The Cold Beneath Page 3

  “Because I find I can always trust a man who has an emotional investment in his work. Why drag some second-rate hack around for six months when I can have the very creator accompany me?”

  I crossed my arms, trying my best to feign indifference. The man had quite the talent for flattery; he knew precisely what to say to bring out the ego and make one desire to hear more. “And just what makes you think the creator is willing to be dragged about, as you put it?”

  “Call it intuition.”

  “Intuition? You just assume I will want to gallivant about in the Arctic because you have a feeling I will?”

  “No, I assume you will gallivant about in the Arctic because I know all of the details concerning the so-called gallivanting. Which, good sir, you must admit you do not.”

  He had me at that. I certainly did not know all of the details. But even so, I was certain there was no force in nature that could make me want to join his insipid company. I told him as much, at which he just smiled and nodded.

  “I think you will,” he said. “After you learn the particulars.”

  “Then tell me the particulars, if you please, so I can formally make up my mind and set you on your way and end this nonsensical conversation.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t release any information about my designs on conquering that most distant place until you sign on with me.”

  I was flabbergasted at his obstinacy. “Hang on now, you think I’ll travel to the Arctic based on the whole of your plans, yet you won’t reveal said plans until I sign on the dotted line?”

  “That’s about the size of it, yes sir. Just think about it. Six months of travel for a lifetime of notoriety. What is six months to a man who has waited so long for the world to recognize his genius?”

  Another strained silence settled on us as I mulled over his offer.

  At length I admitted, “I was wrong.”

  “About?” he asked.

  “A few minutes ago, I only thought you were insane. Now I know you are. I would be just as crazy to cross the street with you, much less the globe.”

  “We shall see,” he said, speaking once again for me as if I weren’t even there.

  “And just what shall we see?” I asked, turning his annoying habit back on him.

  Lightbridge stood, gathering his hat as he did. After donning the bowler, he rummaged about in the inner pocket of his jacket for a moment, then pulled free his wallet. “I’ll tell you what, when you find yourself interested in making history, feel free to call on me at my estate.” He removed a white stock card from the wallet, placing it on the table between us. “The address is on my card. Come as soon as you’re ready. Say next week? Though I suspect it won’t take that long. I imagine I will see you before the weekend is out.”

  I plucked the card from the table, giving it a cursory glance before I looked up to him again. “What makes you so cocksure of my curiosity?”

  “As I said, I know all of the details, which you do not. And as the inventive type you are, I dare say you won’t be able to sleep tonight without knowing the whole of the proposal.” He leaned in closer to me, his wild blue eyes piercing me to the soul as he added, “Especially considering how tight-lipped I have been about it.” Lightbridge stood tall again and dipped his head in parting. “Good day to you, sir. I anxiously await your visit.”

  And with that, he was gone. From the hall, I heard the echoes of Bradley bidding him farewell as he showed Lightbridge to the door. The manservant returned to the breakfast nook to clear the table around me as I sat still, staring at the card. Lightbridge’s address put him under fifty miles from my home. A local legend, as it were. I could see, just from the corner of my eye, Bradley tossing sly glances in my direction; his lips curled in a tight smile, his eyes alight with ideas. I could all but hear the tension of him holding his tongue.

  “Oh for heavens’ sake,” I said. “Just come out with it already!”

  “Sir,” he said. “Far be it from me to suggest what you should do with your time, but this does seem like a fine opportunity.”

  I perched on the edge of my seat, my expression saccharine. “And pray tell, Bradley, which part seems the most fine of it? Traveling across the frozen tundra in some surely doomed aircraft? Or looking after that ass of a man and his blasted metal legs?”

  The manservant shrugged. “Well, sir, it seems that if a man who has survived as much combat as he in service to our country were to call upon me and personally request my assistance on some exciting venture then, well sir, I suppose I would feel as though I owed it to him. He is a bit of a local legend.”

