The Flux Engine Read Online Free

silently, Robi made her way to the parlor door. Reaching into her sleeve, she removed a small glass vial. She wore a loose-fitting shirt and pants of desert tan with a darker brown waistcoat. Most girls her age went in for corsets, but Robi’s wardrobe afforded her easy movement and convenient places to hide things.
    Unscrewing the vial, she withdrew a small brush that had been attached to the inside of its cap. Carefully she brushed the oil from the vial on each of the door’s hinges, then returned the vial to her sleeve.
    Satisfied that the oil had done its work, Robi pulled the door open a crack. When no discernible sound came from the space beyond she let herself out into a carpeted hallway. A quick search of the upper floor yielded two small bedrooms, a master bedroom, and an office. The rooms were sumptuous, with carved furniture and overstuffed bedding. The office, on the other hand, bore a more practical countenance. A sturdy desk with a marble top stood in the center of the room, flanked by shelves on the back wall. The one on the left held a chaotic scattering of mementos and knick-knacks covered in a thin layer of dust. The other held rows of books on every subject imaginable. Unlike its sister shelf, this one was orderly and clean.
    Robi took it in with a single glance, just like the old man taught her. The knick-knacks were souvenirs of travel, some coming from as far away as Britannic Africa and the Far East. Clearly Mister Pemberton liked to travel. Though judging from the condition of the mementos, it was his wife who collected them.
    It was the orderly shelf that revealed the man. The leather spines on the books were cracked from use and dark from the oils of many hands over the years. The best read subjects were on agriculture, trade law, and animal husbandry. Pemberton was a man who took his work seriously.
    The desk, like the bookshelf, was neat and orderly, with a stack of papers waiting to be read on one side and a basket of outgoing mail on the other. A simple brass inkwell and blotter were the only other things there. Clearly Pemberton was a man of regular habits, who craved order, and didn’t squander his vast wealth on needless ornamentation.
    Having taken the measure of Pemberton, Robi turned her attention to the only other object in the room, a large iron safe. It sat directly behind the desk and between the shelves. No effort had been made to hide it. Clearly its owner didn’t fear robbery.
    Moving carefully so as not to cause the polished wood floor to creak, Robi approached the safe. Jefferson Mark Six. Four tumblers, three numbers, with one repeated.
    Child’s play.
    She knelt on the Siamese rug that covered the floor in front of the safe. Pressing her ear to the cold surface of the door, she spun the tumblers, listening to them click and clack as they turned.
    It reminded her of the old man.
    He’d made her do this hundreds of times, maybe thousands, until she could open a lock by sound alone. He always believed in being prepared.
    Know your target . His voice echoed in her head as if he were present. He drilled his rules into her as she trained her fingers to manipulate the pins of a standard lock. Never go in wondering what you’re after. Always know what’s in the safe or strong box .
    Click.
    The first tumbler fell into place.
    Robi hadn’t been the best student, but she’d learned the value of her father’s advice. After his death, she reached out to his contacts, establishing networks of her own. Networks like the one that informed her of Pemberton’s recent shipment of black pearls from Tahiti.
    Click.
    Don’t steal something you can’t sell. Black pearls were rare, but not so rare that she’d have trouble selling them.
    Click.
    Never take everything you find . When you clean a man out, he tends to take it personally.
    According to her sources, Pemberton had two dozen pearls. Half that would set Robi up nicely for the next few months and there was sure to be some cash in