And the Third Brought Fire

St. Daghlian's was a five star hotel, built on the exact spot where the Empire State Building had been burnt to cinders, something that the placard out front was quite delighted to brag about. Nix swore he could still hear the ghosts as he stood at the front desk and looked up at the vast painting of

Trinity Chastises her Children.

The tiny human figures throwing up their arms were painted in a revival of...Nix was fairly sure it was Realism. He could see the little folds in their suits, despite their small size next to the vast pale titan standing among them, arms stretched out in a pose akin to Christ, head tilted to the side. The other giantess in the painting was Columbia, her arm tossed over her face, her head turned aside, her breasts bared, the old American flag burning beside her.

Nix frowned and took his gaze off the gaudy horror that loomed over his head. There was still no one at the counter. He reached over and dinged the bell again.

Finally, a negro servant exited from the back, looking harried. "Oh!" he said, then smiled and bowed to Nix. "Sorry for making you wait, sir." His voice was crisp and well trained - he sounded more like a mainland Englishman than a Burned York native. "There was a bit of trouble in the back."

"Anything serious?" Nix asked, shifting slightly.

The servant blinked, then saw the gear on his collar. "Oh, uh, nothing technical, sir," he said, smiling slightly. "You must be Technician Marion Nixon?"

Nix nodded and smiled slightly. "I believe that the York Naval Shipyards paid for my room and board?"

"That they have, sir," the servant said, taking out his book. He scribbled in a date:

30/5/42.

Next to it, a name: M. Nixon. He lifted his gaze up. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, are you here to see about the Underground?"

"No, I'm afraid it's one of the airships," Nix said. He supposed he should have kept it secret, but for some reason, he doubted that the Chinese or the Reich would be particularly interested in a single Technician - nor that they would be able to infiltrate Burned York. It had never quite recovered since the 20

th

century, and air shipping had altered the trade routes. "Is something wrong with the Underground?"

"Oh, she's just old and creaky," the servant said, then held out a key that he had plucked from under the desk. "Have a nice stay at St. Daghlian's!"

Nix took it, wiggled the key, tucked it into his pocket, and started towards the elevators.

A bellboy worked the small shrine and the elevator started to clamber upwards. At the back of his mind, Nix could just barely

hear

and

feel

the spirit of the elevator - old and creaky and cranky - working the cranks and wires. He closed his eyes and put his palm against the wall. He couldn't quite reach the spirit with his hand, nor was it complex enough to be serviced by him. But it made him feel better, which was what mattered. The elevator opened and he dropped a copper penny in the bellboy's hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Technician, sir!" the boy said, his voice bright and chirping. Nix kept walking down the corridor - along red carpet, past gold gilt and quietly humming electric lights. He came to room 299 and worked the lock with a faint rumble and click.

He opened the door and stepped inside. This was where he was going to be doing his work, so, he needed to make sure everything was exactly so. First, the bed. He made sure the sheets were fresh and the mattress was soft. Next, the decor. The only painting in the room was some bland landscape - not exceptional, but not so awful that he'd need to have it removed. The ice closet in the tiny adjoining room was full of wines that seemed to be a relatively decent age. There were fine glasses. No plates, but he supposed room service would bring it.

He was just about to begin testing the squeakiness of the bed when the telephone in the room rang with an alarming jangle. Nix jerked, his head snapping up.

Who would be calling him?

He frowned, slightly. "It shouldn't be the naval yards..." He walked over, then took the phone's earpiece up and put it against his ear. Grainy, popping and distant sounding, the telephone began to speak to him.

"Mr. Nixon, you have a call from one Josephine Dour. Do you wish to accept it?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you," Nix said, warmth in his voice. He loved getting a call from his niece - she was one of the few people he could talk too frankly.

"...um, and...can I just ask..." The telephone said. He could hear her biting her lip. "Is it true you're a technician?"

Nix chuckled. He could either tell the truth and never have to offer a tithe but, also, never stop getting rung up when the telephone was lonely...or he could lie and have to lay an offering that was twice as weighty to make up for the sin. He extemporized. "Can you please put Jessie...er...Miss Dour on?" He smiled.

"Okay!" The telephone said.

There was a click, then a severe female voice came through. She sounded

nothing

like Jessie.

"I know what you are," she said.

