Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  On any other day, the large stone church with its terracotta tiled roof and rectangular belfry tower would have looked picturesque. However, today dirty black smoke vented from a broken stained-glass window through which hung the badly charred body of a regulator.

  Flemington crouched behind a broad, lichen-covered tomb, from where he surveyed the porch leading to the church door. Next to him a regulator sighted down a chunky steam rifle, wisps of smoke rising from her singed uniform.

  Wrench jogged adjacent to Bot, keeping pace with his long strides. Behind them trailed Plum. In her heart Wrench wished she could swap places with the young thaumagician, so the big mechanoid was between her and Flemington. It was clear that wasn’t going to happen, and she’d be damned if she was going to give the regulator the satisfaction of seeing her cowering. She pushed her chest out and raised her chin. She was the angry, red train.

  Bot drew to a halt beside the tomb, not bothering to use it for cover. “Once again it seems you quite literally need me to pull your ass out of the fire, Flemmy.”

  Flemington eyed Wrench with a look of malicious disdain before addressing Bot. “I wouldn’t be so smug if I was you. It’s your mistake I’m rectifying. Leech cleared the aberration who has now killed several civilians and a regulator.” He pulled an official-looking notebook from his chest pocket and flicked it open. “I quote from his report: Carwyn Ddraig is no more a threat to society than I am.”

  Bot growled. “The Grand Cabal forbade you from meddling with my officers’ cases after the Whitby debacle. It took us two weeks to clear up that mess.”

  “I think you’ll find I have treated Cabal Thirteen with all the respect they deserve,” sneered Flemington. “Leech is dead, and so it’s no longer his case. By the looks of things, he and your little brasswitchette were flambéed by the same aberration he cleared.”

  Wrench winced at Flemington’s deliberate goading. Bot appeared to let it go, for now at least.

  “If you don’t have enough of your own work to do I’m sure the Grand Cabal can find some additional tasks in line with your abilities,” said Bot. “I’m thinking nothing too taxing, sweeping up, cleaning the toilets, that sort of thing.”

  “I have more than enough work cleaning up your messes. That’s the problem with recruiting aberration filth,” said Flemington, gesturing to Wrench and Plum. “Someone has to make sure Thirteen aren’t turning a blind eye to their friends.”

  There was a roar from inside the church and a window exploded, a jet of blue flame melting the glass. Flemington ducked behind the tomb. “That will be my squad of mechs resolving the situation, so it appears the overrated heroics of Thirteen aren’t required after all.”

  Wrench guided her mind towards the robot regulators inside the church. Machines weren’t supposed to have feelings, but she experienced what in a human might have been described as fear. The church’s windows glowed bright, illuminated by long tongues of flame. The light faded, and she sensed the robot regulators changing from glorious machines into fused lumps of metal. “Your mechs are dead,” she said, not really sure if a machine could die, but that’s how it felt to her.

  “When I want your opinion, I’ll torture it out of you, aberration,” said Flemington.

  The Wimshurst discs on Wrench’s bracers spun and sparks crackled from her fingers. “It’s not me who’s going to be electrocuted this time.” Wrench brought her arms together and a spark crackled between the electrodes. Bot jogged her shoulder and the charged bolt that arced from the bracers sizzled past Flemington and shattered a gravestone.

  “You nudged me!” complained Wrench.

  “I can’t let you kill Flemington,” said Bot, with a hint of regret.

  “I may have been going to miss anyway.”

  “Were you?”

  Wrench clapped her hands together and a flurry of sparks discharged into the ground. “I guess we’ll never know,” she said in a sulky voice. The discs slowed, and just for a moment a peculiar sensation overcame her. The mechanics of her bracers were distant and distorted and her brain felt fuggy. It was like at the Epochryphal Brotherhood when the monk’s crossbow had been out of focus to her, only this time the feeling was stronger, more direct.

  Flemington stood and stepped in front of Bot. “I told you my mechs are taking care of it. Your interference isn’t required.”

  “Out of my way. Thirteen’s in control now.” Bot towered over the regulator.

