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  KILL THE NIGHT

  by

  Terry Mark

  Copyright © 2018

  by Terry Mark Crowley

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the Author. Inquiries should be addressed to Terry Mark, PO Box 272572, Fort Collins, Colorado 80527

  Cover art by Lee Oaks

  Back cover design by Lisa Neuberger

  Editing and layout by Lisa Neuberger

  ISBN-13: 978-1717104342

  ISBN-10: 1717104347

  For Emilee and Emily

  Part I

  Interlude 1

  Friday, February 19, 1892, 6:03 a.m.

  First Arrondissement, Port of Paris

  The charbonniers processed back and forth, baskets on their shoulders, hauling coal from flatboat to cart in the cool spring pre-dawn. Like human conveyor belts, they carried the anthracite away from the canal boats of northern France and into the heart of the Industrial Revolution.

  A bellow came from behind the nearest warehouse, like a steam whistle proclaiming the end of a long day, but morning had barely come to this side of the Seine. Several laborers paused, confused, but proceeded on, spurred by the weight on their shoulders.

  The ground shook and a behemoth emerged from behind the warehouse, rising to three times the height of a man. The copper and chrome skin gleamed, lanterns burned in eye sockets, and the gears grinding in the neck screamed as the head turned. Some men dropped their burdens and ran. Others stood and stared.

  Wedderburn, the American Gunslinger, stood on the rooftop of the nearby granary, watching the first rays of the day appear over the horizon as he usually did. He stood taller than most men, almost six and a half feet tall. He had a wide, expressive face with a broad mouth and a handsome nose. He had a wiry, thin frame with muscular shoulders, long arms, and powerful hands. For the chilly Paris winter morning, he wore his American Stetson, a walking suit, a waterproof coat with a detachable cape, and jackboots. He wore his Civil War Colt and holster on his right hip, just barely visible under the coat.

  The Gunslinger turned from the morning sun at the trumpeting and observed an iron behemoth rising then stepping forward on jointed struts, sections balanced on four-foot thick disks. A screaming, shrill noise emanated from beneath the thick neck base and trembled with steam blasting through its vents. Two arm-like appendages hung beside the metallic body and each concluded with an enormous three fingered claw opening and closing like a confused crustacean. The Gunslinger saw a figure at the base of the leviathan, gesturing with his arms for others to stay back.

  Nikola Tesla wore his Sovereign Helmet, the goggles and skull-cap device he donned to remotely control the ten-ton automaton before him. He looked around, making sure the other dockworkers had moved back, and then the machine stepped forward. As the giant maneuvered and the ground shook, the Clark Locomobile arriving could be heard over the clamor. The steam powered vehicle backed in on the opposite end of the dock. Its trailer stretched the length of the coal barge.

  The automaton took a first hesitant canter, then righted firmly. Tesla waved his gloved hands, stretching them out, and the leviathan strode forward, stepping up next to the flatboat. Two five-pulley tower cranes sat at either end of the scow, managing a winch and pulley system with double treadwheels—the same type used since the time of the Ancient Greeks and perfected by the Romans. The automaton reached out and secured a massive link chain secure at several points on the aft of the flatboat, and hooked to the aft tower crane. The behemoth took two steps to the left, reached down, lifted the second massive chain to the fore tower crane and stepped back. Tesla stood twenty yards away, moving his hands and arms to maneuver the mighty robot.

  A man with slightly grayed temples and a bit of a paunch walked up to Tesla. He didn’t wear a coat of coal on his skin like the other men at the dock.

  “The ship and cargo are a hundred tons combined, Mister Tesla. Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

  “Precisely,” Tesla nodded. “My automaton could lift twice that. With crane operation in place, we will safely maneuver freight onto steam trailer and move coal to factory in couple of hours.”

  He paused to glance at the charbonniers around him, “Instead of week. No more backs to break. Ten railcars of coal to factory in fraction of time.”

