The rhythmic, frantic ticking echoed through the quiet pub shortly before midnight.
It wasn't a clock. It was the ticker-tape machine Ivy had illicitly wired into the city's telegraph network, sitting on the edge of the bar. A strip of yellow paper spooled out rapidly.
It wasn't a standard text file this time. It was a countdown, ticking away in sharp, black ink.
00:59:59.
Below the timer was a set of coordinates located high up in the Gaslight District and a single line of instruction:
DELIVER THE PACKAGE. DO NOT LET THE PHANTOMS WIN.
"A race," Jack grinned, pulling a cleaning cloth through the barrel of his revolver. "Cipher is pitting us directly against the competition. He wants to see who's faster on the draw."
"The Gaslight-Phantoms?" Luna scoffed, tightening the brass bolts on her pneumatic gauntlets with a heavy spanner. "They're stealth-thieves and safe-crackers, not drivers. They hide in the steam tunnels and leech off the grid."
"They also have active alchemical camouflage and possess override codes for the pneumatic transit systems," Ivy warned, typing furiously on her portable difference-engine. "If they get ahead of us, they can manually lock every heavy iron gate and turn every steam-bridge against us. We're not just fighting a rider; we're fighting the city's infrastructure."
Rowan stood up. He zipped up his thick leather jacket, proudly displaying the newly patched emblem of the Giants—a gear wrapped in a chain—on his shoulder.
"Then we don't use the roads," Rowan said simply.
He walked to the garage. The Valkyrie was waiting, its heavy iron boiler already humming with heat.
The package was a physical data-drive—a heavy brass cylinder encased in thick lead to prevent magical or magnetic scanning. Rowan strapped it securely tightly to his chest using a leather harness.
He idled the Valkyrie at the starting coordinates—a suspended, wrought-iron on-ramp overlooking the dazzling, terrifying abyss of the city center. The rain slicked the cobblestone asphalt, reflecting the thousands of gas-lamps screaming for attention.
Beside him, the foggy air shimmered unnnaturally.
A sleek, matte-black cycle materialized out of thin air. It made absolutely no sound, powered by a silent, internal spring mechanism rather than a roaring boiler. The rider was clad in a tight-fitting suit of alchemically treated silk that shifted colors like oil on water, bending the light around her.
Aria. The elite field agent for the Gaslight-Phantoms.
She turned her leather-clad helmet toward him. She pulled her dark goggles down.
Showtime.
The massive clocktower in the plaza above them struck midnight with a deafening, resonant BONG.
Aria vanished. Her cycle engaged its stealth drive, becoming a blurry, distorted ripple in the fog.
Rowan didn't even attempt to hide. He slammed his hand onto the Aether-Injector.
BOOM.
The Valkyrie roared like a caged dragon, thick purple flames spitting furiously from the brass exhaust pipes. He shot forward, tearing down the elevated highway at a hundred and eighty miles per hour.
"I can't see her!" Rowan shouted over the roaring wind into his earpiece. "Ivy, give me a trace!"
"I'm tracking her thermal signature!" Ivy's voice was incredibly tense. "She's... she's in the oncoming carriage lane! She hacked the pneumatic traffic grid! The barriers are parting specifically for her!"
Ahead, the heavy iron traffic barriers slammed down, forming a solid wall across Rowan's lane. Civilian steam-carriages slammed on their brakes, creating a chaotic, impenetrable blockade of wood and metal.
"She's trying to box you in!" Jack warned over the comms. "Take the lower off-ramp! Now!"
"Too slow," Rowan growled, leaning forward over the tank.
He didn't slow down. He saw a heavy, flatbed transport lorry skidding sideways to avoid the sudden blockade. The tilted bed of the lorry formed a perfect, steep incline.
"Hold on," Rowan muttered to himself.
He swerved hard, aiming the heavy cycle directly for the truck. He hit the wooden trailer at maximum speed.
The Valkyrie launched violently into the air.
Rowan soared high over the iron blockade, over the screaming, panicked drivers, and completely over the massive gap between the highway and the adjacent, elevated mag-lev train line.
He landed with a bone-jarring crash onto the curved iron roof of a speeding steam-train. Sparks flew in a brilliant shower as his alchemically-treated tires desperately gripped the wet metal.
"Crazy," Luna's voice laughed in his ear, a sound of pure adrenaline. "You are absolutely, undeniably crazy."
"I have a visual on Aria!" Ivy reported rapidly. "She's on the cobblestone street directly below you, matching your speed perfectly. She just hacked a construction crane! The iron girder is swinging toward you!"
Rowan looked up. A massive, ten-ton steel girder was swinging violently across the train's path, timed with deadly precision to completely decapitate him.
He slammed the mechanical brakes, sliding the heavy cycle sideways across the train roof. He ducked incredibly low, his leather helmet violently scraping the rust off the bottom of the girder as it whooshed over him with inches to spare.
"Close," Rowan breathed, his heart hammering in his throat.
He gunned the engine again, racing furiously along the length of the train roof. The drop point was the Syndicate Data-Hub—a towering fortress of analytical engines three miles ahead.
"She's pulling ahead," Jack said, his voice grim. "She's got a perfectly clear run on the street. You need a shortcut, kid."
Rowan rapidly scanned the city layout. The train tracks were beginning to curve sharply away from the Hub.
"I see it," Rowan said.
He saw a massive, suspended conservatory—a gigantic dome of thick glass and wrought iron, lit by hundreds of gas-lamps, acting as an enclosed bridge between two towering skyscrapers.
Rowan violently turned the handlebars. He drove the Valkyrie straight off the edge of the speeding train.
He fell through the foggy air for a heart-stopping second before his cycle smashed spectacularly through the thick glass roof of the conservatory. Shards of glass rained down like diamonds as he landed heavily on the indoor botanical path, tearing through exotic ferns and startling wealthy aristocrats taking a midnight stroll.
He burst out through the glass doors on the opposite side of the dome, launching the cycle onto the wide terrace of the Data-Hub, skidding to a smoking halt right in front of the secure brass drop-box.
He unclipped the lead-lined package from his chest and shoved it into the pneumatic tube.
Aria materialized a mere second later, drifting smoothly up the sheer side of the building on brass anti-grav thrusters.
She saw Rowan casually standing by the box, the package already gone.
She flipped her dark goggles up. Her human eyes—sharp, vibrant green, and profoundly annoyed—glared at him.
"You drive loud," Aria said, her voice slightly muffled by her silk mask.
"Loud gets noticed," Rowan shrugged casually, leaning his weight against the cooling iron boiler of his bike. "But fast gets paid."
Aria sighed, a sound of heavy resignation. She tapped a telegraph key on her wrist, sending a signal to her team. "Mission failed. The loud mechanic beat us."
She looked back at Rowan, a look of grudging, undeniable respect in her gaze. "Next time, Rust-Boy. I won't be so polite as to leave the traffic lights on for you."
She vanished again, her active camouflage dissolving her into the neon-lit rain.
Rowan slumped heavily against the Valkyrie, his heart finally slowing its frantic rhythm.
"Package delivered," he said into the comms.
"Cipher just transferred the funds," Ivy confirmed, relief evident in her tone. "And... a message came with it."
"What does it say?"
"It says: 'Potential Verified. Prepare for the real work.'"
Rowan looked up at the towering Synapse Spire looming in the distance, piercing the low-hanging clouds like a poisoned needle. The real work meant working directly with Cipher. It meant a full-scale war.
He revved the steam engine, a deep, satisfying purr.
"We got in?" Rowan asked.
"Yeah," Jack's voice crackled, sounding a mix of proud and terrified. "We got in."