  “Well, I’m coming with you. Someone responsible has to make sure you don’t let the aberration go free again.” Flemington drew his pistol.

  “Over your dead body. I can’t be watching my back for you as well as the target.”

  “I’m the commanding officer on the scene. You can’t stop me.”

  “I don’t have to. Plum, come here.”

  The thaumagician, who had been standing well back from the confrontation, scurried over.

  “If Captain Flemington tries to follow us into the church, do something nasty to him with magic,” said Bot.

  “You want me to hurt him?” queried Plum, wringing his hands.

  “Nothing fatal. Maybe just wither an appendage.”

  Flemington’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Plum, I command you to answer truthfully,” said Bot. “In the Bradford Mill incident did the officer in charge disobey my direct command?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And what happened to that officer’s left arm?”

  “It was turned to dust.”

  “If required I expect you to do the same today as you did then. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely, Sir,” said Plum, adopting a magical pose.

  Bot brushed Flemington aside and strode towards the church. Once again Wrench jogged to keep up with him. “Did Plum really turn a regulator’s arm to dust?” she said when they were out of earshot.

  “Plum? Don’t be daft. The regulator took a team in against my orders and the aberration desiccated his arm.”

  “But you said Plum did it?”

  “No. I implied Plum did it.”

  “So, what did Plum actually do that day?”

  “Made the tea, I think.”

  Bot slowed, his gait taking on the wary prowl Wrench had observed in the Minster’s under-crypt. A modest porch jutted from the church’s wall. Inside, the studded oak door stood ajar. Smoke drifted through the gap, sooty swirls curling into the porch. Bot banged his fist against the woodwork and shouted. “We’re unarmed and want to talk. I’m from Cabal Thirteen of the regulators and I would like to resolve this without anyone else getting hurt.” He lowered his head to Wrench and whispered, “Especially us.”

  There was no reply from inside.

  Wrench pushed her mind towards the remains of the robot regulators, hoping some functionality remained. Again, she experienced the odd sensation, stronger this time, like a viscous barrier to her thoughts, the mechanoids shielded from her.

  “Keep close,” said Bot. “We’ve got to win him over. Hearts and minds, that’s the way, hearts and minds.” He pushed the door further open and said, “We’re coming in now. I’d consider it a great gesture of goodwill if you didn’t try and set fire to us.”

  They stepped through the doorway.

  Smoke drifted from smouldering pews. The pulpit lay shattered, a mess of splintered wood, and the scorched font leaked water through a crack in the stonework. The regulator mechs stood inert, their bodies melted and twisted. Penned in the choir stalls, a handful of villagers cowered. Ahead of them paced a thickset remarkable with a dragon-like face. Iridescent scales freckled the skin around his blackened nostrils, from which rose twin streams of smoke. He looked too young to be the cause of so much destruction, barely out of his teens.

  Wrench sidled behind Bot. She didn’t know if her new clothes were flameproof, and seeing what remained of the melted mechs she didn’t want to have to find out. What Darcey could do to a lump of coal was formidable and, judging by the dragon-like remarkabl
e’s appearance and the carnage all around, he was even more powerful. Wrench forced her mind through the strange oily fug that impeded her senses, searching for any machine that could offer them an advantage. She found only the lifeless mechs, the clockwork church-bell ringers, and the steam organ.

  “Carwyn. May I call you Carwyn?” said Bot, holding his palms out to his sides in a gesture of openness. “Can we please let these poor villagers go? They’ve done you no harm. Your quarrel is not with them.”

  “That shows what you know. Nothing.” A jet of flame shot from Carwyn’s mouth into the air. “The good reverend preached that I was an abomination. I was a demon sent to taint us all. The villagers shunned me. When my mother took ill no one raised a finger to help. They were too scared in case the regulators found out.”

  Bot shuffled further into the church. “I understand it can’t have been easy, but this isn’t the solution. I’m sure this isn’t what your mother wants now.”

  “My mother died. They wouldn’t even bury her in the churchyard. Instead of helping, the parish council informed on me to the regulators.”

  “Great work, hearts and minds,” whispered Wrench. “I think you’re really winning him over.”

