Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  “It will happen,” said Plum. “Close your eyes. Imagine you’re back in the sweet shop now.”

  Wrench forced her eyes shut and tried to remember.

  “Think back to the smell of the shop, the sound of Humbug’s voice, the taste of the sweet, what you felt the very moment it started to snow.”

  Wrench recalled how she’d screwed up her face when the sour sherbet seeped into her mouth. She bit down on the lozenge, cracking it, and her tongue recoiled against the bitterness of the powder fizzing free.

  “Oiy!” shouted Plum.

  Wrench’s eyes sprang open. A mini-storm blustered in the air. Water fell in torrents from a dark cloud, soaking the thaumagician. Wrench swallowed the remains of the lozenge and ran her tongue over her teeth. The rain cloud dissipated, along with the bitter taste in her mouth.

  A weakness overcame her, like when she’d climbed the stairs to Flemington’s lodgings. Her legs trembling, she pulled up another chair and dropped onto it. She felt exhausted and elated at the same time. She’d done her second piece of magic, and this time it was no accident. Admittedly she hadn’t intended for it to rain on Plum, but at least she was finally making progress. A smile crept onto her face.

  “It’s not funny,” said Plum, shaking a sodden sleeve.

  “I wasn’t smiling at you,” said Wrench. “And it is a little bit funny.”

  “Not for me. I can’t even warm myself up. I’m all out of magic.”

  “You could teach me how to do fire,” suggested Wrench.

  Plum shook his head. “Not a chance. My skin’s waterproof; it’s not flameproof. I’m not teaching you anything dangerous until you have better control.”

  Taking another lozenge from the bag, Wrench said, “I don’t actually need fire, I’ve got a better idea.” She bit down on the sweet, cracking its hard sugar shell and waited for the sherbet to hit her tongue. The feeling of magic fresh in her mind, she felt the surge of energy building even before the tart taste enveloped her mouth. Chemistry was like a machine, a minuscule complex one but even so the elements worked together to produce a result. She focused on Plum’s clothes, imagining the water particles. She’d somehow drawn them out of the air to make a rain cloud, so she could draw them out of the material. She pictured a giant hydrophilic magnet pulling the particles away from Plum. Lines of force emanated from the imaginary magnet but instead of attracting ferrous atoms they exhibited a pull only on the combined elements of hydrogen and oxygen: H2O.

  Plum’s jacket fluttered, seemingly drawn towards the theoretical water magnet, and then a watery jacket-shaped ghost broke free of his clothes, drifting away from the thaumagician. Plum ran his fingers over his velvet sleeves and a mixture of delight and amazement brightened his face.

  A buzzing filled Wrench’s ears. She ignored it, concentrating on her spell. The sound grew louder, joined by an unpleasant chittering, like a thousand rubbing spider legs. Her body ached as if it was stretching, being pulled in every direction, being pulled in directions that didn’t exist. A swirling violet haze marred her vision, but not enough to miss the change in Plum’s expression to one of horror.

  Wrench couldn’t breathe. Slithering silver tentacles coiled around her torso, tightening, crushing. A scream died in her throat. She had no air, metallic suckers constricting her neck. Plum surged from his seat and drove his shoulder into her. The water jacket disintegrated and splashed to the floor. Wrench’s chair toppled backwards, and she clattered to the scuffed wood planking. The fall knocked the remaining wind from her lungs and she choked, still unable to breathe, her mouth opening and closing like a freshly landed fish.

  Cowering on all fours, his skeletal body convulsing, Plum puked. The acrid scent of vomit acted like smelling salts and Wrench gasped a breath of vile, tainted air. She spluttered and took another breath. The tentacles were gone, the only sound her ragged breathing and Plum’s moaning.

  “I hurt my arm. Again.” Plum wiped his sleeve across his face.

  Wrench’s body wouldn’t function. Her arms trembled, drained of all strength and her legs twitched uncontrollably. With supreme effort, she twisted her neck to look at Plum. “Is that normal?”

  The thaumagician’s face was corpse grey and covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. “About as far from normal as it gets.”

