Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  The red and black striped trousers were made from strips of sturdy leather and had reinforced bubble-brass plates on the knees, thighs and hips. “It seems that if I’m going to keep you out of the sickbay you’re going to need more protection than just kevlaris.”

  Despite her natural apathy towards appearance Wrench found herself grinning. The garments that Octavia crafted were not merely clothes; they were works of art, fabric engineering. She had somehow tailored the leather stripes to flow around the curved armour plates, lending the trousers a streamlined air that wouldn’t seem amiss on a Rutherford Rocket express locomotive.

  “Those are magnificent,” said Wrench. “Where did you learn to make such wonderful designs?”

  “Everyone in a circus has myriad jobs. They may be a clown in the big top, but the rest of the time they’re mucking out the animals, fixing tents, and fifty other tasks to keep the circus going. One of my jobs was sewing costumes.” Octavia wiggled her tentacles. “With my extra appendages I was able to create outfits others could only dream of. When I joined Thirteen I put my skills to good use. As you’ve discovered, the job can be pretty hard on clothes.”

  Wrench smiled sheepishly. “Yes, sorry about that. I’ll try not to wreck these ones.”

  Extending a tentacle, Octavia handed over the trousers. “I’m more concerned about you wrecking yourself, so I’m making you a bodice to match. It’ll be a bit heavier than your normal clothes, but the bubble-brass keeps it manageable and with your physique you won’t even notice.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Wrench. “I’m used to hard physical labour, but magic is something else – it knocks me for six.”

  “You’ll get used to it in time. Pippa did.”

  Wrench closed her eyes and rested her head on the chaise longue. Of course Pippa got used to it. Pippa was bally-well perfect.

  “Let me fix you a little pick-me-up.” China teacups chinked in their saucers and Octavia set about making tea. “I thought you might have visited Sergeant Wilhelm in the sickbay. He could do with the distraction. Regulators’ families aren’t allowed on the train and I know he misses his children.”

  Wrench pushed away her guilt. She’d gone past the sickbay earlier but couldn’t bring herself to look in on the sergeant. She hadn’t known he had a family. Would that have made a difference? No. She had nothing to feel guilty about, it was her that had saved him. Except the sergeant had first pushed her to safety, taking a lightning bolt, sacrificing himself to protect someone he supposedly hated. “I’m sure I’d be the last person he’d want to see,” said Wrench, trying to loosen the shameful knot that bound her chest.

  “Quite the contrary,” answered Octavia. “He’s going to make a full recovery and he says that’s all down to you. He said you were quite remarkable.”

  Wrench opened her eyes. “He said I was remarkable?”

  “Indeed. I don’t think he chose those words lightly.”

  Octavia placed a tray containing a tea service on a table next to Wrench. She poured a cup of sweet-smelling ruddy tea, into which she dropped a slice of lemon. “I used to make this for Pippa on her worst days. It doesn’t do to take it too often, but a little boost now and again doesn’t hurt.”

  “Thanks.” Wrench sipped at the tea. “How do you put up with them? The other regulators, I mean.” She couldn’t imagine what it must be like. She found it hard enough dealing with the sideways glances and gestures of contempt. For Octavia, it must be a million times worse, actually knowing what they thought.

  “I suppose it’s just something I’ve accepted.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. It’s wrong. If it was me I’d hate them. I do hate them.”

  “Hate is pointless.” Octavia dipped a biscuit into her tea. “Nothing ever got changed for the better by hate.”

  “You think you can change them?”

  “No.” Octavia rested a tentacle on Wrench’s hand. “But I think you can.”

  Wrench slunk into the sickbay. It was odd to be there as a visitor and not a patient. A brass plaque slotted into a holder on the door identified Sergeant Wilhelm’s room. It struck Wrench that engraving a plaque with the sergeant’s name was a considerable effort to go to. Then again, she’d been to the sickbay several times already in her brief stint in the regulators and perhaps the QRF were frequent patients too.

  “Enter,” shouted Wilhelm in response to her tentative knock.

  Taking a seat by the railed bed, Wrench handed Wilhelm the remains of the bonfire toffee she’d purchased from Humbug and Mints’. “Sorry, it’s all I had left.”

  “Thanks. Can’t chew anyway,” said Wilhelm, one side of his mouth drooping.

  Wrench placed her hands in her lap and picked at a fingernail. She had nothing to say to the sergeant. The awkward silence lengthened. Despite what Octavia had told her about Wilhelm’s words, the space between them still seemed charged with enmity.

  “Do they know any more about who attacked us?” asked Wilhelm, breaking the quiet.

  “I’ve heard nowt.” Octavia had been summoned to a confidential briefing that Wrench was excluded from, whether it was about the attack she didn’t know. “It’s got to be connected to Leech and the NIA, surely?”

  Shuffling up his pillows, Wilhelm winced. “Or you.”

  Wrench huffed. “What do you mean me?”

  “They attacked us for a reason and it sure as hell wasn’t me they were after. They killed Pippa at the Minster; whatever they’re up to, maybe they hadn’t bargained on Thirteen finding another Brasswitch so soon.”

