Nine: The Phlogistonian

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THE PHLOGISTONIAN aerotel was permanently lodged in the clouds above New York City.  Under construction for the past fifteen years and newly-opened, it was the latest marvel and newest gilded playground of society. 

As they approached in a Growler taxi, Bantam saw that the 'aerotel' was essentially a large building kept permanently aloft by a great number of Helux-filled shafts and columns built directly into the superstructure.  A complex system of hydrologic circuitry and gyroscopes and propellers worked in concert to continuously nudge the building into the same location, accounting for the the shifting winds and weather.

In short: it was a great golden palace floating in the sky.  Rachelle figured it was just the place for them to hole up for a bit and figure out what to do next.

The lobby was a cacophony of top hats and ladies in mink, several of these carried fashionable and elegant miniature horses.  Bantam had thought these pets to be a peculiarity of the 'ton Gasper, but it was evidently a widespread fad.

"But how are we going to get in?" Bantam asked.  "This is the twirly moustache version of an Ian Schrager hotel, and we have no reservation."

"I'm an Archenstone, remember?  This hotel was built with my family's money."  She went to the front desk and within seconds a bellhop was scurrying.  He led them to an elevator made of crystal.  It was like being inside a chandelier, Bantam thought as they ascended.

Their room was appointed so lavishly it bordered on hallucination.  Marble and gold and sapphires adorned the walls and columns.  There was an open-air balcony with a rich firepit crackling in the sunset.  They were fairly high up in the air, of course, but by some trick of the architecture, it was only mildly windy and not cold at all.

Rachelle dismissed the bellhop with a generous tip and closed the door.  "Thank you for trusting me," she said to Bantam.  "We need the rest.  And we need a place to hide out while I think.  If we go back to MacLaren now, we will simply be arrested.  I'm certain Victor left standing orders for my incarceration ... and if they saw you alive, you'd be in clappers even more quickly than I."

 Bantam allowed himself to collapse on the bed.  Exhaustion flooded him.  "I'm sorry," he said to Rachelle.  "I just got hit with a wave of tired that you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, that's understandable.  You still haven't properly recovered from the Pinion,” Rachelle said.  "Not to mention the tincture I gave you.  It is harmless, but not altogether without a toll.  And all you've done recently is run for your life.  I'm surprised you're even on your feet."

She circled the bed and took his pulse, and then felt his forehead.  "You are on the mend, though.  That is the good news.  But now, we must warn the Army base of the message we intercepted.  We must tell them to have the men standing at the ready, not drunk in the kife."

Bantam started to get up.  "No.  If they know where we are, they'll arrest us --"

Rachelle pushed him back down.  "I am not daft!  Yes, we would be nibbed and quick.  I had thought of that.  That's why we'll need a nose instead."

"A … what?"

"An intermediary."

"Who?"

"I was thinking that Mr. Hardin's friend from the Cape and Cane would be suitable.  That dodgy DionySYS fellow.  I can send him a p-mail from here."

"What, what?  There can't be pneumatic tubes that reach up here!  They'd snap in the wind!"

Rachelle laughed.  "Have you forgotten the Volzstrang Pin so easily?  Of course there are."

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