  “What happened? It was . . .” Wrench swallowed, trying not to think of the nightmare chittering and constricting tentacles. “. . . purgatory.”

  “Not purgatory,” said Plum, “maybe somewhere similar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you created a rupture.”

  A rupture? Breaking the barrier between worlds. How could that be? There were weak points from the original catastrophe, gates now sealed, or at least netted as Bot had put it, but you couldn’t create new ones.

  “That’s not possible.”

  Plum pressed his fingertips against her cheek, as if he wanted to keep contact with her, keep her in this world, the real world. “Technically, it is possible. Although, normally it takes a huge amount of effort, planning, occult knowledge, sacrifices, ancient artefacts, and an entire evil hermetic order. You shouldn’t be able to punch through to the dark dimensions by accident.”

  “No. It can’t have been. We’re both exhausted from magic. We probably just imagined it.”

  “It was real all right. I couldn’t see it,” Plum shuddered, “but I sensed it. Something from elsewhere trying to pull you through.”

  Wrench’s hands went to her throat. “I felt tentacles grabbing me.”

  “Yep. That’ll be it. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think the door was fully open.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because York hasn’t been destroyed in a mindless orgy of gibbering violence.”

  Some strength finally returned to Wrench’s arms and she forced herself into a sitting position. She’d welcomed the fact that at Thirteen she could be herself, no longer having to keep her powers a secret. However, if Plum was right, if she had caused a rupture, that was something else. Something she didn’t want anyone to know. “Don’t tell Bot, please.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” Plum groaned and eased himself next to her.

  “You dobbed me in about the magic at Humbug and Mints.”

  Plum wrung his hands together. “Yeah, well, Bot needed to know so he could decide how to deal with it.”

  Wrench supposed that was true. If they were in another tight squeeze, like when they’d faced Carwyn at the church and she started firing off random magic, it could be catastrophic. Then again, surely creating a rupture was far more dangerous, so why wasn’t Plum going to tell him?

  “And he doesn’t need to know about this?” she asked.

  “If he finds out, he’ll kill you.”

  Wrench inhaled sharply. “Kill me? I thought he wanted to give remarkables like us a chance?”

  “You’re too dangerous to let live. He may like you, but he has to think of the possible consequences.”

  “And what about you?”

  A tired smile curved Plum’s lips. “I like you too. And I’m trying very hard not to think about the possible consequences.”

  “You won’t tell.”

  “They’d have to torture it out of me,” said Plum.

  Drained by the magic, Wrench spent the remainder of the day in bed. Her head thumped like a steam hammer and cramps racked her muscles. Livid purple bruises spotted her arms, torso and neck, a solid reminder that unlike on top of the tower, the metal tentacles had been far from imaginary. There was no “net” over the rupture she’d created, and something had reached through.

  Perhaps Flemington had been right to try and electrocute her in the cell. Like Plum had said, she was too dangerous to let live. The regulator believed that as a child she was powerful enough to crash the Drake, killing her parents and the train’s crew. The suspicion that Flemington was correct had wheedled its way into Wrench’s mind. She’d accidentally killed seven people that
day, but that was trifling compared to the tens of thousands that might die if she accidentally opened a rupture.

  She should really confess to Bot, come clean whatever the consequences. Only, for the first time since the crash of the Drake, she felt like she belonged.

  A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts.

  “I’ve brought you some dinner,” called Octavia.

  “It’s open,” replied Wrench.

  Octavia let herself in and deposited a silver tray of scrumptious-smelling food on the table. Wrench had been too lethargic all day to eat. Gazing now at the tender pink beef, golden roast potatoes and fresh mint peas, she realised how hungry she was. Her mouth watered, and a distant memory of sour sweets tingled her tongue. She clenched her teeth together and pushed all thoughts of magic from her mind. The rich aroma of the steaming gravy reached her nose. She grabbed the knife and fork and hacked free a succulent chunk of beef.

  “Plum told me what you’ve been through and I thought you’d need some sustenance,” said Octavia.

