Automatic Woman by Nathan L. Yocum Page B

lips. Her lip coloring did not match her skin tone well. The morning sun showed her age, but I didn’t care. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever beheld, this tiny protective creature. Forget everything I ever said about the beauty of the Swan Princess or Nouveau’s machine, the real thing will always claim superiority.
    “Thanks. I owe you and the doctor a debt.”
    She smiled her little smile and I felt that everything was fine. That the world was not pressing me. That I wasn’t an animal, cornered and desperate.
    “I bought you a present,” she said and got up. She went to what I assume was her room, the room in which I’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the last four days. She returned with two enormous leather belts, really more a harness. On closer inspection, I found that the harness was two linked holster belts, the shoulder strap set for the Engholm and the waist strap set for the Colt Army. It was some mad contraption meant for heroes in American dime novels. It looked bloody mean.
    “I know a leather specialist,” she smiled and blushed. “Try it on.”
    Mary helped me into the contraption. I must admit, with guns bristling from chest and hip I felt like Michael the Archangel. I felt like a warrior, a tough as nails enforcer, a man with three cocks and no curfew.
    “Thanks, love.” I took hold of her neck and kissed it twice. My face was hurting a lot less than in days past.
    I pocketed the rest of my currency and threw the new long coat over my gun gear. It covered the pistols just enough.
    “What’s your pimp’s name?”
    “Saucy Jack.”
    “Is he the type to come back?”
    “Yes.”
    I gave her a five pound note.
    “Go find yourself a day worth having. Lunch, clothes, whatever. I’ll be back here before evening, best you’re gone while I’m gone.”
    Mary nodded. I kissed her again for good measure, just to be sure that the things I felt were the things she felt. I kissed her and walked out the front door. Things needed to get done and time was a pressing issue.
    My thoughts turned again to Owens. Dumb luck Owens. The duffer with two bullets in his chest. I imagined there was a wake at the Bow Street Firm. All fallen comrades were given the respect of a good drunken wake. A celebration of life. I wondered what the excuse was for his death. Surely Lord Barnes didn’t list his demise as shot down due to a bloody stupid animal mask.
    Old newspapers in Mary’s apartment mentioned the fire at Saxon’s but neither Owens nor myself were mentioned. No stranger than usual, I guess.
    I waved a hansom down and gave the driver the address of Mr. C. Darwin, 12 Upper Gower Street. Saxon’s envelope had burned with my old jacket. By good fortune, Mary’s rubbings of the cogs had been in my trouser pockets, and she’d had the good sense to bring them with me to her little sanctuary.
    Quickly enough the hansom took me to a nondescript cottage in a middle-class neighborhood. I knocked on the door and puffed out my chest, just in case. The door was answered by a small man with a large mustache. To say the mustache was large actually does it no justice. The hair on his lip dominated his mouth. I literally couldn’t tell you if his lips were red or pink or blue. He must have been Italian, though Hungarian would be a good second guess.
    “Mr. Darwin?” I asked.
    The man might have smirked. He had a smirk in his eyes, but I couldn’t tell if it reached his mouth beneath that godforsaken mustache.
    “No,” he said.
    “Is Mr. Darwin here?”
    “You want to know if Charles Darwin is here?”
    Shite! Charles Darwin! How many blokes named C. Darwin could there be in London? I cursed myself for not seeing the obvious. Charles Darwin was the most well-known, if not the most controversial scientist in all of England. Maybe the world. Of course some fringe genius like Saxon would have correspondence with the great naturalist, the destroyer of small minds and large institutions.
    “Sorry,