  The foreman grunted, seemed to have a reply, and then stopped to observe.

  A crane must be able to lift its load, stay upright, and it must not rupture. Even if the crane maintains its integrity, the lift cable which runs through the jib can still break. The molded steel chain employed in this operation had been used since the early 1800’s, shipped from Sir Samuel Brown’s Metal Works in England.

  The scow slowly lifted out of the Seine, until the ship hung six feet from the surface of the murky tributary. Then the cranes turned, easing the flatboat over the steam trailer. The automaton gently guided the ship, claws at the ready, but allowing the cranes to do their work.

  On this morning, the aged metal chain had suffered enough fatigue over the decades to crack and then breach. The sound hardly carried across the pier, but the effect proved dramatic. The scow swayed and tipped forty-five degrees as dock workers and charbonniers ran for their lives. Coal scattered across the wood planking and plumed into the air.

  Tesla had been watching and immediately spread out his fingers. As a result, the robot reached out until its claws were flush with the beam. Then the inventor closed his fingers and the robot claws gripped the flatboat, halting the imminent debacle, and levelling the ship. Clumps of coal continued to slide off, but the danger of a full catastrophe had halted for the moment.

  Raising his arms and turning, Tesla observed the automaton assume fully the weight of the coal barge. He looked to his left and right, peering at the ogling workmen through his Sovereign Spectacles. Now no one moved. Tesla breathed heavily again and swiveled to his left. The automaton shifted halfway in that direction and came to a jerking halt. Tesla motioned his arms to the left again, and the giant shuddered and jerked but didn’t move.

  The foreman came to his side. “What’s the problem, Mr. Tesla?”

  Tesla looked over his shoulder. “No problem, Mr. Munck. Is low power only.” He pumped his fists twice and the giant automaton stopped twitching and held position, its arms hovering level in the air. Tesla reached down to his belt, unclipped a small device the size of a cigarette holder, flipped it open, and pressed the single button.

  The Gunslinger watched a green light begin to pulse from the crown of the twenty-foot metal giant. A high-pitched hum accompanied a silver electric rod as it rose from the automaton’s head—one foot, two feet, until it extended almost six feet out. The high-pitched hum increased, causing the dockworkers to take several steps back as the sound intensified. Wedderburn watched with fascination, and when the sky lit up and crackled with energy, he took a shocked step back.

  Lightning appeared in a cloudless sky, reached out to the silver rod, and embraced the relationship fully. The lights in the automaton glowed bright and hot. Another bolt of energy reached down from the empty firmament and took root. The Gunslinger watched as sparks burst from the metal arm and leg joints, connected with each other and stretched across the dock. Fingers of electricity crawled across the planks. Workers ran as the electric tentacles stretched out to grasp first the metal warehouse, then the steam locomobile. Having consumed those, the electricity danced about looking for more playthings. Tesla reveled in its magnificence.

  Then, pulled out of his transfixion by the sig
ht of terrified men running about, he waved his arms and shouted, “Have no fear! Have no fear!” He stepped closer. “There is no danger!”

  Wedderburn removed his hat and ran a hand through his thick black hair. His eyes narrowed. He watched as the giant metal biped held the coal barge in place, and then slowly moved again. The two-hundred-foot flatboat settled on the steam trailer with an earth-shaking thud.

  “Like a herd of elephants,” the Gunslinger muttered softly. He watched the figure in the strange outfit distance himself from the crowd of onlookers and guide the metal biped away from the dock and towards a row of warehouses.

  The workmen gathered and watched as the drive team started the fire boiler. The sound of the steam travelling through the cylinders carried in the still air. The kerosene that kept the pilot light lit and the boiler hot siphoned into the engine from the rotation of the back axle. Thus, when stationary, the boiler had to be hand fired. Once the steam trailer moved, the process self-perpetuated. Like any good stove, once hot, the cycle became complete.

