by Gareth Ward
“No, it’s no good,” said the medic-mechanic. “I can’t get it off. You’ll have to see the Artificer about this one.”
Bot picked at the battered metal with his thick fingers. “We need to see him anyway. Brasswitch has to get her glasses fixed.”
“Not fixed, replaced,” said Wrench. “I’m thinking goggles. That way they won’t fall off in a fight.”
“Young ladies should stay out of fights,” admonished Octavia.
“Away with you. I’m as good as any boy,” said Wrench, looking at Plum. “Besides, it was a lady that attacked me.”
Octavia extended a tentacle and prodded Bot in the chest. “You should have looked after her better.”
The mechanoid gestured to the dent in his shoulder. “I was otherwise engaged at the time. We hadn’t been expecting trouble. We’d only gone to ask a few questions.”
“And what did you learn?” asked Octavia.
“Nothing,” said Bot, sounding like a sulky child.
“No. We did learn things. We just don’t know what they mean,” said Wrench. “They’re interested in the comet’s effects on Brasswitches. They don’t want me dead. And Bot punches about as hard as Plum.” Wrench nodded at Plum. “No offence.”
Plum shrugged his skeletal frame. “None taken.”
“What about me?” said Bot.
“It was meant to be offensive to you.” Wrench ran a fingernail over the crack in the broken lens in her glasses.
“Right. I see how it is.” Gears ground beneath Bot’s injured shoulder. “Brasswitch and I are off to visit the Artificer. Next time I meet that Hammer-Hulk he’s going to rue the day he put a dent in my –”
“Ego,” said Octavia.
“Pride,” said Wrench.
“Armour,” corrected Bot.
Todkin cleared an intricate brass instrument from a stool in his workshop and gestured to Wrench. “Looks like you need a sit down. Has he been getting you into trouble?”
“He is trouble,” said Wrench. Even seated she was taller than Todkin. He climbed up a set of steps and examined her broken glasses.
“Hmm. Easy enough to fix but as you suggest, maybe some goggles for work.” From his tool belt he removed a set of curved callipers and placed the tip against either side of Wrench’s head. He repeated the process at various points on her skull, jotting the measurements in a moleskin notebook.
“You have a small head. But, unlike Darwin or Broca, I believe size has no bearing on intelligence.” He stepped down from the ladder. “If it did, you would surely be visiting a giant rather than . . . well, rather than me.”
“So, how long will it take, Clever Cogs?” said Bot.
“You can’t hurry genius.” His pencil scratching across the notebook, Todkin made some calculations.
With a rattle like a million broken watch parts, Bot dropped a sack that bulged in odd places onto the table. “But you can encourage it to go a bit faster.”
Todkin’s eyes widened. “Is that . . .”
“An incentive for the expeditious creation of Brasswitch’s goggles.”
“Making the goggles is a simple task.” Todkin added a sketch of the new eyewear to the notebook. “However, rather than replace what has already proved to be inadequate, there is an opportunity to include a number of advancements.”
“Advancements?” said Wrench.
“Telescopic capabilities, close-up magnification, better vision at night, and oh so much more.”
“It needs to be done quickly,” said Bot.
“It needs to be done correctly,” said Todkin.
“Make a simple replacement for now; you can tinker on an advanced pair later,” said Bot.
Todkin held a hand over his heart. “I’m an artisan. If you wanted simple, you could go to any metal-mickey fabricator.”
“I’m a pragmatist. You’ll get it done now if you want this.” Bot jangled the sack.
Todkin winced. “Please don’t do that.” He grabbed a set of goggles from a cabinet and, using a complex hinged mechanism, attached an assortment of brass-rimmed lenses to the frame. He climbed the stepladder and placed the goggles on Wrench’s head. “Look at Mendeleev’s periodic table on the wall and tell me when it becomes clear.”
Wrench focused on the centre of the table of known chemical elements. The letters Nb, Niobium, were readable, if somewhat fuzzy, but its atomic weight, written below it in smaller letters, was a blur. Todkin switched lenses in and out of position until suddenly the number 92.9 appeared crisp and sharp.
