Title: The Tank: Chapter Two, Part Two
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Chapter Two, Part Two
Anton headed back toward the university by way of the river,
which truthfully wasn’t a detour so much as pure diversion. He felt like the ground
beneath his feet had shifted in a slight yet nevertheless dramatic way, and he
couldn’t quite get his balance now. Every rock he’d established in his life,
every person and relationship upon whom his foundation of wellbeing was
supported, was wavering. His mother was ill, Caroline was working as a spy, and
he hadn’t seen Camille in months. He had no serious job prospects yet, and if
something didn’t come along fast, he was going to be out of a place to live.
Dr. Grable had been surprisingly generous ever since the battle on school
grounds with Montgomery, but there was a limit to everyone’s charity, and Anton
had no interest in testing Dr. Grable’s.
Even if he got a position as a teaching assistant, he would
have to live off campus and give up his laboratory to a new graduate student,
and he’d just gotten everything organized to his satisfaction, and his
latest experiment was showing so much promise, it seemed a shame to have
to take it all down. And if he moved, how would Camille find him again?
Then again, Camille seemed to manage just about everything
he tried his hand at with remarkable dexterity, especially considering his
disadvantage.
Anton ambled along, not paying much attention to where
exactly he was going as he churned everything over in his head. Why bother
fretting about his path; it wasn’t as though it was easy to get lost this close
to the university. Its tallest tower, the one that held his own lab, was
visible for almost a mile in any direction. As long as he could still see it,
he didn’t care precisely where he was.
That turned out to be an oversight of some significance,
because as he wandered distractedly into the less savory portions of the red-light
district and the sun began to set, the tenor of the cat-calls lobbed his way turned
from good-natured exhortations to fuck to a darker, more menacing variety of
interview.
“Lost, are you lad?”
“Should know better than to wander in these streets this
time of night.”
“You’ve a decent pair of shoes there, boy. I want them.”
It wasn’t until a heavy hand descended on his shoulder and
spun him around that Anton realized his translation device, a thaumaturgical
wonder of his father’s invention consisting of an earring and a mouthpiece, had
been translating threats. Bugger me, he thought resignedly.
The man holding onto his shoulder was taller than Anton by
half a head, wearing a long leather coat over a grimy maroon vest and brown
shirt. He had a grey-speckled beard, and a hunting knife in his free hand. The
light from the torches in front of the nearest brothel made the curved edge
gleam.
Anton, very atypically for him, didn’t immediately begin to well
with worry and fear. It seemed that he had hit his limit for what he could take
in one day with Caroline, and staring now into the face of a man who was
clearly ready to do him harm, he felt mostly irritation at letting himself
ramble into a place so deliberately unsafe.
Such a thought would have felt liberating if he wasn’t
secretly concerned about his sanity.
“I would be happy to give you my shoes, sir,” Anton said
levelly, holding his hands still at his sides. “Just give me a moment to get
them off without waving that knife in my face, please.”
The big man shook his head. “Ah, that’s not how this works,
boy. You hand over what I ask for and you do it however I make you.
Maybe I’ll make you bend over while this knife rests at your throat, eh?” His
eyes gleamed a little in the wavering light. “Or maybe I’ll make you bend over
in that alley over there, and we can deal with the shoes once I’m done.”
Well, then. That was it. He’d have to give his newest device
a try. Anton was actually a bit excited—in a place such as this, he was bound
to activate a residual miasma. “I’ve plenty of money on me, sir,” he said, now reaching
slowly for his inner jacket pocket. “You can afford to buy someone to sport
with, not waste your time on me.”
His attacker grimaced and shook Anton roughly. “I’m getting
mighty tired of you telling me how to—" Before he could finish, Anton
pulled a little wooden globe from his pocket. He twisted it, to break the bond
in the center and begin the chemical heating reaction that would set the whole
thing on fire, then threw it to the ground just to the right of them. Alchemical
symbols etched in silver along the wood flared momentarily, before the whole
thing expanded and then crumbled into ash in a vague circular pattern. The
scent of burnt herbs and hot metal wafted into the air, along with an undertone
of something darker. Not just hot metal—iron. Blood.
For a moment, nothing happened, and Anton bunched his
shoulders and prepared to fight, because he’d be damned if he was going along
with this without a battle. But then…
It started as nearly indistinguishable from the smoke,
seeping up from the cobblestones themselves, the face of a beautiful, wailing
woman. As she rose and resolved, Anton could make out the rope around her neck.
She wasn’t hanging, though. Someone had bound her, and was pulling her roughly
along.
His attacker was startled into letting go, and Anton
instantly drew back out of range of the spirit’s miasma. The last time he’d stayed
within one of these, it had left him sobbing for half an hour.
“That’s Gaily Gertrude,” one of the men nearby exclaimed. “That’s—ah,
no—” The ghost was suddenly ripped off her feet onto the ground, right through
Anton’s attacker’s legs. She tugged desperately on the rope, trying to stop the
pulling, or perhaps pull herself to her feet, but a moment later her head
exploded in a mess of blood and brain matter as something rolled right over it.
“Her man shoulda dropped the rope, not left her lying in the
street like that,” someone said.
“He never shoulda been allowed to rope her up in the first
place! It’s the madame’s fault, she—”
All conversation came to an abrupt halt as Anton’s attacker
suddenly dropped his knife, raised his hands to his head, and began to scream.
His voice was pitched high, almost as high as a woman’s, and even as the miasma
had dissolved he kept screaming and screaming. If the man hadn’t just threatened
to rape him, Anton almost might have felt guilty.
Instead, he ran.
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