  The crowd of coal workers let out a roar of triumph as the transport pulled away from the dock. The steam-powered vehicle moved forward passing a quiet, vacant granary with nothing but a barn swallow meandering on the rooftop, taking a break from the open water.

  Interlude 2

  Friday, February 19, 1892, 5:54 p.m.

  Somewhere in Paris

  The last time I entered Paris, the Obelisk of Luxor still lay in its barge on the Seine, and the streets of the city were not yet asphalt. Today, it is a different world.

  Wedderburn left the Academie de Beaux Arts via the Rue Bonaparte early that evening. It opened on Sundays and he enjoyed roaming its many halls of antiquity. Other days required a concierge. He preferred to wander alone. He always preferred to be alone. Whether gazing at the Tulips of van Spaendonck or pondering Regnault's Education of Achilles, he found the quiet and solitude a pleasant stalemate to the stirrings in his mind.

  On this day, at the start of the Carnival season, he made his way north to the Montmartre Quarter as revelers displayed all the finer touches of Parisian humor. The holiday came with fancy costumes, excessive eating and drinking, and general bawdiness prior to the fasting of Ash Wednesday. Parisian beggars, normally chased from the streets as panhandlers violating the law, were tolerated as wandering musicians during this festive period. In a dark tailcoat and waistcoat with a white bow tie, he walked slowly amongst the revelers. Calm, with an almost eager self-assurance, he seemed to simply observe the party-goers about him.

  I have eaten the finer dinners west of the Boulevard de Sebastopol and strolled along Boulevard St. Martin to catch a play. I should be happy. I ought to consider myself favored for having lived in such times. Yet, I am not content.

  A horse drawn carriage went by with three men who, if not drunk, were well inebriated. They threw objects into the crowd—trinkets appearing to be colored doubloons. Several people shouted the traditional cry of party-goers, "Throw me something, mister!" Music rang out from all directions as revelers indulged in frenetic dances like the polka, the can-can, and the galop.

  A young woman stood among a crowd of friends. They smiled at one another, shouting at passersby and laughing gloriously at the glinting trinkets hurled into the late sunlight. Wedderburn noticed her because she did not stoop to grab one. Such a lack of frivolity. I hate frivolity.

  He despised the abandonment of senses which accompanied frivolity. For one moment, he saw something he had hardly ever seen in humanity. She wore an easy tailored outdoor fashion, the only woman he had seen wearing bloomers. Her legs and body looked strong.

  Not to say I don’t have a great sense of humor. The Sultan of Zanzibar himself told me I had a great sense of humor because he did not believe half the stories I told him of my travels while we relaxed in the Persian baths. Too bad he did not believe me when I told him the Europeans would come to take his land.

  He noted with curiosity that the party of revelers seemed to subconsciously follow her as she walked. They had no direction but simply followed with no better path to walk. While her friends laughed and chattered endlessly amongst themselves, she only paused to listen briefly, and laugh or respond with a quick retort. The rest of the time, she observed her surroundings. The pigeons in the air amused her. The boxes of second hand books piqued her curiosity. The boot blocks and the gaggle of boys rushing about for the half-penny put a matronly look her in eyes.

  She seemed to sense the world about her. People were usually too wrapped up in their own decadence or depravities, satisfying inner demons and hiding their private thoughts. It intrigued him. He took another step towards her and then froze.

  She stopped at that instant, cocking her head as if she had some random insight or had heard a strange sound no one else had heard. She looked around to pick out where the sound had come from. Her eyes met his gaze and stopped. Her eyebrow picked up, not in question, but in analysis. The corners of her mouth crinkled slightly, and then she turned away and began walking once more.

  She did not look in his direction thereafter, but as he followed for another three blocks, not a moment passed when he did not feel she knew his presence. She looked everywhere but at him, and thus he became certain she knew where he stood at all times.

