position is more ... administrative. I heard Laddie once call him a functionary. Argus says he’s wasting his life in service to an outdated ideal.”
“And your mother and father? What do they say?”
“They don’t say anything.”
Jenny knit her brow. “Dad says your family’s strange,” she said, but did not elaborate. She reached up and braced herself as they rounded a sharp curve, where the service road angled to skirt the farm’s southernmost pasture. In the east, the rising sun was casting its first bright rays over the tops of the Sierra Nevada mountains, and in the chilly pinkish light Will could see the sorrel mare—Nate’s despair—standing by the split-rail fence, happily munching on clover.
Will smiled with secret satisfaction. The last thing he’d done before he’d met Jenny that morning had been to throw open the mare’s stall and shoo her out of it. She’d found her way to where she wanted to be. Good for her.
Even a dumb animal deserves a choice.
Will and Jenny did not speak much after they turned onto the main route south to Stockton. The morning was clear and fine, and the sky was painted with colors bright as the label on a produce box.
The silence went beyond their lack of conversation. Except for the creak of the Baker’s leaf-springs and chassis, and the crunch of its rubber tires on the small gravel of the dirt road, the machine was perfectly silent. The Otherwhere Flume Will had installed emitted only a faint hiss, like the sound of a mighty waterfall heard from very, very far away.
“We’re not going to have to stop and charge up the battery, are we?” Jenny asked. “Can we make it all the way to Stockton?”
“We sure can,” said Will. “It’s not an electric. Or rather, it is an electric motor, but it doesn’t use a conventional electric battery. This car is powered by an Otherwhere Flume.” When she gave him a blank look, Will added, “It’s my own design. I based it on a classical Otherwhere Conductor, but I made several improvements.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about Otherwhere power,” Jenny said. “I did read an article once about how it’s going to revolutionize civilization, or end tyranny, or increase global grain yields—something like that.” She paused, knitting her brow thoughtfully. “Or maybe that was an article about steam tractors. I can’t quite remember.”
“I don’t know about ending tyranny or increasing grain yields,” Will said. “But I do believe Otherwhere power will revolutionize civilization. And I know Mr. Tesla thinks so too.”
Jenny nodded. “So how does it work?” She lowered her voice and leaned slightly toward him. “An Otherwhere isn’t ... magic ?” The last word was spoken with a distinctly apprehensive edge. But then, remembering who she was speaking to, she hastily added, “That’s not to say anything against your Ma’am, of course ... you know I haven’t a thing against Old Users ... it’s just some do, and ... oh, I’m sorry.”
After stammering all this out, she sank back into the seat, red-faced and embarrassed, and pressed her lips tightly together.
Will said nothing. He’d had this exact same awkward interaction dozens of times, always with others close to his own age. They would seem to take the fact that his mother was a witch in stride—until, in some unguarded moment, their true feelings would slip out. Their distaste, their resentment—their fear. This was always followed by a clumsy apology. It was like clockwork.
But he hadn’t expected it of Jenny.
Of course, he couldn’t really blame her. They were both members of what the newspapers had dubbed the “Malmantic Generation”—the first generation to live under the shadow of the Black Flu.
The first case of the gruesome malady—typified by greasy tar-colored eruptions and blazing fever—was reported in 1878. By 1880, the epidemic had engulfed the globe. The wildfire quickness with which the disease
“And your mother and father? What do they say?”
“They don’t say anything.”
Jenny knit her brow. “Dad says your family’s strange,” she said, but did not elaborate. She reached up and braced herself as they rounded a sharp curve, where the service road angled to skirt the farm’s southernmost pasture. In the east, the rising sun was casting its first bright rays over the tops of the Sierra Nevada mountains, and in the chilly pinkish light Will could see the sorrel mare—Nate’s despair—standing by the split-rail fence, happily munching on clover.
Will smiled with secret satisfaction. The last thing he’d done before he’d met Jenny that morning had been to throw open the mare’s stall and shoo her out of it. She’d found her way to where she wanted to be. Good for her.
Even a dumb animal deserves a choice.
Will and Jenny did not speak much after they turned onto the main route south to Stockton. The morning was clear and fine, and the sky was painted with colors bright as the label on a produce box.
The silence went beyond their lack of conversation. Except for the creak of the Baker’s leaf-springs and chassis, and the crunch of its rubber tires on the small gravel of the dirt road, the machine was perfectly silent. The Otherwhere Flume Will had installed emitted only a faint hiss, like the sound of a mighty waterfall heard from very, very far away.
“We’re not going to have to stop and charge up the battery, are we?” Jenny asked. “Can we make it all the way to Stockton?”
“We sure can,” said Will. “It’s not an electric. Or rather, it is an electric motor, but it doesn’t use a conventional electric battery. This car is powered by an Otherwhere Flume.” When she gave him a blank look, Will added, “It’s my own design. I based it on a classical Otherwhere Conductor, but I made several improvements.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about Otherwhere power,” Jenny said. “I did read an article once about how it’s going to revolutionize civilization, or end tyranny, or increase global grain yields—something like that.” She paused, knitting her brow thoughtfully. “Or maybe that was an article about steam tractors. I can’t quite remember.”
“I don’t know about ending tyranny or increasing grain yields,” Will said. “But I do believe Otherwhere power will revolutionize civilization. And I know Mr. Tesla thinks so too.”
Jenny nodded. “So how does it work?” She lowered her voice and leaned slightly toward him. “An Otherwhere isn’t ... magic ?” The last word was spoken with a distinctly apprehensive edge. But then, remembering who she was speaking to, she hastily added, “That’s not to say anything against your Ma’am, of course ... you know I haven’t a thing against Old Users ... it’s just some do, and ... oh, I’m sorry.”
After stammering all this out, she sank back into the seat, red-faced and embarrassed, and pressed her lips tightly together.
Will said nothing. He’d had this exact same awkward interaction dozens of times, always with others close to his own age. They would seem to take the fact that his mother was a witch in stride—until, in some unguarded moment, their true feelings would slip out. Their distaste, their resentment—their fear. This was always followed by a clumsy apology. It was like clockwork.
But he hadn’t expected it of Jenny.
Of course, he couldn’t really blame her. They were both members of what the newspapers had dubbed the “Malmantic Generation”—the first generation to live under the shadow of the Black Flu.
The first case of the gruesome malady—typified by greasy tar-colored eruptions and blazing fever—was reported in 1878. By 1880, the epidemic had engulfed the globe. The wildfire quickness with which the disease
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