Nix froze. "Ahem." He coughed. "Who are you and how do you know-"

"We'll be watching your performance tonight."

The phone clicked and the faint humming of the telephone came over the line again. "Oh! She hung up - that was a rather short call. And quite mysterious, are you all right, Mr. Nixon?"

"I'm...fine, thank you," Nix said, then placed the receiver back in the cradle. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small offering, placing it before the telephone.

Coming to Burned York was beginning to seem like a terrible mistake.

***

Sitting in the room, waiting for his next telephone call didn't suit Nix. Instead, he took off his jacket, hung it up, then reached inside. He pulled out his Colt, looking down at the revolver. It glittered brightly in his hand, and the engravings he had etched into the handle felt as familiar as his own hand. He hefted it, whispering softly. "Are you ready for trouble, old girl?"

A Colt wasn't sophisticated enough - being made of only worked and machined metals, without any coal to burn or electricity to run - to really manifest much. Still, Nix was attuned enough to feel the little growl. She wanted to shoot someone.

He smiled. "If we're lucky, I won't even draw you, you know?" He pocketed her and made sure she didn't make too noticeable a bulge. The soft whimpering from his pockets made his smile even more whimsical.

When he entered into the dining hall, he found he wouldn't be alone out there. There were quite a few families and groups sitting around tables - most of them well to do and white. There were a few who were visibly Mormon, their ornate gas masks hanging around their throats. They mostly kept to themselves, quietly speaking in their own language. Nix considered finding his own table, but he saw that there was a table clearly made of several travelers, which had boisterous conversation and...more importantly, pretty ladies.

He walked over and smiled. "Might I beg a seat?" he asked.

"But of course!" A man with a handlebar mustache stood. "Please, take a seat, join the table. I take it you're new in town? We, as it transpires, are all here for the launch of the HMS

Indefatigable

, though, all for our own reasons."

"Well, I did pick the right table," Nix said, his voice wry. "I'm the technician for her launch."

Soft murmurs of excitement came from everyone. One of the pretty ladies in question - a redhead in a green dress - cooed excitedly. "You're so young! I thought it took many years to become a technician."

"I was apprenticed to Martin Nixon," Nix said. "My father, actually."

"Martin Nixon? The man who saved Boston?" one of the men exclaimed, gesticulating with such shock that he nearly spilled his cup of wine. The women gasped quietly while Nix inclined his head.

"That would be the case."

"Well, that must make you Robert Nixon!" Handlebar said. "No, sorry, I forget myself. Everett Sinclair, I'm from the Occupation Board. This is my associates, Mr. Smith and Mr. Faith."

Mr. Smith inclined his head, while Mr. Faith reached across the table to shake Nix's hand. "My uncle lived in Boston," Mr. Faith said.

"Are you from the Occupation Board as well?" Nix asked, curiously.

"Yes, we handle taxation for the eastern seaboard - I handle New England, while Old Prue here..." Mr. Smith nodded to Mr. Faith. "He is the head of taxation and tithing for Old Washington."

"Have you seen those dreadful old shrines?" Nix asked.

"The only one standing is to the Emancipator, actually," Mr. Faith said. "Quite a man, for an American. And the damage is only minor, there's been some talk among the natives of having her restored, but her Majesty isn't exactly eager to commemorate an

elected official

." His voice dipped with sarcastic amusement, drawing giggles from the rest of the table.

"And you two?" Nix asked.

"I'm Fiona O'Toole," the redhead said. "My husband is in town because he's writing a travelogue." She made a face. "Apparently, he wants a whole chapter about the

Indefatigable

and the naval yards."

"I'm Tracy Rhina," the blond said. She was slightly less fulsome than her friend, but her angular face had more intelligence and wit lurking there than Nix had expected on a first glance. "I'm with the Daily Mail."

"You're a newspaper writer?" Nix asked, surprised.

"They hire women sometimes - when they can't get married," Everett said, his mustache bristling with amusement.

"Don't take my lack of a husband as some accident," Miss Rhina said, her voice prim as she started to sip from her cup. Her voice had barbs and Nix found himself smiling despite his better sense. He leaned forward, propping one elbow onto the counter.

"Do you travel much, as a reporter?"

"Here and there," she said. "My most recent trip was the Continent. I don't suppose you read the Mail?"

"I do from time to time - though, it's not exactly a timely publication in the Colonies," Nix said, inclining his head slightly to the side.

