all this wire? Could kill every man on this bridge, not that anyone cares.”

  “I care,” Spire said quietly. “Very much.”

  The man pressed his lips together, registering Spire’s plain honesty while his expression spoke of centuries of strife. “With an accent like yours, I’m surprised, if you’ll forgive me saying so. And you, miss.” He bowed his head to Rose. She simply smiled at him, allowing an empathetic warmth to cross her face. The man seemed satisfied that he had not offended.

  Tensions between the British and Irish were high across the Atlantic, and evidently here, so many driven to immigrate to New York due to political strife and famine. Rose considered this grimly. She owed her job in the Omega department to the very fact that Special Branches were being created in London as intelligence-gathering offices particularly to deal with the “Irish threat.” It troubled her that there was so much fear, division, and mounting friction in the world, when new innovations should be bringing everyone together
.

  Mosley turned his attention to the brick outpost that formed part of one of the two main turrets of the bridge. There was a narrow metal door level with the walkway, and the young man toyed with the knob and lock.

  “That’s what might be part of the electricals when we’re done,” the workman said. “None of us goes in there but Edison’s men.”

  Mosley surprised them by brandishing a key. “I work for the company,” he said confidently, even though he’d confessed that was no longer true. “You may leave us now, sir, thank you,” the young man said stiltedly, his awkwardness with social conventions suddenly apparent, as if he’d exhausted his ability to communicate. Rose thought to soften the command but the workman simply bobbed his head.

  “Let me know if you need anything else, Officer, folks, I’m Bill.”

  “Thank you, Bill.” Spire extended a hand. “Harry.”

  Rose didn’t allow the surprise of that word to register. Harold Spire hated to be called Harry, but he offered a fellow workingman’s gesture and a less formal name. While stories were told of the privileged and history was written in their image, the world was moved and maintained by its workers. Bill shook “Harry’s” hand heartily before returning to his work.

  Rose considered this compartment within the body of the bridge and its implications. Edison did like to be seen, and here he could integrate himself directly into the most iconic man-made structure on the North American continent thus far.

  That was what disconcerted Rose about electricity: It was lying on, grafting onto streets and avenues, ferreting below the earth or darting along in zinging wires like an unending aerialist’s wire, all for the purposes of turning night into day with manufactured light. To become a world that did not stop. It was the definition of unnatural.

  For the first time, for all her interest in a more informed and educated world, a less hateful and limited world especially for women, Rose wondered if she was indeed more of a traditionalist. If there was a limit to how much of the “modern” world she would truly embrace.

  Mosley rejoined the issue at hand.

  “Since I returned to shore I’ve done nothing but walk as many lines of the grid as I could,” he said against the wind. “The moment I arrived, I heard the difference.”

  “Heard?” Rose hoped for clarification.

  “The lines sing to me, mum,” Mosley explained. “You’ve heard the buzz or whine of a current.” Roe and Spire nodded.

  “I hear the most subtle variances in their pitch; crest and fall, it’s symphonic to me. The delicate song of the current is beautiful.” He looked away, his youthful face suddenly tortured. “Violent sometimes. Murderous, even.” At this, Rose held back a shudder. Spire remained impassive.

  “What has changed?” Spire queried.

  “There is an addition, something that was not here before.” He tilted his head to the side as if listening, thin hair blowing in front of his thoughtful face. “It’s a particular hum that’s changed. Downtown Manhattan whines at a certain specific pitch, in varying notes depending on the proximity to the turbines, dynamos, and boosters. All currents have a song; different voltage changes its tune. I don’t expect anyone to hear it, but I wouldn’t understand the world without the singing of the lines…”

  “When did your ability first manifest?” Rose dared to question.

  Mosley blinked his dark, sparking eyes at her and spoke matter-of-factly. “I was struck by lightning as a child. I lived. It changed me.”

  Rose felt her mouth fall open in surprise and snapped it shut again. The man shrugged then turned to walk further, toward the nearest of the great Gothic arches. When Rose and Spire caught up to him, he left the matter of his unique adaptation and returned to the present.

  “Yesterday I followed the lines out of the city to see where the interference was strongest,” Mosley explained. “The problem crests at the booster stations, which exist as one might expect; to boost. Sometimes these stations are elaborate edifices. Sometimes tucked within grander fare as this. Some have called them entirely inefficient. I admit I’m far less the Edison devotee than when I arrived on these shores but I remain impressed by his mark on the world. He wants everyone, everywhere, to know what he’s about and what he’s doing.”

  They stopped in front of a door that was built into the stone structure of the bridge. Mosley held out his hand and there was an odd snapping sound, a small spark leaped into the air. The key had just been a prop to convince Bill.

