Chapter 2: New York City

It wasn’t hard to get near the Voxhaben complex. You could get as close as you wanted to the outside of the building. There was no harm in that. The only windows weren’t actually windows, but assumed to be one-way mirrors, and they were so high up as to preclude vandalism in most cases.

It was another feeling to be so close to such massive, looming walls of gray. Most business buildings chipped out for at least copper ornamentation, and a company like Voxhaben could afford solid brass. Yet, this was all concrete with iron latticing. Pure business.

The young reporter craned her neck high to look at the walls and felt a bit dizzy.

‘Imagine working on the top floors of this thing’, she thought, assuming it simply must have dozens of floors.

Belle had mentioned to her superior she had some information on the Voxhaben company, but he said he wanted to hear no more.

“No one can do business in the city if on Voxhaben’s bad side. If that Cogston has his way, as I think he will one day, then no one in the nation will be either to either. There’s rumors about people diving in the city ponds for pennies again. Go check that out instead.”

‘As if’, thought Belle.

She thankfully didn’t mention the contact she had met, or anything else she knew. Just the name “Voxhaben” was enough to make her crabby bossman shudder. It made her shudder too: with excitement.

The story was big. She could see it in her mysterious contacts eyes. Once she had the scoop, whatever it was, she had feeling The Squeaky Wheel would *have* to print it. And if they didn’t? Well, she’d just go to some other paper. They’d be drooling over themselves to publish her story.

Anyone who figured out what was going on inside the Voxhaben Complex would be a legend.

‘Belle Braxley, legendary reporter.’, she thought.

The young woman had a ways to walk to the front entrance, which was on the south end of the building. There were other entrances, but those were mostly for deliveries. Delivery trucks and employees were the only ones seen going in and out on the regular. No one, far as she knew, was in contact with any of the employees inside. Did they ever come outside? Victor Cogston, the owner, did now and again for events. He refused any and all interviews though, even before he started building the place.

Belle stopped at a street corner from the sound of a loud honk. A steam automobile wizzed right by the strips of white on the road. Its be-goggled pilot laughed at her as he sped past.

The vehicles were a rather new contraption.

‘Don’t you want your own, sleek geartank? A private locomotive, rails-free!’, read the ads.

There was some truth to the marketing. It did look like someone had taken the raw front of a train, affixed four even sized wheels, cut the top and replaced it with retractable fabric, then finally slapped on a propulsion engine then called it a day.

Far as Belle was concerned they were death traps. One crash and that boiler at the back of the craft could explode, rupturing hot water all over and shooting chunks of copper left and right.

Despite it all, they were popular as ever. Each steam automobile or “car” was for those who were wealthy, but not so rich as to afford a private airzep. They were for the up-and-coming: the richest of the middle classes and the poorest of the upper ones. Best of all, they get cheaper and cheaper every year.

The fad got to the point that the city started accommodating for them. Belle remembered when they were closing streets in mass for work, only to reopen them with more than half the walking space gone, replaced with “automobile-zoned roads.” Now, there’s a crosswalk on every block.

She crossed the street and kept moving.

Up above her the airships moved. Mostly private airzeps for the richest. They probably laughed at those in cars, just as that automobile’s driver laughed at her.

More cars every day, some new airship model out every week too it seemed. Always the obsession with air among the rich. In fact, there was fanciful talk of flying cities being worked on in the far east.

‘A world where the richest soar above, the lesser rich race by, and where does that leave the rest?’

Belle shivered at the thought, but she was on her way up. She would have something they wouldn’t, she’d make history with a big story.

This was her day

The streets were crowded even so close to the ominous Complex. Belle was no stranger to the city. She had lived in it all her life and knew how to navigate and survive it.

A man in an ally, dressed in, begged for pennies. Belle felt bad, but knew damn well that while passing out change his unseen partner would try and swipe her shoulder bag.