  I heaved a tired sigh. “I presume that you, as an American, would feel as if you owed him. But I’m British. If anything, he owes me for his heritage.”

  “Yes, sir, but you do choose to live here. And as such, you are indebted to her as much as the rest of us.”

  Americans. They supposed everyone in the world owed them one thing or another. If I had my guess, I would say the whole of the country wouldn’t last beyond five more years, if they were lucky. Five years, then they would come crawling back to suckle from the ample milk of Mother England.

  Bradley cleared his throat, indicating that he had more to say on the matter.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Well, sir,” he said. “Then there is the fact that you don’t really have any pressing work going on right now. Or, that is to say, any work at all. Only a fool would pass up this kind of offer.”

  My nostrils flared at his insolence. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir.” The manservant scurried away to escape my ire.

  The worst of my anger wasn’t directed at his cheek. I was angry because he was correct. I liked to think of myself as a busy mechanic with loads of projects to tie up my time, but the truth of it was just the opposite. I hadn’t had a decent paying job in almost six months. As a British man in this burgeoning, Anglophobic country, I had always found my stream of work to be sparse. Lately it had dwindled to a trickle of nothing. I existed off of my inheritance, which wouldn’t last forever.

  Which meant my manservant was correct, something I would never allow him to know, of course. I needed this work in a bad way. But bad enough to put my name in the mix with Goode again? Perhaps.

  Lightbridge was correct as well.

  I was dying to know how we would arrive at True North by means of air. Much to his calculation, there was an undeniable curious spark in me that wanted to sign on without hesitation. This spark fed the flame of my scientific mind, my incessant need to know things. Thank goodness it was doused by my cowardice in the face of such obvious danger, or I might have leapt like an eager puppy, begging master Lightbridge to leash and lead me away.

  Satisfy my desire to learn more about his trip or avoid what was sure to be a treacherous journey? Go with him and earn my keep as well as a namesake or stay here to rot in obscurity? Too many factors weighed both for and against the idea, and thus I decided to take a good night’s sleep to consider it.

  Lightbridge suspected he would see me by the weekend.

  I didn’t even last twenty-four hours.

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  Four

  Leaving Home

  I am cold. So cold. I hunger and I thirst, but the worst of my suffering lies in the loss of heat. Yet even in all of this, I have not lost my faith. It is the only good thing about this disaster; my reconnection with the divine. I wasn’t always a praying man. No. Even in my youth I avoided the church in favor of more entertaining moments. This kind of faith is new to me. I only hope God will see I am trying my best, given my situation, and will pardon my lack of spiritual refinement when all things are considered.

  I have spent so many years out of His grace. So many wasted years. Science was my god, cold and cruel and master of my very soul. I worshiped in the laboratory and sought salvation through invention. Now? Now I am as I should be, a child of the Lord, a little lamb weak in His presenc
e and bleating for His mercy as my end draws near. But then, ah! Then I was blinded by science and all the wonders it held for me.

  Such as how we would arrive in the Arctic Circle by means of air.

  I had to know!

  Before even the sun could rise the following morning, I sent word to Lightbridge that I had accepted his offer and would set out for his estate on the morrow. The man was right; I had to know his plans. Travel by air was not a new idea, but it was one that had yet to be perfected. There existed a few brave men with experimental airships that traveled over limited distances. How Lightbridge planned on applying these experiments to a full-sized crew over such a great distance, I couldn’t imagine.

  While Bradley packed for the long journey ahead, I threw myself into gathering as much information about the Arctic as I could. There was bound to be many an expert signed on for this expedition, and I refused to be the only one unschooled in regard to the area. I had never considered the Arctic Circle before, and was surprised how much information was available on such a desolate place.

