Nathan Yocum - Automatic Woman

Mary and I boarded our train in France. We played the role of the married couple poorly. Our relationship was too fresh. We held hands, we kissed openly, and we did not exhibit the tired silence of a couple long wed.

I let my mind wander to that time of old marriage, if we reached it. I saw us getting to Budapest. An acquaintance of mine from the army ran an inn in the English expatriate section of town. I’d find work with him, guarding the door, breaking fights, making sure the employees were not dipping into the till; basic strongman work. I’d play the role of the thug and Mary and I would find a little home for ourselves, an inexpensive flat. She would take to nesting, hanging cheap marketplace rugs on the walls. She would master Hungarian delicacies. Each morning I’d come home from work to the smells of cinnamon and cumin and buttered flaky pastry. She would grow fat and heavy with child. Not on purpose, but not by surprise either. We would have a little girl, who I’d name Irene after my mother.

I’d start acquiring the tools of a boot maker. Start moving away from strongman work, because violent hands are not meant for the fathers of children. I have an intimate knowledge of cobblers’ tools; welting stands and lasting stands, puller bars, cutters, snips, and stamps. I’d use our flat as a shop, creating decorative boots for market retailers. Eventually I’d open a shop of my own and Mary would have another child, a son to go with our daughter. I would teach him how to make boots and how to be a man. My daughter I would love unconditionally, though I can’t imagine what I’d have to teach her. Our passion for each other would recede, but we’d build a friendship through the raising of our children. We’d grow old, our children would grow old, and all things would be well in our beautiful simple lives.

I saw this dream in my mind like a kinescope collage of moving images. Everything was real, everything came true and happened and our lives were no longer burdened with fear and desperation. I was convinced that I’d been granted a premonition, that Mary and I would get away, would gain our lives and our freedom.

We were captured two days into our travels.

Mary and I switched trains at the Munich Central Station. We were seated in third class amongst the common folk. Like travelers on our way to country families or transplanting to separate jobs or doing whatever it is regular people do when they are not fugitives.

I should have known; perhaps in the back of my mind I did know. It was a foregone conclusion that we would be found.

I left Mary to use the car lavatory. It was short, cramped, and set up like a hall closet with a toilet installation. The lav smelled wrong, but this was not unusual. Lavs tend to not be homes of pleasant scents. What was unusual was the type of smell, a faint whiff of circus animals, manure of horses and elephants and other strange beasts. I hadn’t smelled anything like it since Darwin’s office.

Walking back to our seats, I caught Mary’s eye. She was pale and panicked; she shook her head as if to tell me to run away, to flee. Mr. Stevens, Darwin’s personal secretary, sat next to Mary, blocking her into the window seat. A gazette lay open across his lap and hands. I tucked my hand into my jacket and clutched the handle of my Colt Army.

“Excuse me, mate.” I drew back the hammer of my pistol. Stevens looked up from his paper.

“You’re in my seat,” I said.

“Am I?” Stevens cocked whatever pistol lay under his gazette. “No need to get upset,” he said. “There’s a much better seat waiting for you in the luxury caboose. Our employer would like to speak with you.”

“If you…” I started. Stevens interrupted me.

“If you don’t get moving things are going to turn bloody chaotic here. If our employer meant you harm you would not have the benefit of seeing my face. Now be a good fellow, and I’ll keep an eye on your missus.” Stevens winked at Mary.

I tightened my grip on the pistol and looked at her. She saw my eyes, my hand, my face, and knew more about my intentions than any mind reader could have gleaned. It was at that moment that I truly fell in love with her.

Mary shook her head. I released my gun and withdrew my hand from my jacket.

“Good decision, mate. See you soon.” Stevens returned to reading his paper. I went about-face and made the long walk to the back of the train. We were six cars from the rear. Dining, baggage, passengers, a group of soldiers; everything in the world stood between me and the slow walk to my destination.

A lean Arabic guard lounged outside the luxury cabin. He opened my jacket, regarded my firearms and beckoned me through the door. It was strange to me that I wasn’t disarmed. What game was Darwin playing?

The caboose was adorned with lavender papered walls, thick carpet, overstuffed couches and a crystal chandelier that jostled with the train’s bumps and shakes. Bram Stoker sat on one of the couches, Charles Darwin on another. A second Arabic guard stood behind Darwin, motionless, expressionless. Stoker and Darwin were drinking giant snifters of brandy.

“Mr. Fellows!” Stoker rose and offered me his hand. I didn’t take it.

“How did you find me, Darwin?”

Darwin looked into his amber glass. He examined the brandy like a gypsy regarding a crystal ball, like a mystic source of knowledge and answers.

“Mr. Fellows, do you know how much of an imposition it is for a man of my age to travel? And the expense of traveling with suitable accommodations is… substantial. If it weren’t for the fact that my good friend Bram has an investigative assignment in Transylvania…” Darwin nodded at Stoker. “Well, I would be much more upset than I am.”

“How did you find me?”

Darwin waved his stick fingers to dismiss my question as though it was beneath him.

“At some point in time, I assume Lord Barnes told you his all-encompassing hypothesis of humanity. How greatness is dictated by breeding, schooling, luck, and specialty?”

“I heard him say something to that effect.”

“His absurd little bit of science is really the genesis of our rivalry. I’ve long said that man’s greatness is nothing more than his survivability. A young man can attend the best schools and die of tuberculosis before reaching adulthood. Well-bred parents can produce monsters. We see this in the royal families of Spain. Luck is a fool’s notion; it does not exist. All the world runs on cause and effect. If you are run over by a horse, it is because you stepped in its path, not because the forces of fortune are conspiring against you. And specialty, while useful, does not make up the entire equation. Specialty is food without water, bread without yeast, rain without cover. Survivability takes in all factors and focuses on results. The better man is the man who can survive the longest. Take yourself and Abraham Silver for example. He was an employee of mine, set against Barnes. You were two men of similar skills given similar tasks. In all things he seemed your superior. He was elegant, well-spoken, better educated, and less restricted to moral attachments. And yet here you stand before me while he rots in a pine wood box. You are the survivor, thus you are the greater man.”

“Get to the point, Darwin. I’m not here for your lectures.”

“You asked a question, Mr. Fellows. You cannot ask a question without receiving a thorough answer. Here is mine. I know how to find you because I see everything.”