  The door swung open to reveal an unadorned inner chamber that held a huge, round turbine—a squat, vast sentry within the bridge. The dynamo was a silent behemoth, rooted to the floor by metal bolts the circumference of a wide hand. On top of one of these bolts sat a black box. The three investigators entered the room, their eyes adjusting to its dim interior. Mosley walked quickly to the box, then turned back to face Rose and Spire. In the dimness the alien nature of his eyes was fully apparent—they sparked like tiny Tesla coils, fascinating and terrifying.

  “Mr. Spire, Miss Everhart,” he began quietly. A gust of wind made the bridge sing behind him. “I know you have seen terrible things. This is no different. I beg you, brace yourselves.”

  He opened the box. Rose covered her mouth both to block the smell and stifle a cry. Spire turned his head away with a cough, then steeled himself and brought his gaze back to the horror.

  The container held a large, severed hand with an eyeball implanted crudely into its palm. Runes and numbers had been carved into each digit. Somehow this isolated body part was more disgusting than the patchwork corpses they had helped put to rest just hours ago.

  Rose forced herself to inspect the awful offering. Though on first look it was as terrible as anything she’d seen in Tourney’s cellar of torture, this seemed a more dreadful innovation, bearing a horrid symbology.

  The hamsa had been utilized by many cultures and traditions for centuries, merging a symbolic eye at the center of a hand as an icon of protection against curses, warding against the “evil eye.”

  As usual, when it came to Master’s Society work, what could be considered of faith and tradition was made disgustingly opposite, creating the evil eye, not protecting against it; feeding on sacrilege by direct perversion.

  “There is no way this contributes in any way to the electrical route,” Mosley said, staring into the dead eye as if trying to glean some meaning from it. “What a terrible thing to mix with such beautiful, clean current,” he continued mournfully, then closed the lid.

  “Do you have any idea as to why? Why this?” Rose asked, gesturing to the box.

  Mosley shrugged, setting the box down, not wanting to hold the thing any longer. “Someone may be trying to lay their own energy on top of the network Edison is creating.”

  “Building a conduit for evil?” Rose posited.

  “I have no other explanation,” Mosley replied. Taking in Spire’s skeptical expression, he shrugged again. “You don’t have to believe it, but if this has a result, you’ll feel it.”

  “Since you once worked for the Edison Company, can you help us find who is doing this? Can you help us look into the company further, see who in its employ might be turned or outright possessed by demons?”

  He stared at the hand. “If this unholy box, like that dormant dynamo, is a booster for some dark energy, then there must be a greater source somewhere. Perhaps below the Pearl Street plant. I will try to root out that source, and to assist you. Provided you don’t find me suspect in all this,” Mosley clarified.

  “We do not,” Spire reassured. “And I’ll be honest with you if that changes.”

  An expression that might pass for a smile appeared on the young man’s face. It was unnerving. “So, then, will I.”

  “I look forward to your insights, Mr. Mosley,” Spire said. “You have been a great help since the moment you joined our team.”

  “I’m not on your team—” he snapped.

  “Since you became an ally,” Rose countered. The poor m
an wasn’t making the case of trusting him any easier. But Rose was accustomed to unique, if not difficult, personalities. She was surrounded by quite a collection.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said, before looking away. “But don’t expect too much. I … I’m doing this to atone for terrible things I’ve done.” He steeled himself and again stared both Rose and Spire down with that uncanny gaze. “But I don’t want you thinking of me as an operative. This is not how I want to live. I want to be left alone. I am not a part of your commission.”

  “Of course, Mr. Mosley,” Spire assured. “Whatever you can help us with we will be grateful for.”

  “You see and feel things we simply cannot,” Rose added. “I know it may seem like a curse but truly, it is a gift.”

  Mosley tried to smile at this, a pained, drawn, pinched expression.

  “I’m going to go track the song awhile,” he said. “See how muddied it is. See if there’s more interference.” Grabbing the box with the severed hand, he carried it out onto the bridge, followed by Rose and Spire.

  Walking a few paces, suddenly he cursed at the abomination and hurled it away, off the unfinished structure and down toward the river. As it fell, the lid opened and the hand tumbled forth before it and the container finally hit the water.

  Spire opened his mouth, probably to say something chastising Mosley for destroying evidence, then stopped.

  “Good day,” Mosley said over his shoulder. He walked quickly back toward Manhattan, moving more in a scurry than a stride. They watched him go a moment before Rose spoke, brushing the hairs the wind freed from the loose bun atop her head behind her ear.

  “He is a nervous creature at heart, but I do believe he was telling the truth as he knows it,” she said. “Who, then, is this amplifier of death?”

  “Who indeed,” Spire said. “I want a list of all Edison employees to cross-reference whatever Mosley might think. We’re going to have to tell our poor, beleaguered friends about this latest ugliness.”