The Ghost of Arthur Mercer
In the elevated glass observatory overlooking the foundry floor stood Arthur Mercer.
He was an old man now, his hair bone-white, dressed in a sharp three-piece suit of English wool, leaning against a brass banister with a gold-tipped cane. Beside him stood three armed guards and an array of telegraph machines clattering with orders from continental rail syndicates.
The heavy glass door opened behind him.
"Cole? Did you retrieve the runaway?" Mercer asked without turning around.
"Cole is answering for his crimes in the cold," Eliza’s voice rang out, clear and steady.
Mercer spun around, his cold blue eyes locking onto Eliza and Eli. A thin, terrifying smile spread across his wrinkled face.
"Ah. Miss Thorne," Mercer chuckled softly. "You have your father’s stubborn chin. And look at you, Subject Seven. Miraculous. You survived the acoustic severance. Your neural elasticity is truly extraordinary."
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"You killed my father, Mercer," Eliza said, raising the hunting rifle. "And you enslaved these people."
"I gave them purpose!" Mercer retorted, his voice rising with chilling grandeur. "Look at them! No strikes, no drunken brawls, no demands for shorter hours or higher wages! We laid four hundred miles of track last summer alone! I have eliminated the chaotic nature of mankind and turned labor into pure, beautiful clockwork!"
