Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  “You do have a choice, and I’m sure that you’ll make the correct one,” said Octavia in honeyed tones. “This really is what’s best for Wrench. You do want what’s best for her, don’t you?”

  “May I have a moment alone with Wrench, please?” requested Grimthorpe.

  “Absolutely. I’ll be just outside.” Octavia pulled the door closed behind her.

  Grimthorpe unfolded his arms and took Wrench’s hand. “Is this what you want? To go with the regulators? You know what they do to people like . . .”

  “People like me,” said Wrench. “How long have you known?”

  “I didn’t know. Not for sure. I’ve suspected for a long time,” said Grimthorpe, toying with the cuffs on his overalls. “That’s why I kept you away from the interviews after Torr’s accident.”

  “I wondered why they didn’t question me.”

  “I thought I’d gotten away with it. However, it seems they already had their suspicions and didn’t want to tip their hand.”

  “What gave me away?” asked Wrench.

  “Nothing for certain. The crash of the Drake was wrong. It shouldn’t have happened and you shouldn’t have survived.”

  “The regulators think I caused the accident.” A lump built in Wrench’s throat and she swallowed. “What do you think?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “I’m an engineer. I deal in formulas and numbers, quantifiable calculations. This is far in excess of my understanding. What I do know is that you would never have intentionally hurt your parents.”

  Wrench looked down at her feet. “Could I have done it by accident?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Perhaps you’ll find your answers with the regulators.”

  “You think I should go with them?”

  “Only you can decide that.” Grimthorpe ran a hand over his wiry hair. “The regulators terrify me, they truly do, but I’ll fight them hammer and nail to protect you.”

  “Thank you. I know you would.” Wrench flung her arms around the engineer. “I need to find the truth about the accident, about me. I need to go with them.”

  Grimthorpe gripped her shoulders. “Whatever you discover, know that you were made this way for a reason. A layperson may look at a steam train and not understand the need for a chimney shroud, but the engineer designed it so for a purpose.”

  His words were little comfort. If she’d been made like everyone else perhaps her parents would still be alive. She could have led a normal life. One without fear of discovery. One without fear of the regulators. One where she felt like she belonged.

  There was a knock on the door and Octavia entered. “Are you ready?”

  Wrench gave Grimthorpe’s arm a squeeze. “I’m ready.”

  “Please let me escort you to your carriage,” said Grimthorpe.

  “Really, there’s no need.” Wrench’s bottom lip trembled. Despite her best intentions she was now in danger of being the one wailing, desperately seeking more hugs, and she didn’t want to depart like that.

  Octavia raised a hand to Horace’s head. “You can stay in your office and let Wrench go now, happy in the knowledge that you and Elsie will experience much joy from the puppy you are going to bring home tonight.”

  Wrench led Octavia through the hangar-like building that made up the coachworks. The sounds of industry surrounded them, the hiss of steam and metal clanking on metal. Fountains of sparks illuminated the air and the tang of scorched iron filled Wrench’s nose. A steam trolley pulling wagons of boiler pipes puffed across their path. White clouds vented from its brakes and it stopped, blocking the way.

  Behind her, a voice full of malice rose above the cacophony of the coachworks. “Someone said you’d finally turned up for shift.”

  Aaron Coltard: bully, chauvinist and the bane of her apprenticeship. Wrench turned to face him. Her hands clenched into fists. Behind Coltard, backing him up, stood the Clamp twins, Ray Daley and a gaggle of other apprentices. They scowled at Wrench, trying to look mean, trying to impress.

  “You know the punishment for being late.” Coltard smacked his fist into his palm.

  Wrench squared up to the bully. He was a good six inches taller than her and more heavily built, but throughout her apprenticeship she’d never backed down and she wasn’t going to start now. “I wasn’t late. I’ve left,” said Wrench.

  Coltard frowned. “No one’s told me that.”

  “Why would they? You’re not as important as you think.”

  “We all got punished, double shift because you didn’t turn up. They wouldn’t have done that if you’d left.”