  First of all, the name Arctic comes from the Greek arktos, or ‘bear.’ So the place’s name roughly translates to ‘near the bear,’ which arises from the prominent appearance of Ursa Major in the North Pole’s almost fixed skyline. The wildlife is scarce but varied, with sightings of rabbits, wolves, birds and even a large variety of bears. Nature breaks through even in the toughest of climes, leaving the Arctic a blend of unique shrubs and lichen, which I was very excited to see growing among the drifts of snow. The temperatures are horrendous, with winter dipping as low as forty below zero on the Celsius scale, and summer maintaining a blessed ten degrees or so.

  I made sure to have Bradley pack every sweater I owned.

  After a few hours of studying the information available to me on True North, I turned to the task of familiarizing myself with my old work. It had been years since I put any thought into the prosthetics, instead favoring other areas of biomechanics to drive the stolen idea far from my mind. Yet even long ago, when I was intimate with said clockworks, I never faced the prospect of operation at subzero temperatures. I wasn’t sure they could stand such devastating climes. I suppose that’s what Lightbridge brought me aboard to solve.

  I won’t bore you with the other details of my rushed studies. Suffice it to say that I decided Lightbridge would need a few replacement parts, to avoid the prospect of his legs shattering in the extreme weather. I tended to the packing of the lab myself, making sure to include my original clockwork prosthetic notes and designs, which I never had the heart to throw away even in the face of endless ridicule. As I delved deeper into those long-ignored boxes, I came across a dismal reminder of my other life.

  A copper cog looped to a thin chain of brass.

  It was a trifle, the cog itself no bigger than the tip of my thumb, and the monetary value of the entire thing was negligible. The sentimental value, however, was immeasurable. The cog was all that was left from my very first prototype, made and destroyed in the same week due to poor planning and amateur excitement. I remember how Geraldine and I laughed at my failure, confident that the resulting data would guarantee success another time, which it did. After the preliminary testing revealed the design’s flaws, I melted down the ruined bits, save for a single unbroken cog. That cog I strung to a length of polished brass chain, which I presented to Geraldine as a token of my appreciation and affection.

  She returned it to me when Goode asked for her hand.

  I thought I had disposed of the cog, but there the thing lay in my trembling palm. I should have tossed it at that moment, would have if I knew then what I know now. Yet, as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Even more so when it comes to affairs of the heart. I pushed the necklace into my jacket pocket, and thought nothing more about it until much, much later.

  Afternoon arrived, and with it came a message from the wire. Lightbridge was thrilled with my quick acceptance and had even made arrangements for a carriage to transport me and my personal effects to his estate, at his expense. I was glad to hear of it, because I could only just afford a house sitter for the six-month excursion, much less the cost of hauling my belongings to and from Lightbridge’s place. Bradley offered to stay behind and keep the house in my stead, but I knew he would never forgive me if I didn’t allow him to join me on this inane journey.

  That night was another eight hours of agonizing, tossing and turning. Sleep proved as elusive as Lightbridge’s plans, leaving me to contemplate the possibilities of each in the quiet of my bedroom. I nodded, I dozed, but in the morning, my weary defeat showed in the dark half-moons under my tired eyes and the constant yen to yawn. Bradley joined me for one last breakfast in our home, prattling like an overexcited woman about the excursion ahead—both to Lightbridge’s estate and beyond. It was another thing that annoyed me about Americans, this endless desire to travel, to cross the wide open plains of their country be it for employment or just sheer pleasure. They were never happy remaining in one place. A nation of nomads, as it were.

  Of which Lightbridge was no exception.

  His hunger for adventure, culminating in this desire to conquer True North, was the direct result of an inbred perception which I am sorry to say afflicts all of his countrymen. As the offspring of those brave enough to colonize the New World, there is no surprise that generation after generation seek excitement through discovery. Since gaining her independence, the word American has become almost synonymous with adventurer. In the blink of an eye, Mother England’s precocious colonies consumed an entire coast, then in turn outgrew even the Crown’s reign.

