Andrew Jackson, former president of the United States, opens his eyes as the biomechanist closes the plate in his chest. He can feel the vitality spreading through his body as his clockwork heart spins back up to speed.
He smiles a little at the high-pitched whine that sings out from his chest cavity. It's constant, reliable. Unlike that dreadful pause between thump-thumps that makes you wonder if it's stopped and you’re already dead.
Plus, it doesn't seize up when you have to do the terrible things that make the world work. It doesn't betray your bluff when you try to draw a full house with nothing but a pair of twos.
It is usefully unsettling when you need one of your men to tell you something they clearly don't want to admit to.
“Mr. Tucker,” His voice grinds out, low and gravelly, harmonizing with the heart’s whine, “I admire your diligence in the maintenance of your weapon. Its shine is impressive. Your performance in retrieving stolen property is less so. Report.”
“Sir… General. I cannot be held responsible for this.” One hand tugging compulsively at the brim of a Panama hat. “The militia lieutenant assured me that a proper investigation would be conducted. They was all outfitted proper like. Uniforms and everything. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding and just hasn’t worked through channels yet. I’m sure if...”
His boss sighs and stands abruptly, “Mr. Tucker! You have been had. I know every militia officer from here to Chattanooga. Most of them have been guests at my home at some point. None of them would have stood in the way of my men conducting a routine retrieval.” He stiffly strides over to the nervous man, voice turning almost sympathetic, “Hayden, how long have you been working for me?”
“Five years, sir.” The hand at his hat lowers and clenches around his rifle barrel to keep from trembling. “Never been no trouble before, sir.”
Jackson folds his hands behind his back. “If I’m to continue trusting you to get things done, you need to give me something, anything, to redeem this unbelievable blunder. Do you have some recollection to share to salvage your continued service in my employ?” Behind the man, he stumbles a bit, hand to forehead. The hum from the mechanical heart dips in volume slightly before stabilizing again.
Hayden Tucker’s eyes are squinting in concentration, looking at the ornate ceiling of the office. Jackson’s distress goes unnoticed. “Blakeney! All the bales of tobacco on that old man’s wagon were marked with Blakeney’s sigil.”
“The British clown that took over Farmington Plantation in Louisville?” Attention refocused the former president moves close, eye to eye. “Are you sure?”
“Y-y-y-yes, sir. Upon my life, sir!”
“Not so dramatic, Tucker. Well done.” Jackson tosses him a silver dollar from his jacket pocket and waves him away. “Go get yourself cleaned up. Have the doc take a look at that shoulder.”
Relief painted on his face, the man salutes with his rifle and scrambles for the door. Just before he makes good his escape, Jackson calls out masking a tremble in his voice.
“Send in Maxwell and the biomechanist on your way out.”
He rests his head back on the tall leather-wrapped chair behind the carved oak desk and closes his eyes. The room spins, then steadies, then wobbles back and forth. Force of will keeps him in his chair and not fallen to the floor.
A rapid tap-tap at the door announces a young man with the barest beginnings of a well-trimmed beard. Concern is the first emotion that floods his face and sharpens the intelligence bound up in his eyes.
“Andrew! Are you alright?” At the older man’s side, he pops open the chest plate again and gently prods the inner workings.
“The HeLaium is contaminated again. I can feel it playing hob with the heart.” He remains motionless in the chair. “High-Energy Louisiana voodoo! That Rillieux bastard cursed me with his incompetent assistants when he ran away. Is there nothing you can do?”
“I’ll look into it, cousin, but it’s not my field. You know that!” distress floods the scientist's voice. “You should have let me work out an electro-mechanical design like I asked.”
“There wasn’t time. The fever was killing my heart. I had to take the damned Creole’s offer in exchange for funding his research.” He swallows and coughs.
“Like I was going to sully my reputation by sending him to a reputable lab to work with actual scientists.” A bark of a laugh and a snort, “Once he was here, he was just another Negro with no friends and no options. I took the quick answer, but he will pay for leaving me with this bother!”
“I’ll see what I can work out from the notes he left behind,” Working while he talks, the young man known as James Clerk Maxwell, distant cousin and 7th baronet of Middlebie, attaches a pair of brass button-like objects on either side of the chest plate. A faint blue field springs up between them together with a faint hum.
“Let the magnetic field adjusters do their work until dinner time.” He buttons Jackson’s immaculate white shirt again. “Are you feeling any better now?”
Jackson opens his eyes and looks directly at his young friend. “Good enough. I need to find out how Blakeney is involved in this. If I find my boy in his charge, there will be hell to pay, mark my words.”
He thinks for a brief moment. “Rumor is Blakeney has never turned down a dance. Let’s put that to the test. Make sure the secretary adds you to the RSVP for the Ashland fête. You have a week and a half to prepare some ‘gifts’ for the guest list.”
The treble whine is back again. Steepled hands on chin, a small smile curls the very corners of his thin lips. “Let’s see what a dose of Southern hospitality can bring to light.”