  Behind Coltard voices raised in murmurs of discontent. Being put on a double was the worst punishment you could get. You weren’t paid for the second shift and it left you exhausted for the rest of the week.

  “They probably put you on double-up because I do twice the work of the lot of you. With me gone you’ll have to put in the extra hours to catch up.”

  “Let her have it. She needs to pay,” shouted Ray Daley.

  “Yeah. Pay her back,” yelled another of the mob.

  Coltard slammed his grease-stained fist into his palm again. “You’re lying. You’re scared of getting a battering.”

  Wrench lowered her head and flexed her arms. Things were about to get ugly. “It’s not me who’s scared. I didn’t have to bring a gang along for support.”

  Octavia stepped alongside Wrench. “She is with me and you will leave her alone.”

  Bewitched by Octavia’s presence, Coltard faltered.

  From the mob someone shouted, “Let them both have it.”

  A lump of coal sailed past Coltard and struck Wrench on the shoulder. A spike of pain shot through the muscle. She clasped the injury but refused to back away.

  Octavia grabbed Wrench’s arm. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

  Ray Daley joined Coltard. “Oy! We ain’t finished with her.”

  A second piece of coal flew wide of its mark and knocked Octavia’s turban to the floor. The mob quietened, silenced by the angry flailing tentacles atop Octavia’s head.

  Wrench scooped up the fallen turban and backed away from the mob. She pulled Octavia with her. The sensitive was woozy and dazed; from her temple ran a trickle of blood.

  “Holy mother of God protect us,” said Coltard, shocked back to sentience.

  Ray Daley seized a shovel and brandished it. “She’s an aberration. She’ll kill us all.”

  “Not if we do for her first,” said the Clamp twins in unison, and grabbed iron bars.

  Wrench shook Octavia’s arm. “Use your mind thing.”

  “Only works on one person and I have to be touching them,” said Octavia, her words a little slurred. “You need to be the blue train.”

  Wrench had spent her life sticking up for herself. She wasn’t one to run from a bully; win or lose she’d fight her corner. However, this was an angry mob, fuelled by hate and prejudice. A mob had a mind of its own and one that wouldn’t listen to reason. A mob responded to fear and power. She took a deep breath. “Be the blue train,” she whispered to herself and stepped forwards.

  “I work for Cabal Thirteen, for the regulators, and you will not impede us,” she shouted, her voice far stronger than she felt.

  The mob faltered. Wrench drew herself taller. She could do this; she could be the blue train.

  “You ain’t no regulator,” yelled Daley. “You’re a freak who killed your own parents.”

  “I . . . I didn’t. That wasn’t me.”

  “You did so. That real regulator said. Came looking for you and told us. Only one reason he’s interested in you.” Daley pointed at Octavia. “You’re an aberration just like her.”

  The mob surged, anger in their eyes. Wrench stepped in front of Octavia. Coltard lowered a shoulder, and slammed Wrench in the ribs. She dropped to one knee, winded. The Clamp twins swung their iron bars. Wrench raised her arms over her head, knowing the gesture was futile. Metal slammed into metal, the sound ringing loud in her ears. A sha
dow loomed and the metal bars were yanked from the Clamp twins’ hands.

  “Cease and desist or cease to exist,” shouted Bot, a mechanical growl adding menace to his words. Without effort, he bent the iron bars in half. The mob quietened. The Clamp twins scuttled backwards, seeking anonymity in the crowd.

  Bot tossed the folded metal aside and held out a hand to Wrench. “Are you all right, Brasswitch?”

  Wrench took his hand and pulled herself up. The metal was surprisingly warm against her skin, almost human.

  “I’m fine,” said Wrench. “How’s Octavia?”

  “Nothing a good strong cup of tea won’t fix,” answered Bot.

  From behind the mechanoid, Octavia offered Wrench a wan smile, her willowy frame trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind.

  “Come on, let’s go,” said Bot.

  “No.” Wrench pulled free. She gestured to the loitering mob. “One of them hit Octavia with a lump of coal. She needs an apology.”