  But, to be fair to them, this American zeal for exploration has paid off in profits unforeseen by even those who led the parties of discovery themselves. A simple mapping of the territories, for example, provided the blueprints for expansion, allowing these United States to further her reach to epic proportion, the likes of which have not been seen since the times of the Roman Empire. If Meriwether Lewis only knew what his little scientific jaunt would spawn just a few years later, I wonder what he and Clark would have to say on the matter. That a few men gathering data and greeting tribes would later become a sea of eager immigrants, scattering to the western winds and taking up the mantle of settlers, all in the name of that great Americana vision.

  But the continent of North America only spans so far, and this ceaseless hunger for more has forced the eyes of this wandering tribe elsewhere. Hence, I calculate this obsession with uncharted places such as True North, and valiant new fittings into the machine of America, such as Gideon Lightbridge.

  When our meal was complete, I took a last look at my quiet home, dreading the certain hustle and bustle that would come with this latest employment. Aside from the others involved in the expedition, there was bound to be some measure of media attention. After so many years of calculated solitude, I wasn’t sure I was ready for such exposure. My manservant wouldn’t allow me to dwell upon it, as he pulled me by the elbow then pushed me toward the open door. I was only just able to snatch my hat from the rack on the way out.

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  ****

  Five

  The Estate

  The trip to Lightbridge’s was uneventful. It took a full morning by carriage, slow travel due to the full payload: the driver, Bradley and myself, along with a pair of matching trunks that held our meager belongings and the smaller but hefty case containing my life’s work. The nags whimpered at the weight, but held up with admirable respect.

  Lightbridge surprised me by meeting us at the entrance. I hadn’t expected to lay eyes on him until properly announced, but the man seemed too excited for such formalities. He appeared at the iron gateway that surrounded his luxurious home, waving his arms and shouting greetings. The driver drew his team to a halt, at which Lightbridge leaned in the window to share his salutations.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said with a bright smile. He seemed a bit shocked to see Bradley, but his expression rela
xed again in an instant. “Welcome to my modest home.”

  “Thank you for inviting us,” I said with a nod.

  “Sir,” Bradley added, then made a move to exit the carriage. Offering his seat to the gentleman was the proper thing for the manservant to do.

  “No, no,” Lightbridge insisted. “Keep your seat; I don’t mind walking.”

  Bradley looked to me for advice, at which I shrugged. Far be it from me to spoil the servants, but we were on Lightbridge’s payroll now. He could command Bradley as he wished, within reason of course.

  Lightbridge rapped the side of the vehicle, shouting, “Driver! Pull around to the main entrance!”

  The driver shouted an affirmative and whistled at the horses, and the carriage lurched into motion again. Lightbridge trotted alongside the carriage all the way down the mile-long drive until we reached the house proper. Lightbridge lost neither step nor breath along the way. As we disembarked from the carriage, Bradley asked after his remarkable endurance.

  Lightbridge winked as he smacked a metallic knee. “These little beauties never leave me tired. I could probably run ten miles if the notion took me. Well that, and if the wife would let me. Know what I mean?” He laughed as he nudged my manservant, who smiled at the shared marital joke.

  Bradley was a young widower when I hired him, and by contract was not allowed to take another wife. I didn’t mind him keeping a mistress tucked away every now and again, but I forbade his entering into the ritual of courting. The last thing I needed was a houseful of marital bliss or, even worse, children. I never managed to find luck with love, and saw no reason why I should be reminded of such things on a daily basis. Bradley never seemed to mind, though in retrospect I regret keeping him from such happiness. Hindsight again, I suppose.

  Lightbridge’s estate was grand, with miles of green rolling hills and colorful meadows bordered by a thick forest. I turned in place, taking in the beauty of it all, jealous on some small level of his success. His ‘modest home’ was more like a mansion, several stories high and three times as wide. Bradley stood before it, neck craned to take it all in, smile plastered across his face. I couldn’t imagine what the American was thinking. Our baggage was gathered by a few servants, with special instructions for my laboratory case to be taken to the greenhouse.