The tables, it turned out, were more than just slabs of wood on which to place cups, silverware, plates, and food. They were, much to the obvious delight of the incoming class, actual machines with a circular mid-section that would periodically give off a burst of steam around its rim, rotate downwards through the floor and moments later rotate back up again with all-new plates of food. The children watched the process in awe and then took their cue on what to do next by seeing how the other students "worked" their tables—put the dirty dishes into the circle then wait patiently for the next course to appear. Each time the center of the table let out a burst of steam there were happy gasps of surprise.
Leo, who'd made sure to secure a seat next to Victoria, immediately began plying her for info about the "curious adventure" she'd had aboard the Crimson Cloud. Victoria deflected his questions by asking Leo about himself. It didn't take long to get the excitable boy off topic.
"There's a whole universe out there to visit," he managed to say through mouthfuls of bratwurst. "I've heard there's a telescope here at the Magistery that'll let me see into it; supposedly the biggest in the world outside of London!"
"So you want to be an astronomer?" asked Amy.
"Nah," he answered, using his sleeve to wipe his face, despite the ample supply of napkins. "I don't just wanna look into space."
"Then, what?" asked Victoria.
Leo paused for a moment as a sly grin worked the corners of his mouth. "I wanna go there."
"An...astronaut?" asked Amy, eyes wide in disbelief. "You want to be an astronaut?"
Leo's nod was slow and determined. He'd even stopped shoveling food into his mouth.
"In that case," said Amy, "you may want to stick with astronomy. The ancients going to space..." her face scrunched up, "that's just a myth, a story. They had all sorts of crazy science fiction stuff back then."
"It's not a myth," insisted Leo. "The ancients did orbit the Earth and...and...even walked on the moon!"
Amy laughed out loud. "Oh, for goodness sakes, Leo." She looked over to the person who'd been the object of Leo's affection. "Victoria, back me up here. Tell him how crazy he's sounding."
"Well," answered Victoria, "It does seem possible the ancients could have orbited the Earth."
Amy's jaw dropped and she was about to protest but Victoria wasn't through.
"However, the notion that they walked on the moon is, I must admit, a bit farfetched. Don't you think, Leo?"
"But they left mirrors there," he argued. "And...and, if I can build a laser powerful enough, I can shoot it straight at the moon and the reflection will bounce back."
"Mirrors on the moon?" said Amy, eyes wide in disbelief, "I suppose you believe in tooth fairies too, or the treasures of Fort Knox."
Victoria looked at Leo. "Why is it so important to you?" Her voice was soft and reassuring.
"Because if it is true that the ancients went to the moon, it means we can too."
"Oh, I see," countered Amy, "now you want to walk on the moon?"
Leo nodded. "They did it and so can I."
"I don't think so, Leo," said Victoria. "It would be nice if they had and I'd like to believe that they did, but think about it. If they were really capable of walking on the moon how could they have suffered the Fall?"
It was such a good question that for a moment Leo had no answer.
"If we can build a powerful enough laser to reflect off the mirrors, will you believe me then?"
Victoria smiled. "Sure, Leo."
"Why not?" agreed Amy, looking for any excuse to change the subject. "Tell you what, Leo. If you can find the mirrors the ancients placed on the moon, I'll not only believe you, I'll help you build a rocket and go there with you!"
"Done," said Leo, and then he pulled another bratwurst from the bowl.
___
Professor Tiffany Llewellyn looked over at the new students table and spoke in a low booming rumble equal to his size. "I'm just saying if it were me who'd organized such a flawless plan, you can bet I'd take credit for it."
The other professors chuckled at Llewellyn's comment, leaving no doubt there'd been no need for him to state the obvious. That he burned his fingers while dipping a piece of sourdough bread into a bowl of steaming clam chowder only added to their gentle ribbing.
"I suppose she's shy," added the Magister.
"She didn't sound shy when she was barking orders," countered Llewellyn as a small roasted turkey spun up from the center of the table. It was quickly slid across the table in front of his delighted eyes. "We all heard her. She actually sounded quite the opposite of shy."
"If I'm not mistaken," added Sub Magister Larisa Astringia, plucking a carrot from a small plate of raw vegetables, "We had a few students with darkrometers trained on the recruits." She snapped the carrot in two. "Why don't we just ask one of them?"
"Because, dear professor," answered Llewellyn, waving what was left of his turkey leg around like a baton, "the darkrometers use infra-red technology. The first levels wouldn't have been seen as anything other than blobs."
"To be precise," added the Magister. "Red blobs. But the discussion, I fear, is besides the point. By process of elimination it had to be Ms. Castillo."
Llewellyn pondered the Magister's words with an uneasy nod. "But it didn't sound anything like Steam Girl. To be honest," he said looking over to Professor Astringia with a slightly arched brow, "she sounded more like you."
"She used a different voice, is all," replied Astringia, irritation evident in her voice. "But we know that the girl who commanded those first levels had to be one of the last five in the tunnel. And do not," she added, lips pressed in tightly, "call her 'Steam Girl.'"
"And why shouldn't I?" asked Llewellyn.
"Because, professor, it's a ridiculous name given to her by the press. One I do not feel we should encourage."
"Quite right, quite right," agreed the Magister. "But if it was Miss Castillo, it still doesn't answer the question of why she didn't take credit."
"Probably shy," repeated Llewellyn. "What else could it be?"
"Shrewd more like it," said Professor Astringia, "or have we all forgotten who the girl's mother is?"