  “That isn’t the fault of these good people gathered here. Can you at least let them go?”

  “These are the parish council. All except Reverend Peatry who is currently indisposed,” said Carwyn, gesturing to a sooty silhouette on the wall that looked uncannily like the ones from the Minster.

  Ever so slowly, so as not to draw attention, Wrench began to spin the discs on her bracers. It didn’t take the genius of a clockwork-brain mechanic to tell the conversation wasn’t going as planned, and she wanted to be ready if things heated up.

  “I’d like to help you, truly I would, but you’ve got to help me, Carwyn.”

  “That’s what the other regulator said.”

  Bot’s eyes narrowed. “What other regulator?”

  “We could do a deal, he said. I did what he asked, and he tricked me.” Flame shot from Carwyn’s mouth. A streak of white heat aimed directly at Bot.

  With a speed not in keeping with his size, Bot shoved Wrench sideways, while throwing his massive bulk in the opposite direction.

  Wrench thudded on to a collection of cross-stitched kneelers. Heat from the blast scorched her back. The ancient wood pew shielding her burst into flame. Keeping low on her belly, she scrabbled to the end of the flaming wood. She peeked out. Carwyn inhaled rapidly in a series of short breaths. If he was anything like Darcey it would take him a moment before he could breathe fire again. Hoping her assumption was correct she darted across the aisle to join Bot, who had taken refuge behind one of the wide stone columns supporting the roof.

  His lungs now full, Carwyn launched a torrent of flame at the pillar, pinning them in position.

  “I’m giving you this one last chance to surrender before anyone else gets hurt,” shouted Bot. “And by anyone else I mean you.”

  White-hot flame seared across the flagstones beside their feet.

  “Come out and I’ll make your deaths quick,” roared Carwyn.

  “I bet you’re really glad you left the thaumagician who can conjure water babysitting Flemington,” said Wrench.

  “You were supposed to be learning magic.”

  “I am. When you catch fire, I can think of lemons and spit on your molten remains.”

  “You’ve changed,” said Bot.

  Wrench pressed her back flat against the pillar. A gout of flame shot past, inches from her chest. “Repetitive near-death experiences will do that to a girl.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like the new you. Much more how a Brasswitch should be.”

  “Living in perpetual fear of dying horribly?”

  “Welcome to the team,” said Bot.

  The column cracked under the onslaught of fire. A huge chunk of stone flaked away and crashed to the floor.

  “So much for a peaceful resolution. I’m going to have to drop Carwyn before he drops the roof on us.” The plates in Bot’s leg slid open and he withdrew the hand cannon. “I’m only going to get one shot at this; I need you to provide a distraction.”

  “You want me to run out there and draw his fire?” said Wrench incredulously.

  “If you want.” Bot nodded to the spinning wheels on her bracers. “Or you could just do something really cool with electrickery, Brasswitch.”

  “On the third stroke of the bell,” said Wrench. She forced her mind through the fug to the church organ and it began to play. Given the gravity of their situation something dramatic by Bach or Mozart would have been appropriate, but unfortunately the only tune Wrench knew was “Ring a Ring o’ Roses”, which she’d been forced to learn at school on the recorder. Her mind fumbled through the notes while flicking off the pivot brake on the clockwork ringer in the bell tower. Gears whirred, and three deep chimes rang out. Wrench brought her arms together, leaned from behind the pillar and directed a bolt of electricity towards Carwyn. The streak of lightning landed wide, hitting a large brass crucifix above the altar and earthed in a shower of sparks.

  The boom from Bot’s hand cannon echoed around the church.

  Carwyn exhaled but instead of a jet of flame he coughed blood. His head tilted down, a surprised look on his face as he saw the smoking hole in his chest. He mumbled something unintelligible, red bubbles frothed from his lips then he dropped to the floor.

  “. . . we all fall down,” said Bot, as the nursery rhyme finished playing on the organ.

  A tearing sound emanated from Carwyn’s corpse. His stomach ballooned, inflating like a blimp. Then with a rumbustious squelch he exploded.

