Read Online The Left Hand of Justice by Jess Faraday - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jess Faraday
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whirred, and the room flickered into three dimensions of color, shadow, and light.
Like the table against the adjacent wall, Maria’s desk was invisible beneath stacks of notes, journals, and books. She’d managed to restrict the tools to the basement, but only out of necessity. Customers no longer filed in and out of the front room, not since Hermine had slandered her name and her work to the empty-headed aristos, who had, at one time, vied to be first to strap on her latest toy. It was just as well. The recreational prosthetics had helped her keep a roof over her head and stash away a suitcase full of money for the next time she had to flee and start anew. But she’d found the work meaningless and trite. She was glad it was over.
The plans for the Left Hand of Justice lay across her desk where she’d left them when her head had started pounding and she’d grown weary of looking at them. The Eye fixed on the long sheet of paper, edges curling up beneath the books she’d used to weight the corners down. The lenses turned to adjust themselves to her small, neat handwriting. Justice. It was a joke. The thing was at the root of all of her troubles, and it hadn’t even been built yet. A weapon like that should never be built. It had been idiotic to even draw up the plans, but the idea had possessed her one night in the wee hours: an intellectual exercise based on Ampère’s discoveries about electricity and magnetism. These forces could connect with the spiritual energy that ran through all living things—her prosthetics had proved it over and over. But could the technology be harnessed in such a way as to create a tool that would operate through force of will? She had to know.
Writing it all down had been her mistake.
Her next mistake was not destroying the plans the minute she’d committed them to paper. As soon as Javert had seen them, the project was out of her hands. That had been more than a year ago. She’d run to Hermine. Now Hermine was gone, and as sure as the sun was rising, it wouldn’t take long before the finger would point at her. It always did. Any time misfortune confounded weak and superstitious minds, those minds would find someone to blame. And blame liked nothing better than an outsider. A foreigner. A woman with a basement full of tools no one knew how to use, and a mind full of knowledge few people could comprehend.
Thunder cracked through the dawn like gunfire. Outside, the clouds burst open with a wet crash.
Last night’s fire had died down to coals, but the coals were still bleeding heat. She crossed to the fireplace and added a handful of kindling. Slowly, gently, she teased the flame back to life. When it was strong enough, she added a few larger pieces of aromatic wood. More expensive than coal, but so much more pleasant.
Too many people were after the plans. She should throw them on the fire right now. But she couldn’t bear to. Instead, she would hide them until her bags were packed and she had some idea where to go when she’d left Paris behind. Carefully removing the books from the corners of the long paper, she rolled the plans up and tucked them under her arm. A piece of glass ground under the sole of her slipper as she turned. Last month’s issue of Annales de Chimie leaned against the broken windowpane near the brick that had broken the window. So much for Hermine’s influence protecting her. The minute Maria had left, it seemed the whole city had turned against her.
She found a jar of glue underneath some newspapers, as well as the piece of plain paper in which she’d hidden the plans when she’d liberated them from Javert. Checking the front-door lock, she returned to the attic with these objects, the plans tucked carefully beneath one arm.
Her bedroom was her sanctuary, and she would miss it. A wine-colored Persian carpet lay over the floorboards. It had come with the house, as had the wardrobe that stood on the opposite wall. There was a vanity table—seldom
Like the table against the adjacent wall, Maria’s desk was invisible beneath stacks of notes, journals, and books. She’d managed to restrict the tools to the basement, but only out of necessity. Customers no longer filed in and out of the front room, not since Hermine had slandered her name and her work to the empty-headed aristos, who had, at one time, vied to be first to strap on her latest toy. It was just as well. The recreational prosthetics had helped her keep a roof over her head and stash away a suitcase full of money for the next time she had to flee and start anew. But she’d found the work meaningless and trite. She was glad it was over.
The plans for the Left Hand of Justice lay across her desk where she’d left them when her head had started pounding and she’d grown weary of looking at them. The Eye fixed on the long sheet of paper, edges curling up beneath the books she’d used to weight the corners down. The lenses turned to adjust themselves to her small, neat handwriting. Justice. It was a joke. The thing was at the root of all of her troubles, and it hadn’t even been built yet. A weapon like that should never be built. It had been idiotic to even draw up the plans, but the idea had possessed her one night in the wee hours: an intellectual exercise based on Ampère’s discoveries about electricity and magnetism. These forces could connect with the spiritual energy that ran through all living things—her prosthetics had proved it over and over. But could the technology be harnessed in such a way as to create a tool that would operate through force of will? She had to know.
Writing it all down had been her mistake.
Her next mistake was not destroying the plans the minute she’d committed them to paper. As soon as Javert had seen them, the project was out of her hands. That had been more than a year ago. She’d run to Hermine. Now Hermine was gone, and as sure as the sun was rising, it wouldn’t take long before the finger would point at her. It always did. Any time misfortune confounded weak and superstitious minds, those minds would find someone to blame. And blame liked nothing better than an outsider. A foreigner. A woman with a basement full of tools no one knew how to use, and a mind full of knowledge few people could comprehend.
Thunder cracked through the dawn like gunfire. Outside, the clouds burst open with a wet crash.
Last night’s fire had died down to coals, but the coals were still bleeding heat. She crossed to the fireplace and added a handful of kindling. Slowly, gently, she teased the flame back to life. When it was strong enough, she added a few larger pieces of aromatic wood. More expensive than coal, but so much more pleasant.
Too many people were after the plans. She should throw them on the fire right now. But she couldn’t bear to. Instead, she would hide them until her bags were packed and she had some idea where to go when she’d left Paris behind. Carefully removing the books from the corners of the long paper, she rolled the plans up and tucked them under her arm. A piece of glass ground under the sole of her slipper as she turned. Last month’s issue of Annales de Chimie leaned against the broken windowpane near the brick that had broken the window. So much for Hermine’s influence protecting her. The minute Maria had left, it seemed the whole city had turned against her.
She found a jar of glue underneath some newspapers, as well as the piece of plain paper in which she’d hidden the plans when she’d liberated them from Javert. Checking the front-door lock, she returned to the attic with these objects, the plans tucked carefully beneath one arm.
Her bedroom was her sanctuary, and she would miss it. A wine-colored Persian carpet lay over the floorboards. It had come with the house, as had the wardrobe that stood on the opposite wall. There was a vanity table—seldom
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