“That’s it,” said Wrench. “It’s perfect.” She’d worn glasses for as long as she could remember but the combination of lenses Todkin had used made the world so much clearer.
The Artificer jotted more notes in his book. “Excellent. I can grind new lenses for your glasses now. The goggles will take a few days.”
“I thought we agreed you were going to make a quick pair?” said Bot.
“That is the quick pair.” Todkin folded his arms.
A low mechanical grumble resonated from beneath Bot’s armour, but he didn’t push the issue further.
Todkin flipped his notebook closed and gestured to the dent on Bot’s shoulder. “I suppose you want me to fix that too.”
“If you wouldn’t mind. It’s grating somewhat, and it makes me look ugly.”
“The armour I can fix. Your ugliness is beyond even my great talents,” said Todkin, rummaging in a toolbox.
Steam shot from Bot’s neck. “What is it today? Everyone’s a critic.”
The Artificer selected a set of splitter jaws and plugged them into a steam line dangling from the ceiling. “Come on then – let’s have a look at you.”
“What, now?”
“No, a week last Tuesday. Obviously now.”
“But there’s a lady present.”
“And?”
Bot folded his arms. “I’m not getting undressed in front of Brasswitch.”
“We’re removing your outer armour. I hardly think that counts as undressing you.”
“It still isn’t decent. It’s just weird.”
“No, you’re weird,” said Todkin. “Send for an escort to take Wrench back to Thirteen. I’ll get her glasses fixed while we wait.”
A business-like knock rattled the front door of the workshop.
“Excellent timing.” Todkin clicked the newly ground lenses into a frame then handed the glasses to Wrench.
She hooked them over her ears and surveyed the workshop. The wonderful creations that lined the walls sparkled bright, crisp and clear. Her previous glasses had allowed her to see but Todkin’s masterful craftsmanship brought the world vividly to life.
“Good as new?” asked Todkin.
“Better. They’re incredible.”
Todkin held out his hand for Wrench to shake. She slipped past it and, stooping, gave the Artificer a heartfelt hug. “Thanks,” she said.
“You’re m-most welcome,” stammered Todkin, his face reddening as Wrench released him.
“And thanks for these.” She held up her arms and motioned to the gauntlets of Zeus. “I’m getting much better with them. It took me a while to attune to the mechanism then something clicked and the machinery and I became one. You truly are a genius. They’re magnificent, a work of art.”
Todkin stroked his beard, the whiskers not hiding the large smile on his face. “They’re the work of an artisan.”
Bot’s gears ground. “Your escort’s waiting Brasswitch and the artisan needs to work his mechanical magic on me.”
“I’ll have your goggles ready expeditiously. It’s a pleasure to use my skills for someone who really appreciates them,” said Todkin, glaring at Bot.
“I just want my shoulder fixed, expeditiously,” said Bot, making quote signs in the air with his fingers. “And you’re not getting any hugs from me.”
Wrench heaved the door open. She smiled, seeing Plum waiting for her. The QRF sergeant stepped into view and the expression dropped from her face.
“That is a bit unnecessary,” agreed Wrench. “I’m more than capable of looking after you.”
The sergeant grunted and unstrapped his maxim cannon. “Plum, you’ve got point, Brasswitch in the middle, I’ll keep an eye on things from the rear.”
Plum sidled next to Wrench. “If anything does go wrong, don’t try and use magic. We don’t want any elder gods breaking through,” he whispered.
“Got it. No magic. No tentacled monstrosities from other worlds.”
They trudged out of the snickelway and onto what counted as the main drag through the Shambles. The overhanging buildings with their gnarled oak trusses curbed the light filtering down to the confined street, leaving doorways and alleyways cast in deep shadow. A swirling smog carried with it the smell of sooty chimneys and sewage.
A cat screeched and down a side alley a flash of light was followed by a loud crackle. Wrench stiffened. For a fleeting moment she thought she’d sensed the oily feeling surrounding her. She pushed her mind outwards, searching. All she discovered were the mechanics of everyday life. Nothing untoward. Or to be precise, nothing more untoward than the illegal weapons and alchemical distilleries you’d expect to find in a criminally inclined neighbourhood like the Shambles.