Later on, a woman in a flat cap was approaching her from the other end of the street and looking shifty while doing it. A pickpocket no doubt. Belle hugged her bag tight to her body. The woman saw that Belle was no easy mark and moved her gaze elsewhere.

Yes, she knew the streets well, but was lucky enough to manage an education despite her upbringing. She wouldn’t let it go to waste as a pickpocket or beggar, but it was nice to know how those ways of life worked in case the reporting business didn’t work out.

‘No.’, she thought.

‘This is it. My day. I’ll get the story.’

New York City was said to be the wealthiest city in America. The most “welcoming”, the most “opportune”. Belle thought it the most ironic. Ironic that it was the nation’s capital despite being a British hotspot during the country’s colonial history. Ironically, the chief embassy building near central Manhattan had since become the capital building and the workplace the nation’s president.

Sadly, that wasn’t the only way it was ironic. The city was home to richest in the nation as well as the poorest. It was home to the latest innovations in steamtech on the western hemisphere, yet safety and security were hoarded by the rich as crime plagued the lower classes.

Belle had a feeling she’d be above all that soon enough. She never cared for fortune, she just wanted to leave a mark on history. To be memorable in such a crowded and bustling world.

Closer to the complex’s front, the streets grew less crowded. Belle brushed her clothes with her palms to settle her nerves and make sure they were as presentable as possible. She had another dilemma in her outfit. She needed to be able to move fast if need be, but also had to look like an actual professional reporter worthy of the press pass she was given.

To that end, her outfit looked much like it did the prior evening. She had on a dark blue long sleeved top, with a copper lock-picking set stowed to cloth loops snug against her inner arms. She had the black skirt as when at The Golden Gear, albeit lightly laundered just in case. It was long enough just cover her knees alongside the knife strapped to the inside of her right thigh.

Her shoes were the same too. However, she affixed spatterdashes to them. They were becoming something of a more common fashion accessory among women, but she wore them for another reason. The felt things were buttoned across her ankles, covering them as well as the top of her foot. Securing them meant looping a strap under and around her flats though. That meant her shoes were more tightly secured to her feet, making it far less likely they’d fall off mid-sprint.

Yes, she was prepared. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself till she saw them. Right at the double-doored entrance to the complex were two tall tough men clad in dark black suits. One had a darker complexion, the other light. Both were bald, and each of them wore gear-oggles.

That eye-wear cost a pretty penny. It wasn’t just the fancy minute gears needed to swap the magnifying lenses in the goggles that kept the costs high. The finely cut and calibrated lenses themselves were costly to make and integrate into the construction. That stuff was military grade, often for snipers, and thus far impossible to mass produce with ease. You wouldn’t waste that gear on run-of-the-mill goons.

Belle approached, swallowing her fear with a gulp and steadying her nerves with her little mantra.

‘This is it. My day.’

She swore she heard the click of their lenses as they turned to look at her while she approached from the side. The street was empty save for them. Once she was close enough to speak, she saw the lenses slide aside and got a good look at their eyes without magnifying lenses distorting them. Both the guards studied her carefully.

Belle’s tone was chipper. Her smile bright.

“I’m with The Squeaky Wheel. I believe you’ve been expecting me.”

She moved to reach into her shoulder bag.

“Slowly”, barked the man on the right.

“Of course.”

She obliged. Slowly moving her hand into the bag. Her wallet and the press pass were inside, alongside a simple sketch pad and plenty of empty space. She didn’t want to risk keeping suspicious tools there in case the bag was searched.

Belle carefully brandished her sturdy paper press pass. She did her best to keep her hands from shaking as the men leaned down to inspect it.

They nodded their heads.

“You are to stay in the front three rooms ONLY.”, said one of the guards. “You have an allotted time of 2 hours maximum. If stay longer you will be retrieved and escorted out. If you go deeper than the first three rooms, company protocol dictates you’ll be treated as a spy, and disposed of accordingly. Understand?”

Belle nodded.

“Yes sir.”

“Good.”

Both the men opened the doors and she stepped inside.