  Bot faced the gaggle of apprentices and retrieved the coal from the floor. He held it out on the flat of his palm. “One of you struck my regulator with this.” Bot’s fingers curled around the coal and crushed it, motes of black dust escaped through his fingers. “You were brave enough to throw it. Are you brave enough to apologise?”

  Nobody stepped forward. All eyes cast downward, the floor suddenly of particular interest.

  Bot turned his fist sideways. Coal dust trickled to the floor. “You have until my hand is empty. Confess now or every one of you will suffer the consequences.”

  A murmuring ran through the group and a skinny apprentice was jostled to the front. A sickening jolt lurched Wrench’s stomach. Freddy Jessop was his name. She hadn’t exactly been friends with him, but they’d often sat and had their lunch together. They’d both been outcasts in their own way, she because she was a girl and him because he was malnourished and weak.

  Freddy tried to push back into the crowd but a host of strong hands ejected him from the group. He stumbled and fell to his knees.

  Bot took two giant strides to tower over him. “You attacked my regulators.”

  “Don’t hurt me, please. I’m sorry.” Freddy cowered, tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Sorry isn’t good enough.” Bot raised a fist like a wrecking ball and slammed it down.

  “No!” shouted Wrench.

  Bot’s fist shuddered to a halt, inches above the quivering apprentice. He unfurled his fingers, showering coaldust onto Freddy’s head.

  Wrench rushed to the apprentice and pulled him to his feet. “Get along with you, Freddy Jessop,” she said, pushing him away. “And think about this the next time you’re going to bully someone. That goes for all of you.”

  The group hesitated. Bot emitted a rumbling growl and they scurried away.

  “Thank you,” said Octavia, curling a tentacle around Wrench’s shoulders.

  Wrench wasn’t sure whether she was thanking her for getting an apology or for stopping Bot from smashing Freddy. She guessed it didn’t much matter either way. She lifted her face to Bot and glared up at his angular metal features. “You were going to kill him.”

  “Was I?”

  Wrench kicked her boot in the dust. “Yes, you were. How did you put it . . . you would have crushed his skull like the most delicate of bird eggs.”

  “I thought you wanted justice.”

  “That wouldn’t have been justice; it would have been murder.”

  “Not legally speaking. Attacking a regulator is an offence punishable by death.”

  “He only threw a lump of coal.”

  “They were going to kill you.”

  Wrench folded her arms. “It still doesn’t make it right.”

  “Perhaps I was going to stop anyway.” Bot clapped his hands together, freeing them of coaldust.

  “Were you?”

  “I guess we’ll never know,” said Bot sulkily.

  Wrench sat adjacent to Octavia in Thirteen’s sickbay. The floor was made of polished brass and the walls and ceiling were plated with copper. Both materials had recently been discovered to kill bacteria. Too expensive to be used in hospitals, price did not appear to be an issue for Thirteen. Rowed opposite were three beds, also brass, their sheets folded with surgical precision. Further along the carriage private rooms were reserved for the treating of more serious cases.

  The bruise on Wrench’s shoulder was sore, but she’d had far worse. It wasn’t something she’d normally trouble a doctor about; however, Octavia was still shaken and Wrench wanted to keep her company.

  “Reckon you’re going to get a good-sized egg,” said Wrench.

  “Egg?” queried Octavia.

  Wrench tapped her temple. “You know, bump. Egg on your head.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” said Octavia. “None of my hats will fit.”

  After their near miss with the mob, Wrench couldn’t believe Octavia was still worried about her appearance. “We’re lucky to be alive. Reckon your hats not fitting doesn’t matter.”

  Octavia wriggled the tentacles on her head. “With an aberration like mine, hats always matter.”

  Wrench supposed she was right. At least with her own aberration there were no physical signs. “Sorry I couldn’t stop them. I guess I’m not the blue train.”

  “I think we can cut you some slack. It is only your first day. It took Pippa several months to come to terms with being a Brasswitch, to truly believe in herself, although, perhaps it was her belief that got her killed. Leech should never have taken her; she was only ten, for goodness’ sake.” Octavia’s expression hardened. “She should have said no. That’s the problem with Bot, hang around him for long enough and you end up thinking you’re bulletproof.”

