unswayed by the passions, jealousies, and other petty emotions that might cause weaker men to abuse the power that we have amassed here.’”
Hughes sneered. “If we made a damn machine the leader of the Paragons, we'd be a laughingstock.” His voice was stronger than usual, although the progress of his disease had let some of the more uncivilized tones of his younger days creep back into his speech, undoing the work of half a lifetime of elocution lessons. “It just don't…doesn't make any sense.”
“Ja ja.” Grüsser harrumphed. “I zink ve can all agree zat ve will not be making der Automaton our new leader.”
Nathaniel flipped back and forth between the pages of the speech, squinting at each word as if it might change to reveal its secrets. He looked up at Alexander. “Is this the original?”
Stanton shook his head. “A copy, made by my assistants.”
“And you're sure this is what he wrote?” He held up the pages. “Word for word?”
He nodded. “Word for word.” That was a lie, of course. “The people working for me never make more than a single mistake.” And that was the truth. They always did exactly as they were told.
Stanton hoped that these events would finally force Nathaniel to grow up and shed what remained of the dewy righteousness of youth.
Like the naïve forthrightness that his daughter Sarah clung to so desperately, his stepson still held onto the hope that somewhere beyond the calculus of human greed and raw desire lay a simple truth—an ultimate good worth fighting and dying for without compromise. Stanton imagined that Darby's death, along with the thick scar forming on the boy's thigh, had been the first clear message that the world would never be that black and white.
Helmut Grüsser leaned back in his seat, stroking his waxed mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “So, Herr Stanton, ze matter of fact remains zat despite der most unusual vishes of our departed founder, vone of us must now be chosen as der new leader. Und I assume zat you sink dat der most qualified person for zat job ist you.”
Stanton tried to hold back the sudden flush of anger that rose up like acid from his gut. Grüsser had plenty of bad habits, but blurting out things in inappropriately plain language at inopportune times was one of his worst, and most reliable. “I'd be happy, Submersible, to become the new leader of the Paragons— if that's what we decide… together .” The man's brutal and impolitic directness was clearly a large part of the reason he was wearing a ridiculous costume at this table in Manhattan, rather than sitting as a powerful lord back in Prussia. Not a bad consolation, perhaps, but a step down nonetheless.
“I only say vat it is ve are all zinking.” The little German popped up from his chair and then clicked his heels together. “You have my vote, Herr Stan…Industrialist. You vill be a fine leader.” He collapsed back into his seat.
Nathaniel put the papers down and was opening his mouth to respond when he was cut off with a dull smack as the flat of Hughes's hand slapped down onto the polished white granite of the table. “Damn it, Submersible, we haven't called for a vote yet! And where the hell is Wickham?” The man could still make noise when he wanted to, despite his infirmities.
Now that both Grüsser and Hughes had mentioned the vote this matter needed to end quickly. “Off solving another mystery, no doubt,” Alexander said.
The Sleuth's clear tones floated across the hall. “On the contrary, my dear Mr. Stanton, I'm afraid I'm discovering far more mysteries than I've even begun to solve.”
“It's so very nice of you to take off some time from conjurin’ up conspiracies to actually join us,” Hughes grumbled. “After all, we're only about to figure out the future of the Society of Paragons.”
The Englishman pulled out his chair and leaned his hands on the large eye that made up the back of it. “And am I correct in supposing you've
Hughes sneered. “If we made a damn machine the leader of the Paragons, we'd be a laughingstock.” His voice was stronger than usual, although the progress of his disease had let some of the more uncivilized tones of his younger days creep back into his speech, undoing the work of half a lifetime of elocution lessons. “It just don't…doesn't make any sense.”
“Ja ja.” Grüsser harrumphed. “I zink ve can all agree zat ve will not be making der Automaton our new leader.”
Nathaniel flipped back and forth between the pages of the speech, squinting at each word as if it might change to reveal its secrets. He looked up at Alexander. “Is this the original?”
Stanton shook his head. “A copy, made by my assistants.”
“And you're sure this is what he wrote?” He held up the pages. “Word for word?”
He nodded. “Word for word.” That was a lie, of course. “The people working for me never make more than a single mistake.” And that was the truth. They always did exactly as they were told.
Stanton hoped that these events would finally force Nathaniel to grow up and shed what remained of the dewy righteousness of youth.
Like the naïve forthrightness that his daughter Sarah clung to so desperately, his stepson still held onto the hope that somewhere beyond the calculus of human greed and raw desire lay a simple truth—an ultimate good worth fighting and dying for without compromise. Stanton imagined that Darby's death, along with the thick scar forming on the boy's thigh, had been the first clear message that the world would never be that black and white.
Helmut Grüsser leaned back in his seat, stroking his waxed mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “So, Herr Stanton, ze matter of fact remains zat despite der most unusual vishes of our departed founder, vone of us must now be chosen as der new leader. Und I assume zat you sink dat der most qualified person for zat job ist you.”
Stanton tried to hold back the sudden flush of anger that rose up like acid from his gut. Grüsser had plenty of bad habits, but blurting out things in inappropriately plain language at inopportune times was one of his worst, and most reliable. “I'd be happy, Submersible, to become the new leader of the Paragons— if that's what we decide… together .” The man's brutal and impolitic directness was clearly a large part of the reason he was wearing a ridiculous costume at this table in Manhattan, rather than sitting as a powerful lord back in Prussia. Not a bad consolation, perhaps, but a step down nonetheless.
“I only say vat it is ve are all zinking.” The little German popped up from his chair and then clicked his heels together. “You have my vote, Herr Stan…Industrialist. You vill be a fine leader.” He collapsed back into his seat.
Nathaniel put the papers down and was opening his mouth to respond when he was cut off with a dull smack as the flat of Hughes's hand slapped down onto the polished white granite of the table. “Damn it, Submersible, we haven't called for a vote yet! And where the hell is Wickham?” The man could still make noise when he wanted to, despite his infirmities.
Now that both Grüsser and Hughes had mentioned the vote this matter needed to end quickly. “Off solving another mystery, no doubt,” Alexander said.
The Sleuth's clear tones floated across the hall. “On the contrary, my dear Mr. Stanton, I'm afraid I'm discovering far more mysteries than I've even begun to solve.”
“It's so very nice of you to take off some time from conjurin’ up conspiracies to actually join us,” Hughes grumbled. “After all, we're only about to figure out the future of the Society of Paragons.”
The Englishman pulled out his chair and leaned his hands on the large eye that made up the back of it. “And am I correct in supposing you've
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