  A splatter of warm goo covered Wrench. She removed her glasses and wiped the back of her hand across her face. Radiating out from where Carwyn had fallen was a starburst of blood and entrails. In the choir stalls the parish councillors sat in a state of shock, fleshy red gunk dripping down their horrified faces.

  “Well, that was a tad unexpected,” said Bot, flicking a wobbling tubular mass, which may have once been intestines, from the barrel of his hand cannon.

  “Really! Because I’m kind of getting the impression that you and total devastation go hand in hand.”

  “Harsh,” said Bot.

  “But fair,” said Wrench.

  Bot shrugged. “I tried to end it peacefully. I wanted to end it peacefully. I wanted him alive, so he could tell me about the NIA.”

  “I thought he was the NIA? The sooty silhouettes at the Minster are the same,” said Wrench, gesturing towards the carbonised smudge that had once been Reverend Peatry.

  “I’m picking he murdered Leech and Chattox, but he’s no NIA.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because we’re still alive, and the church is still standing.”

  With a thud, a section of the stone pillar crumbled to the floor.

  “We nearly died, and the church is only just standing,” said Wrench.

  Bot brushed flakes of singed stone from his armour. “It’s hard to understand the power of a Non-Indigenous Aberration until you encounter one. Their worshippers call them gods. For all I know they might be gods. Think of biblical devastation with a surfeit of smiting thrown in for good measure and you might begin to get the picture.”

  “So how do we find the NIA if you’ve just killed our only lead?”

  “Carwyn may have told us more than he realised. I have some suspicions, but this isn’t the place to air them.”

  “Suspicions of what?”

  Bot stared towards the church door. “Not what. Who.”

  “Flemington?” said Wrench. She looked from Bot, to Plum and Octavia to see if they were as dubious as her. Plum slouched in one of the briefing carriage’s chairs, his head swaying with the motion of the train as it returned to York station. He was barely able to keep awake, his lids drooping over his grey eyes. Octavia’s tentacles undulated, a sign Wrench had come to associate with deep contemplation.

/>   “I thought you’d welcome an opportunity to do him down,” said Bot.

  “Obviously he’s not on my Christmas card list.” The discs on her bracers spun, emitting a shower of sparks. “I just don’t think he’d release a NIA. He detests remarkables.”

  “He does indeed. Or at least pretends to. Maybe he’s just a little bit too zealous, trying to make sure no one would suspect,” said Bot.

  The tentacles on Octavia’s head ceased their rhythmic movements and curled tightly to her skull. “I try not to go near the man, however, Wrench is right. I’ve never sensed anything other than complete revulsion from him.”

  “We’re talking about a Non-Indigenous Aberration, a lesser God. In his eyes, other aberrations are, well, aberrations of the perfect being,” said Bot. “It would stand to reason that he’d want to destroy them.”

  Wrench dragged herself from her chair. The post-adrenaline slump and the gentle rocking of the train was making her feel drowsy and she didn’t want to nod off like Plum. She paced the width of the carriage. “If Carwyn was involved with Flemington why would he call us to the church? That’s just asking for trouble.”

  “He didn’t; Regulator Thurston did. She sent an emergency response pigeon and then was conveniently incinerated for her efforts. Carwyn said he did a deal with a regulator and that regulator tricked him. Suppose Flemington got Carwyn to take out Leech and Chattox at the Minster, then tried to silence Carwyn at the church.”

  The carriage clattered over some points. Octavia reached out a tentacle to the dozing Plum, keeping him from sliding off his chair. “Isn’t it more likely Flemington had simply gone to the church to detain Carwyn?” she said. “He would have promised anything to try and defuse the situation and then got all heavy handed when he thought he had the chance.”

  Bot’s skorpidium-carbide eyelids half covered his eyes, making it seem like he was scowling. “Why was Flemington investigating Carwyn in the first place?”

  “Because, however much it pains me to admit it, Flemington was right,” said Octavia. “Leech made a mistake in clearing Carwyn. I’m beginning to wonder if Leech hadn’t lost it some time ago. He deliberately avoided me for that past few months. In hindsight, I think he was worried I’d sense something was wrong.”