"We'll have to keep a careful eye on that one, then" said the Magister.
___
The Market Street Journal had been running so many daily special editions that if it kept it up they would have to seriously reconsider being called a weekly. Clarkson was all in favor of that but was beginning to realize it would mean a lot more work for him, the paper's star reporter. Yesterday's special edition had been about the Crimson Cloud's close encounter with catastrophe. That story alone would last for months. The conspiracy theorists were out in full and only added to the feeding frenzy that was causing the printing presses to work overtime. Some claimed sabotage, others pointed fingers at the Conglomerate of New York, and a few even insisted it was the remnants of the Oregon Collectives (though hardly anyone believed that nonsense). The prevailing opinion was that it must have been a power play by the Shanghai Imperium.
But the only thing confounding Clarkson, as he poked through the half-gutted Pell Motor Factory while waiting for a news conference to begin, was the inconsistent nature of the survivors' stories.
The factory's owner, Eryn Pell, was all sorts of irritable. Notwithstanding the robbery itself—the blaze already having been established as a cover-up for the heist—she was fuming at the loss of one third of her complex. She was also, noted Clarkson, seemingly unconcerned about the four young employees—children, really—who'd been killed and the twenty-seven injured. The reporter had long been an advocate of child welfare reform who had actively campaigned to close Pell's factory down for its extensive history of abuse. He was pretty sure his presence only added to Eryn Pell's very bad mood.
"Is it true," asked Clarkson, "that it was an inside job?"
"That, sir," bristled Pell, "is pure speculation."
"Based on a police report," added Clarkson, waving a piece of paper, "taken from an interview of one of your guards."
Eryn Pell's face twisted even further into itself. Pell, knew Clarkson, was correct. It was still only a rumor—even with the police report. But it was the sort of rumor that would sell a whole lot of papers. It had everything—powerful, cruel factory owner versus the trod-upon little guy, who then went and robbed the powerful, cruel factory owner blind. It didn't even matter if it was true, enough people would want it to be that the less reputable papers, which was to say most of them, would report it as such. Even the Market Street Journal and the Oakland Times with their reputations for accurate reporting would still do stories based on the rumors. After all, they needed to sell papers too. But Pell was still holding on to the one crucial piece of information that Clarkson needed to complete the story—the suspected ringleader's name. If he couldn't get it out of her now, he might never. And the last thing he wanted was for Pell's goons to get to the suspect before he did.
"As I was saying," continued Pell.
"Give us a name!" shouted another reporter, echoing everyone's thoughts.
"I most certainly will not!" screeched Pell, not used to taking orders from anyone, much less a reporter.
Clarkson saw his chance. "She doesn't know, Mike," he said over his shoulder to the reporter. "Talk to the foreman. He'll know what's really going on."
"I can assure you, Mr. Clarkson, I'm in full command of..."
"You don't even know," he interrupted, "the name of the culprit who supposedly worked in your own factory." The small group of reporters chuckled at the Clarkson's challenge. "How could you expect us to..."
"Ediwin," she spat. "Ediwin Hanson." A small, satisfied grin worked its way across her face. "Satisfied?"
Clarkson's eye's narrowed with the realization he might not get a chance to savor his momentary victory; that the boy he'd only recently been looking for might be one of the unfortunate ones who'd been killed.
"Was?" he asked, unable to mask his concern.
"As soon as he's brought to justice, Mr. Clarkson, I will see him thrown from the Golden Gate Bridge."
"For robbing a factory?" asked one of the bemused reporters. Then added a, "Pshaw!"
"No, sir," Pell said through clenched teeth, "For wanton acts of treason against the Bay Area Confederation!"
Pell's outburst resulted in a small commotion as the reporters busily scratched this new piece of information into their pads.
"Since when is robbing a factory considered an act of treason?" asked Clarkson.
Pell managed a thin wisp of a smile. "We have military contracts, Mr. Clarkson. All of which have been delayed. And the importance of our factory to the economy should not be underestimated. She paused as one of her underlings whispered something in her ear. "Oh yes," she added, "not to mention those poor factory workers killed and wounded in the robbery."
"You almost didn't," snickered one of the reporters, causing a small ripple of laughter.
Eryn Pell had had enough. She shot the guilty party a look, then turned on her heels and stormed back into the wreckage, assistants in tow.
The reporters soon shuffled off, satisfied they'd have more than enough to earn that week's pay. Clarkson however, didn't move, preferring to stare intently into the still glowing embers of the Pell Motor Works. Something big had emerged from the ashes of this factory and though he still wasn't sure exactly what it was, he had the sneaky suspicion it was going to be the story of his life.
___
Well, yes - we did want a little bit of Hogwarts in that opening scene but c'mon, who wouldn't? In fact, this whole story came about because our (then) agent at ICM (a big-time Hollywood talent agency) told us he wanted a Harry Potter-like story - only using chemistry instead of Magic. I'm not even sure he knew what steampunk was much less that that's what we'd be creating. That opening food scene was about as Potter-ish as it gets though I'm sure there are probably some other parallel moments that escape me. Also, we loved writing about Leo's dreaming of walking on the moon and his friends rejection of that dream as somehow obtainable. Especially since it had already happened!
Anyhoo, here is this week's question:
1) Our intrepid reporter Clarkson certainly has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to stories to pursue: Victoria's suspicious grades and what that might mean for one of the Bay Area Confederation's most prominent families, the Crimson Cloud almost blowing up, and now the Pell Motor Factory heist. If it were you, which of these stories would you pursue first and why?