  Gravy dripped from the skewered beef, the fork paused halfway to Wrench’s mouth. Had Plum dobbed her in again? He’d promised not to tell but maybe that was just a ruse to get away from her, scared of what she might do. Her gaze travelled to the plate. Was this her last supper? The condemned prisoner’s final meal before she was retired?

  “Magic practice always used to exhaust Plum,” continued Octavia, “Although, your constitution is somewhat more robust than his, I would venture to say.”

  Wrench’s shoulders sagged with relief and she bit the beef from the fork. Octavia didn’t know.

  “What don’t I know?” said Octavia.

  Damn! She’d forgotten about Octavia’s extrasensory perception. Just how limited was it? Wrench tried to force away all thoughts of the weapons range, determined not to think about the rupture and the tentacles. The more she tried to ignore it, the more it came to mind. It was like the old trick when you told someone not to think of a pink elephant and then that was all they could think about.

  “Oh! That’s what I don’t know.” Octavia’s hand went to her mouth. “And I’m not talking about the pink elephants.”

  Wrench let her fork clatter to the plate. “Please don’t tell him.”

  Octavia smiled. “One thing you become very good at when you have an aberration like mine is keeping secrets.” She reached out a hand and pulled Wrench’s collar away from her neck. Purple welts coloured the skin where the tentacle had grabbed her. “You’re going to need a better way of covering that up. I’ll make you a cravat to match your dungarees. Does it hurt?”

  “It feels like splash burns from welding,” said Wrench. “Only much worse.”

  “Nasty. I’ve got some cream that will help with those. I’m a lot better these days, but when I was younger, and angrier, I could pack a hell of a sting,” she said, wiggling her tentacles. “Bot was immune, so he tended to bear the brunt of my teenage tantrums.”

  “You knew Bot as a teenager?”

  “I don’t think Bot’s ever been a teenager.”

  “No. I meant –”

  Octavia stroked Wrench’s brow with a tentacle. “I’m kidding with you. Yes, Bot recruited me to Thirteen when I was your age. To be honest it was a miracle I’d survived that long. It’s hard to hide an aberration like mine. Even in a circus.”

  “You were in a circus?”

  “It was the only way my mother could think to keep me safe. Carnies have always been treated as outsiders and freaks, they accepted me without question.”

  “And you were part of their freak show?”

  Octavia raised her eyebrows. “No. I was a fortune teller. With an ability like mine I knew what people most wanted and fed it back to them in the form of a prophecy.”

  Wrench mentally kicked herself for making such a prejudiced presumption.

  “It’s all right,” said Octavia. “Everyone always assumes I was the amazing octopus woman.”

  “It’s not all right, is it though? I’m as bad as the people I’m fighting against.”

  “When you can read people’s minds you soon realise that everyone is prejudiced about something.” Octavia rested a tentacle on Wrench’s hand. “The important thing is to rationalise those negative thoughts and not let them influence your behaviour. You, my dear, have done better than that. You’re trying to change things.”

  “I’ve not changed anything. I can’t even change myself.”

  “But you will. I’ve known Bot since I was a child and I have never seen him treat anyone like he treats you. He knows you’re so very special.”

  It was difficult to imagine Octavia as a child. The woman before her was so elegant and confident. How old was Octavia now? Thirty-five? Forty? Wrench wasn’t very good at judging age, but it must have been some twenty years ago. That meant Bot had been saving remarkables since before she was born. How could that be? The technology to build a mechanoid like Bot simply didn’t exist back then. Heck, she wasn’t even sure it existed now. The mechs used by the regulators to bolster their ranks were masterpieces of engineering but even they weren’t a patch on Bot.

  “I’m thirty-seven if you must know,” said Octavia. “Bot is considerably older.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “You’re impossible. I’m impossible. Yet here we are living in an age of enlightenment where science tries to explain everything but serves more to shine a light on how little we understand. Bot is an enigma for sure, but many thousands of aber –, remarkables owe their lives to him.”

  “Plum says Bot will kill me if he finds out what I can do.”