"Hmm," Miss Rhina looked a bit put out, like she had been expecting a chance to flaunt. Her fellow female giggled coquettishly and whispered to Nix, leaning forward and using her hand to provide a facsimile of cover for her lips.

"She did this

dreadful

piece on one of those awful Silent cultists that are rife throughout the Greater German Reich," she whispered.

"The Silent?" Nix asked, a bit curious. He'd never heard of any such thing - though, the less that Nix thought about the Reich, the happier he was sure he'd be. The subject state of the Empire, the puppet for Colossus, had been a suppurated sore in England's side longer than the American west. And unlike the west, it wasn't as simple as a religious conversion to root out the technical heresies and radicalists that sought to perpetually bring war back to Europe.

Miss Rhina sighed and tapped her fork against the side of her plate - a nervous fidget that betrayed her otherwise calm face. "You know of the Three, yes?"

"Oh come now!" Everett spluttered. "He's a bloody technician, not some back country savage. Might as well ask the good sir if he knows the sky is

blue

."

Nix smiled, and indulged Rhina. "The Three, of course. The first was our Lady Colossus," he said, lifting his finger and counting from the pinkie, using his pointer finger to extend the tiny digit like he was a Swiss army knife. "She brought us Order. The second was our Lady the Fortress, who brought us Victory." His ring finger unfolded. "And the third, well..." He smirked and nodded to the door leading to the entry of St. Daghlian's.

"Brought the Fire," Mr. Smith murmured, quietly.

"I see someone went to Sunday school," Everett said, more amused.

"Very good," Miss Rhina said, her lips thin. "But did you know that there are cults in the back-country of France and Germany who worship a Fourth?"

That brought Nix's eyebrows right up.

"I...haven't," he said. The chill that settled onto him felt entirely inappropriate for the bright, cheerful sunshine that was bathing the dining room and the clink and clatter of silverware and dishes. The waiter came, then, his dark hands cradling several plates that the others had been waiting on. As he set the food down, he inclined his head to Nix.

"Your order, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, uh..." Nix fumbled with the menu and placed an order for a small plate of oysters. Burned York seafood was still better than anything he'd had elsewhere. The waiter inclined his head, then turned and walked off, his coat-tails precise as a penguin. Nix watched him go, while Everett rumbled into the silence.

"It's all poppycock," he said. "No Lady has ever been silent, not since the year of our Lord 1941. A century is a long time for something with the power of a goddess to lay in the ground and not do anything."

"I did actually mention that to one of the cultists I interviewed," Miss Rhina said, her voice wry.

"And what did he have to say about it?" Mr. Faith asked.

"He tried to have me strangled," Miss Rhina said. "So I shot him."

Silence fell again. Miss O'Toole put her hand over her mouth as Miss Rhina, with an ever so slight smile, started to cut into her braised chicken. She lifted the steaming meat. "So, you were saying about the taxation board, Mr. Faith?"

***

After the dinner and the conversation had wound around several times, Nix took his leave and tried to ignore the piercing look that Miss Rhina sent his way. He had just reached the door when one of the hotel serving staff coughed politely, stepping not quite in his way, but enough into his line of sight that Nix could see him.

"Mr. Nixon," the negro said, his voice as smooth as everyone else working here. "There are gentlemen from the Naval Board here to see you. If you would be so kind." He held his left arm out, indicating the way. Nix nodded to him.

"Thank you," he said, a bit distracted still by not just the conversation - the phone call still hung heavy in the back of his mind. He followed after the servant as he was led into the back rooms of the first level of the hotel - to where chambers were set aside for meetings and business, rather than just sleeping.

When the negro servant opened the door for him, Nix saw the Naval Board had sent three men and...

Well.

The first of the three men came to his feet. He was the civilian of the bunch, dressed in his finest suit, his graying mustache trimmed and neat. He took Nix's hand and shook firmly, politely. "A pleasure to meet you, Technician," he said. "I'm Arthur White, head of the York Naval Yards - I personally oversaw the construction of this new airship. This is Colonel Davery." He gestured to a thin, sallow looking gentleman with a radiation burn across his cheek that looked as if it had taken direct intervention from her Lady Trinity to keep from becoming cancerous. "And Captain Shriveman."