  “What was she like, Pippa?”

  A sad-eyed smile formed on Octavia’s face. “She was the sweetest little thing to look at, golden ringlets, big blue eyes, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt, but get on the wrong side of her and she could pack a tantrum worse than Bot. He adored her, she had no family and I sometimes think he saw himself as her father. He always got the best out of her. She was wonderful. A true inspiration. You know, one of those people who could brighten a room just by their presence.”

  Wrench did know, and she knew she’d never been that person. Never would be. If that’s what they wanted from her, it wasn’t going to end well.

  A regulator dressed in red with a white cross on her tunic bustled into the sickbay and handed Wrench a sealed envelope. “Orders from Bot. He says I’m to clear you fit for duty. You’ve got a mission.”

  Wrench had twenty minutes to unpack her possessions from the Grimthorpes’ before she was expected to meet Bot in the briefing carriage. She hung her dress and overalls in the wardrobe and placed her best shoes and two sets of work boots in the foot locker. From the centre of a soft woollen shawl, she removed the only item she really cared about, a framed photo of her with her parents. It was taken on a station platform alongside the Drake a matter of minutes before the fateful accident. She had no other photographs of her family, and it brought her joy and sorrow in equal measures.

  She placed the photo on her desk and stared out of the carriage windows across the platforms. Over half of the trains that passed through the station had been designed by her father. Could he really have got it so wrong with the Drake? She rubbed a tear from her eye and removed her last few possessions from the trunk. On her bed, she placed her dressing-gown. It had been a long day and all she wanted to do was climb under the covers and sleep. But the orders from Bot made it clear her day was not done and they still had work to do. He had tracked her and Octavia to the coachworks because he’d discovered a potential lead in Master Regulator Leech’s desk diary and he wanted Wrench to accompany him. Or as he put it I might need a Brasswitch to throw a spanner in the works and you’ll have to do. She didn’t know where they were going or what they were doing but she suspected it was likely to prove as eventful as the rest of her day.

  The walkom
obile cantered through the arch beneath Mickelgate Bar. Built in medieval times and further fortified with towers and a portcullis, the stone structure looked more like a castle in miniature than the gate out of the city centre. The sharp clatter of the walkomobile’s steel shoes changed to a dull thud, the cobblestone of Mickelgate left behind, replaced with the wooden block paving of Blossom Street. Three-storeyed Georgian townhouses lined both sides of the wide thoroughfare, their bright red brick and fine stonework porticos marking them as the homes of the wealthier residents of York.

  Raindrops big as marbles slammed into the roof and splattered against the armoured glass windows. Bot had elected to drive the carriage, leaving Wrench sat opposite a near-skeletal boy who looked like he might puke at any moment. Bot had called him Plum. Whether that was his name, an insult, or a reference to the mauve three-piece suit and fez that he wore, Wrench couldn’t be sure. The boy stared out of the window from behind dark glasses, his fingers twitching into all manner of strange positions. A bolt of lightning forked across the sky and the coach’s electric Edison lamp flickered. The boy’s fingers splayed involuntarily, the muscles in his hands locked rigid.

  “The electricity. You can feel it?” asked Wrench.

  “Master says I’m not supposed to talk about it,” stammered Plum.

  “He should have sat with us instead of driving then, shouldn’t he?”

  Plum shook his head. “Not Bot. Master Tranter.”

  “Is he the man you were with at the Code Dead meeting? The one who looks like a surprised rat?”

  Plum snorted a laugh then guiltily clasped a hand over his mouth. “No. That was Bartholomew. Master Tranter – well, Master Tranter doesn’t get out much,” he said from between his fingers. “Is it true you’re a Brasswitch?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  Plum lowered his hands. “You can sense the carriage’s mechanics right now?”

  “I guess so. It’s sort of there all the time, like when you see something out of the corner of your eye. I have to concentrate to bring it into focus.”

  “And what about the other stuff. The magic and that?”