  “Life has not been easy for Plum. He’s suffered more than most and tends to have a somewhat bleak outlook.”

  “You think Bot would understand? You think he’d let me be?” She didn’t want to leave Thirteen, to be alone again. Despite the danger, and the antagonism from the QRF, she was desperate to stay.

  “I’ve seen Bot do terrible things. Things I wouldn’t do or couldn’t do. Some people think he’s heartless, but they don’t know him. He’s tasked with protecting humankind and that responsibility comes with a cost.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I haven’t. Perhaps it’s a question only you and Bot can answer.”

  “Or perhaps tomorrow the Celestines will be able to see my future,” said Wrench.

  “Perhaps they will. Stranger things have happened.” Octavia groomed her eyebrows with a tentacle. “In fact, they happen daily when you work for Thirteen.”

  The Astrologium was set atop a large hill at the edge of the York University campus. Some claimed the Celestines had chosen the location in the hope of gaining some reflected credibility from the university, astrology having fallen from being a science to a superstition over the last century. However, on days like today where a heavy smog from the mills and factories blanketed the city, Wrench could see another reason for the choice of position.

  Rising above the clouds, like the isle of Avalon, poked a grassy hilltop and thrusting skywards from its centre was the Astrologium. A multitude of articulated telescopes protruded from the spheroidal, steel-plated structure, giving it the appearance of a giant sea-mine. But they were mere toys compared to “the Cyclops”, a massive brass cylinder that extended fifty feet above the roof. At its end, a verdigris dome protected the “eye” of the Cyclops, a diamond polished lens imported from Italy. The Celestines claimed the telescope was the most powerful in the country, a fact hotly disputed by the Royal Observatory in Greenwich.

  Wrench had previously only seen the Astrologium from afar when the apprentices had visited the university. Up close it was a truly magnificent piece of engineering. She hoped that once their formal business was completed Bot might allow her time to inspect it more closely.

  “Who are we here to see?” she asked.

  “Magi Taurus,” said Bot.

  They broke free of the last few wisps of smog and into hazy sunshine, the warm rays
pleasant on Wrench’s face after the dirty damp fog. “That’s bull, right?”

  “You said it.”

  “I was referring to the star sign. Taurus is represented by the bull.”

  Bot pointed to a toppled statue of a lady that lay in pieces adjacent to the riveted steel front door. “St Celestine the third. Burned at the stake for suggesting the earth went around the sun. She was a true scientist. I wonder what she’d think of this lot here?” Bot knocked on the Astrologium door. The dull clank of his knuckles echoed inside.

  A raw-boned man, whose only resemblance to a bull was the way he snorted as he heaved open the heavy door, greeted them. “Welcome to the Celestines. We’re delighted to once again welcome the regulators to our humble order.”

  He ran fingers like winter twigs over his slicked-back widow’s peak. His gaunt cheeks tightened, coercing lips thin as string beans into a smile. The hardness in his eyes suggested he was anything but pleased to see them. Then again, very few people were pleased to see the regulators. They were like the “pure collectors” who scoured the streets for dog poo and sold it to the tanneries for use in leather working. It was generally acknowledged that they were needed, but that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted to meet one.

  “I’m Bot. This is Brasswitch and we’d be obliged if you could answer a few questions for us.”

  “Of course,” said Magi Taurus, making no move to welcome them in.

  “And we’d like to see the orrery,” added Wrench. Above her, in the centre of the spheroidal hall that made up the Astrologium, Wrench sensed a machine of marvellous ingenuity.

  Magi Taurus looked somewhat taken aback. “Will you be requiring us to run similar programs as your colleague?”

  Bot leant closer. “No, we don’t need –”

  “No, we don’t need similar programs; we need exactly the same programs,” said Wrench. She suspected Bot didn’t know what the Orrery was or what it might tell them. She only had a vague idea herself, having seen a much smaller version at the science museum in York. They couldn’t be sure of Flemington’s purpose in visiting the Celestines, but finding out exactly what they’d researched for him may provide some answers.