Captain Shriveman looked as if he had just stepped off an imperial naval recruitment poster: He was blond, blue eyed, bright and chipper. Handsome too. His red uniform, gold buttons, and commendation medals were all shining and bright, and his black boots clicked as he stood as well, also offering his hand to Nix. Nix took and shook it, giving him a warmer smile than Mr. White got.

"And here is the lady herself, the HMS

Indefatigable

," Mr. White said, gesturing to the last of the group.

They had really gone all out. Though her skin was gleaming silver-steel, and her eyes looked like miniature lenses capping lighthouse lamps, and her hair was brass wire and her lips were rubber, the spirit of the HMS

Indefatigable

had been dressed in a flowing evening dress of dark colors that suited the bright contrast of her skin. As was the style for warships, her skin had also been daubed in dark paints in winding, zig-zag patterns that broke up her outline at a distance, but up close looked rather fetchingly garish, like she had been made up to look like a zebra from Africa. She had a modest bust and slender build, as befitted a ship that had seen no battles, nor needed no repairs. The shy smile she gave him was purely virginal - she was already blushing, and he hadn't even said anything.

"H-Hi," she said. "...y-you can call me Indi. T-The lads all do."

"If it ever bothers you, I will have the boatswain tan their hides, my lady," Captain Shriveman said.

"No, it's okay!" Indi said, brightly. "I love having all these young handsome men aboard me, tending to my engines and guns!" She bit her lip, then, hard and looked at Nix with a mixture of hunger and fear. "A-Are you really my Technician?"

"For this evening, yes," Nix said, his voice gentle and warm.

"Oh. I'm very glad to hear that, Mr. Nixon," she whispered, then ducked her gaze.

The older men around her all beamed - clearly, they were happy with how this was gone. Captain Shriveman, though, still looked concerned. He eyed Nix a bit skeptically. "And you say you're thirty?" he asked, slowly.

"Clean shaven, but yes," Nix said. "Spirits tend to find beards..." he paused, wondering how detailed he could get. He figured he could get away with this and smirked. "...ticklish."

"Quite," Mr. White said, while Colonel Davery let out a low, somewhat wheedy chuckle.

"Come now, Captain," he said. "You knew this would be the way of it when you accepted your commission. Why, when I first set to sail, it was in one of those old one atomic turbine pipsqueaks - the

Longbow

class, those things would need servicing every other week. Indi here..." He clapped his hand to the silvery shoulder of the shy spirit. "She'll only need a touch up every month or two."

"Or three, sir!" Indi said, brightly.

"Or three," Colonel Davery said, nodding. "Now, we have paid her bride price and bought the room for a night and a day. That should be enough to ensure everything is...ahem. Functional."

"We do have several handmaids to make sure that she is truly Christened," Mr. White added.

Captain Shriveman's cheeks were growing heated. Nix, who had been in this exact kind of situation before, knew to step in. Some men simply did not understand that while a Technician was always the one who serviced a spirit, many men didn't like to be

reminded

of that. He supposed that the captain of an airship would feel it most intensely of all. So, he stepped forward and took Indi's hands in his, helping her to her feet. She stood somewhat unsteadily - she was wearing some kind of fancy shoe and...well, spirits never dressed unless some human made them do it. He wasn't shocked she walked with the ungainly, uncertain movement of a newborn deer.

"I will take excellent care of your lady, Captain Shriveman. You have my promise as a gentleman," Nix said, gently.

Captain Shriveman narrowed his eyes, regarding him. Whatever he saw seemed to sooth him. He nodded, then said: "Very good then."

Nix walked with Indi, his arm around her arm, his other hand on the small of her back. Quietly, he murmured. "Don't worry, you won't need to wear those heels again, ever."

"Oh thank the Lord," she whispered back.

***

When the door to his chambers were closed and locked, Nix began to do his rituals. The first was, of course, to seat the spirit down on the bed. He brushed the sheets flat, and helped her settle. She beamed at him, but her smile was full of nerves. Her cheeks were burning a bright coppery. She was so flushed and nervous. It tickled an excited nerve in the back of Nix's brain - he knew some Technicians who only did this kind of work...and he could understand why. He walked to the curtains, closing them, and spoke quietly. "So, uh, tell me about yourself, Indi."

"Well, I'm a two turbine airship," she said, her voice bright and cheerful. "I have a crew of three hundred and twenty men, I'm approximately-"