The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [82]
The sounds of another coach, rumbling up along the stony trail, reached their ears, and Skinner winced. The coach brought a strange echo with it, one that disrupted her ability to accurately identify sounds. She tried to clear her mind. “Well, let’s go and meet our guests, shall we?”
She opened the door and climbed out, while Alan followed behind. The Rowan-Czarnecki coach, a beautiful black vehicle drawn by a team of beautiful, if tired-looking, horses, pulled to a stop, and Skinner’s discomfort intensified. The doors of the coach opened, and three men emerged: one was fairly tall and heavy-set, older, with a paunchy, tired face but with an intensity in his gaze that spoke a fiery certainty. The other two had the bored expression of professional men; they wore dark suits, and each carried a revolver.
Skinner leaned on her cane, and put a hand to her ears.
“Excuse me,” the older man said. He drew a small device from his pocket, a collection of brass rings that whirled rapidly around a nugget of polished, soapy green flux. The man did something to it, and the rings abruptly stopped and folded up. “Something new we developed at the Academy. To stop eager ears from overhearing what they shouldn’t.”
Once the device had been deactivated, Skinner seemed to recover almost immediately. “Thank you, sir, for your consideration. May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“This is the road to my house,” the older man replied. He had a deep, sonorous voice, and Alan felt certain that he’d seen the man somewhere before. “I should ask you the same question.”
“We are here as agents of the crown,” Skinner told him. “Conducting an investigation.” She took a step closer to the three men, and the two guards raised their pistols immediately; there was a moment of tension, but the guards relaxed, a little sheepishly. Skinner was clearly blind, after all.
“I understand that it’s appropriate to inform a party if the coroners intend to investigate their properties. I received no such notice.” The man told them.
Suddenly, something fell into place in Alan’s head. “Wolfgang Rowan-Czarnecki,” he said, and the older man looked startled. “You’re in charge of the Royal Academy of Sciences. My father took me to one of your lectures, about using flux tympanum as an energy source….” He trailed off. “Uhm. Excuse me, sir, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue.”
“We weren’t saying anything important, Alan,” Skinner smiled. “It’s traditional, under circumstances like this, to be cryptic with each other, and vaguely threatening. There’s really little point to it, if you ask me.”
Wolfgang smiled ruefully. “Agreed. This situation comes down to two essential elements: I do not intend to be hanged, and I will not let you stop my experiments.”
“But…they’re dangerous,” Alan pointed out. “And heresy. The Excelsior…”
“If you’ve come this far,” Wolfgang interrupted, “Then you know that Zindel and Lightman have solved the problems with the Excelsior. Not only can we return effectively from Aetherspace, but the stabilizers can be adjusted so that engine can return to any place in the world. Think about that, before you try and stop me. Near-instant transportation.”
“The war,” Skinner said her voice softening in sudden sympathy. “You want to end the war.”
The pain in the old Rowan-Czarnecki’s voice was clear; it throbbed in his throat, brought tears to his eyes. “Fifteen years. Fifteen years sending our young men, our best and brightest off to die fighting that filth. Why? To preserve the phlogiston pipelines. You take a look around our city, hollowed out by war, nothing left but the crippled, dirty dregs that escaped the pressgangs, and you tell me that this wasn’t worth the risk.”
“A pretty speech, Mr. Rowan-Czarnecki,” Skinner