  He chose a bench across the street while she and her friends sat outdoors at a café. The raucous friends drank more beer and wine as she sipped chocolate and laughed. Several times she paused and turned her head far enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

  A five-penny carriage came down the street and two of her inebriated friends stood up to wave it down. The Gunslinger motioned to the shoe-shiner at the street corner who strode over helpfully. Wedderburn laid two pennies into the man’s hand and then plucked the orchid from his own breast pocket—a white flower with golden-orange streaks on its petals.

  The woman in bloomers boarded the carriage with her friends who were shouting something about the circus when the shoe-shiner came up next to her. He said nothing, but simply held out the orchid. She took it as the driver drew the reins and the carriage started. Only then did she turn her eyes to meet the man who now stood, with his hat in hand, giving a slight bow. And then, finally, she truly smiled at him.

  He watched the beautiful woman disappear down the street and around the corner before placing his hat back upon his head and stepping to the edge of the sidewalk.

  A four-horse carriage came silently to a stop in front of him. He stepped in and pulled the door closed behind him without a word to the driver. The small man atop the carriage situated the huge duffle on the seat beside him and took up the reins.

  The carriage stopped at a street corner, and Wedderburn watched as the last of the day ebbed away. The gleaming spiral of the new Eiffel could be seen in the distance holding the last of the daylight.

  Interlude 3

  Saturday, February 20, 1892, 8:37 a.m.

  Parquet Moulures Boarding House, Paris

  The breakfast tray lay where it usually did. Three plates of half-eaten eggs and three cups of chocolate. Always in groups of three. Monsieur Albion the property owner and his wife stood outside the door, looking down at the tray.

  “You going to go in? You agreed to rent to him,” Madam Albion said pointedly.

  The proprietor huffed. “He works all hours of the day and night. He’s probably sleeping.”

  His wife put her hands on her hips. “You can’t expect me to go in while you’re down at the stable. I have to go into the telegraph office later.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You remember the last time we went into the room.”

  She waved her arms in exasperation. “I opened the windows to let some light and air into that stuffy space, and he yelled and writhed on the floor like some animal.”

  The proprietor shuddered. “It took both of us to get him back into bed.”

  She pointed at him. “You have to talk to him. Visitors coming and going all times of the day or night. Always wo
rking, always making noise.”

  He held up his hands. “But he puts the fat chicken on the table!”

  Walking away, her pointed finger did not lower. “You talk to him. You find out what is going on.”

  The proprietor sighed, picked up the breakfast tray and started to knock. He paused when he heard an unusual noise. A blue hue from the room seeped under the bottom of the door and lit the hallway. He knocked.

  Nikola Tesla opened the door, peered out and, upon seeing Monsieur Albion, turned while waving him in. “Please come. Come. I need assistance. Help, you see?”

  He turned back toward the open divide. The tray in his shaking hands rattled. In the center of the room stood a glowing screen, about the size of a window pane. A long glass tube stretched from the back of the screen, about the length of a man’s arms from fingertip to fingertip.

  Gently, Tesla moved the elderly man into the space between the two panes then took the tray from him and set it down on a table of tubes and stacks of papers. “We clean later.”

  He tapped on the screen next to the machine. “Incandescent light and platinum.” He tapped the other screen. “Nothing to harm see, yes?” Tesla nodded and stepped away. “So anyway, stay where you are.”

  “But sir,” the landlord spoke, taking a step forward.

  Tesla turned back and held up a hand. “Grazie, you’ll disrupt lotta lotta work. Stay there.”

  Tesla went around behind the fluorescent panel, humming a tune.

  “Now, I’m going to activate Crookes tube. That sound you’ll be hearing. Is high voltage. Ready?”

  “But….”

  Tesla held up a hand. “No move please. Vacuum tube attached to machinery. Is very delicate.” He rubbed his temples slowly and forced himself to breathe easy. A familiar tick in his right cheek started up again, and he rubbed at that more fiercely with his knuckles. “Go away,” he muttered to himself.