“Stay frosty. Something’s not right,” said the sergeant.
“I thought it was just a scaredy-cat,” said Plum, his voice an octave higher than normal.
“You’re the scaredy-cat,” said Wrench.
“Knock it off. We have a situation,” said the sergeant.
Wrench scanned the alley. “I don’t sense anything.”
“My senses aren’t gained from being an aberration; they’re learned in the field, born from combat and surviving missions.”
Wrench’s heart thumped faster. The sergeant was right. Something was different. A roof slate smashed onto the cobbles further along the alley. Overhead, the buildings leant together, the eaves of the houses nearly touching. A man descended through the gap in the rooftops. Suspended by thick octopus arms that suckered to the brickwork, he writhed downwards.
The crisp metallic click-clack of the sergeant cocking his weapon shocked Wrench from the hypnotic trance created by Octo-Man’s descent. Without thinking she spun the Wimshurst discs on her bracers up to speed. Plum raised his hands, his fingers twitching into a magical configuration. More tentacles squirmed from beneath Octo-Man’s coat and pinned Plum’s arms to his sides.
The sergeant’s strong hand gripped Wrench’s shoulder and slung her sideways. She slammed painfully into a wall, her cheek pressed cold against the dank brickwork. A flash of electricity bleached the world momentarily white and the burnt tang of ozone filled the air. Wrench gazed in confusion at her arms. Had she accidentally fired the bracers? No. Her body still tingled with the energy stored within her.
The sergeant collapsed to his knees. On the floor beside him his maxim cannon glowed red, its barrel a molten mess.
Further along the alley a blue-skinned woman with thick copper hair advanced, her body crackling with electricity.
“Run,” croaked the sergeant.
Wrench turned, but not to run. Her bracers would be useless against the woman, they might even make her stronger, but she could help Plum. Slowing the spinning discs, she dialled back the voltage and straightened her arms. Electricity leapt from her hands, a crackling arc discharging into Octo-Man’s chest. He twitched, and his long rubbery tentacles flailed violently. Limp as a discarded ragdoll, Plum slid across the cobbles. With a strangled gasp, Octo-Man keeled over.
Behind her Wrench sensed a dryness in the air as a massive charge built, waiting to be released. She spun around. The sergeant scrambled for his backup pistol, but one arm hung useless and his other hand spasmed, an after-effect of the electric shock.
Lightning-Lady pointed a finger at the sergeant, blue sparks crackling along its length. “Consider yourself deregulated,” she said.
Wrench launched herself, sprawling in front of the sergeant. She held her arms above her head, the bracers acting as an earth for the electricity crackling from Lightning-Lady’s fingers. Pain forked through Wrench’s body. Her muscles tightened, and she gasped; her blood surged hot, hammering her heart. She gritted her teeth. She had to control the energy before it destroyed her. Forcing down the pain she distributed the charge, storing it like she did with the bracers. A throbbing ache taunted every muscle in her body; the power was still too much. She pointed her arms downwards and in a flash the excess electricity earthed into the ground, shattering the cobbles.
Lightning-Lady shrugged. “I can do this all day. Can you?”
She couldn’t. Another hit would surely kill her. She’d saved the sergeant once but in the end what good had she done? She was going to die lying in a puddle in the Shambles. Once again, the air became dry, Lightning-Lady’s electric charge building. Dry air, wet puddle. Water was the enemy of electricity. If she could control the water, she could save them. Plum had said no magic, but if she didn’t do something they would all die. She pulled a pineapple lozenge from her pocket and thrust it into her mouth. Biting down hard, her teeth cracked the sugary shell and sour sherbet spilled across her tongue. Her fingers formed the sign for water and saliva pooled in her mouth. She embraced the wet coldness of the puddle surrounding her, willing the molecules to move.
Above Lightning-Lady the air shimmered like engine oil on a railway sleeper. Wrench concentrated harder, feeling the magic inside her, pushing it out to the puddle. She sensed the water molecules responding, changing state, breaking free of the liquid, evaporating. A dirty black cloud formed in the air. Wrench shuddered, purging the magic from her.
Rain teemed down from the cloud, drenching Lightning-Lady. Electricity crackled over her skin, leaching into the ground. Her face crinkled into a snarl. “Don’t think this is over. We’re still coming for you.” Leaving a trail of sizzling sparks in her wake, she fled into the Shambles.
Wrench reached out a hand to Plum. He looked up at her, his wide violet eyes accusing. “You electrocuted me.”
“Actually, I electrocuted him.” Wrench motioned towards Octo-Man, but the cobbles where he’d fallen were bare. She scanned the alley. There was no sign of Plum’s assailant; he must have made off when Lightning-Lady retreated.
Plum brushed dust from his jacket. “The goon was holding me at the time, so it’s the same thing.”
“I dialled back the voltage. I guessed you’d be all right.”
“You guessed?”
“Would you prefer it if I said I calculated the precise voltage required based on the size of the man, the resistance of his tentacles, and the average inductance of the human body?”
Plum tilted his head. “Did you?”
“Don’t be soft.” Wrench shrugged. “I eyeballed it.”
The sergeant staggered to his feet. One arm hung limp and his legs trembled. “When you jumped in front of me, how did you know the electricity wouldn’t kill you?”
“I didn’t. But I knew it would kill you,” said Wrench.
“You should have run.” The sergeant prodded the remains of his maxim cannon with his boot.
“Would you have run?”
Despite his injuries the sergeant puffed out his chest. “Not a chance.”
“Ready for anything,” said Wrench.
“Yield to none,” completed the sergeant. He offered his functioning hand to Wrench for her to shake. “You’re not bad for an aberration.”
Wrench scowled, ignoring the offered hand. “And you are still a prejudiced pig. Because I risked my life to save yours, that makes me not bad? But any other aberration is by default evil until they’ve proved themselves worthy in your eyes?”
The serg
eant straightened. “Most other aberrations are evil.”
“No, they’re not. You only deal with the bad eggs, so your views are tainted. Most aberrations live out their days in constant fear of the regulators, trying not to be noticed.” Wrench’s whole body shook with anger. A chill filled the air and the puddle crackled and froze. From its edges a dusting of frost spread across the cobbles. “It’s hardly a wonder that some go off the rails living in perpetual terror of capture, torture and death.”
Plum put a hand on Wrench’s arm. “It was a good speech and I unreservedly agree, but you need to calm down. You got away with doing magic once. Let’s not chance it again.”
It was the day after the Shambles ambush. Wrench’s body ached and her muscles intermittently twitched, an after-effect of the electric bolt she’d absorbed. Her head pounded, and the use of magic had left her drained.
Bot was still at the Artificer’s and Plum was engaged in his own magical studies. With no one to direct her Wrench was at a loose end. She’d considered visiting the weapons range and practising with the bracers, but the thought of filling herself with electricity was as unappealing as that of practising magic.
Listlessly, she wandered the train. Maybe Darcey might need a hand on the footplate. The engineer was teaching Wrench how the Robinson operated, although Wrench suspected that push come to shove, with a flick of her mind the great locomotive would do her bidding like a dog brought to heel.
She stopped outside Octavia’s door. From inside she heard the machine-gun like rattle of the steam sewing machine. The seamstress was the only one of the regulators Wrench felt completely at ease with. Maybe Octavia’s abilities played some part, but it felt like more than that – it felt genuine. It was like having a true friend, someone who knew all your secrets, someone you could trust.
Wrench raised her hand to knock.
“It’s open,” shouted Octavia, pre-empting her.
Wrench ambled inside and slumped onto a chaise longue, exhausted by her short walk along the train. “What are you making?”
The steam sewing machine hissed to a halt. Octavia snipped the thread and pulled a pair of trousers from beneath the needle, holding them up for Wrench to see. “Tada,” she said.