  An uneasy feeling about her visit to the Minster and the under-crypt needled Wrench. Like trying to remember a name just out of reach, a thought lurked on the edge of her consciousness. It was important, she was sure of it, but the more she tried to force it into the open, the further it slunk into the dark recesses of her mind. They’d missed something, some vital clue. She tried to picture the scene but unlike Plum her recall was not photographic and she could only picture a vague impression of the under-crypt.

  Wrench stood. “Enjoy the toffee.”

  “You’re leaving so soon?” Wilhelm sounded genuinely disappointed.

  “There’s some place I need to be.” It was no good; she was going to have to visit the Minster again.

  Wrench grabbed her bracers from the wardrobe weapons locker in her room. For the first time since the ambush in the Shambles she felt energised, her lethargy forced away by the prospect of action. She stripped off her patched dungarees and tried on her new trousers for size. They fitted perfectly, as she knew they would, and the armoured plates gave them a snug robustness. She strapped on her bracers and grabbed her bowler hat. No one had implicitly said she couldn’t leave the train but given recent events she should probably take Plum or someone from the Quick Reaction Force with her. Neither option appealed. There was no way she was going to approach the QRF for help. Despite having saved the sergeant’s life, and the possible thawing of their relationship, she suspected his men would take the view that he shouldn’t have been babysitting a remarkable in the first place. And the image of Plum being tortured in the cell was a constant albatross around her neck. She wasn’t going to deliberately put him in danger. No, she’d go on her own. She had her armour and her bracers; she’d be fine.

  Wrench peeked into the corridor. The coast was clear. She hurried towards the vestibule at the end of the carriage. Ahead, a cabin door swung open and Octavia’s voice drifted from inside. Wrench’s heart leapt. A tall, red-suited regulator stepped into the corridor and stared down at her. Wrench felt her leg muscles tighten, the ability to walk naturally seeming to desert her. She raised a finger to her bowler hat and nodded. The woman gave the faintest of nods then hurried past on a mission of her own.

  Wrench loitered in the vestibule until the woman disappeared from view, then slipped from the carriage. She strode across the platform, her heart pounding, waiting to be called back at any moment. The London express thundered through the station.
She sensed the power in its massive pistons and the might of the machine somehow bolstered her confidence. By the time she’d crossed the footbridge she knew she was in the clear. From her pocket, she pulled a brass half-crown and handed it to a carriage driver waiting in the station’s forecourt. “The Minster, please,” she said, climbing into the back of the cab.

  A hundred feet overhead, supported by thick carved pillars, the domed ceiling reflected the harmonious tones of the choir rehearsing. Ahead, row upon row of wooden pews stretched all the way to the distant presbytery. The building was immense. How many locomotives would fit inside it? At least half-a-dozen platforms, for sure. Wrench lurked in a pew towards the rear of the nave observing the comings and goings, getting a feel for the rhythms of the Minster.

  A verger polished brasses near the entrance to St George’s chapel, complicating her task. She needed a distraction. Nearby, a reverend distributed hymn books for the evening’s service from a clockwork trolley. With the smallest of mental nudges Wrench flicked off the brakes. The trolley raced away from the reverend, carving a meandering path down the aisle, spilling hymnbooks as it went. Under cover of the chaos Wrench stole past the verger and into the chapel of St George.

  The stone entrance to the under-crypt that Leech had smashed through was now surrounded by a rough lumber frame and door. The lock was inconsequential, and Wrench was soon descending the steps with a candle pilfered from the altar to St George clasped in her hand.

  Shadows skittered over the sandstone walls and low arched ceiling. Wrench forced away an almost primeval fear that flickered inside of her. They were clearly just shadows from her candle, not the grasping tentacles of nightmare things from other worlds. Nothing to be afraid of. She spun the discs on her bracers, the reassuring whirr lending her courage. The makeshift door at the top of the stairs had been locked, so no one could be in the under-crypt, only her, alone, in the dark. She hastened to the casket, the discs on her bracers spinning faster.

  The phosphor-bronze lid lay open, the hazel wood-lined interior empty bar a layer of ash. Her eyes lifted to the sooty silhouettes on the wall. What had really happened here? They had assumed it was the NIA but what if that wasn’t the case? The smudgy shapes looked identical to the one Carwyn had left at the chapel or indeed to the ones Plum had faked at Flemington’s lodgings.

  A breeze worried her candle and the shadows shifted. This time the shapes were not the product of her imagination: a second light source had entered the under-crypt. Silhouettes of giant tentacles played across the ceiling. Wrench snuffed out her candle and ducked behind the casket. The writhing shapes drew nearer, and her pulse quickened. A tingling ran from the nape of her neck down her spine, the charge from the bracers filling her with electricity. Her breathing slowed, and she brought her arms closer together.

  “Don’t be alarmed. It’s only me,” said Octavia.

  Wrench peeked from behind the casket. Octavia crept through the under-crypt, a candle in one hand, a four-barrelled Lancaster pistol in the other. Her tentacles probed the air ahead of her, seeking out danger.

  “What the chuff are you doing here?” Wrench stood, her sense of relief marred by annoyance at having been discovered.

  “I was worried about you. I picked up on the subconscious doubt of regulator Pendle. She couldn’t understand why you were wearing your hat inside.”

  “How did you know I’d be at the Minster?”

  “Once I realised you weren’t on the train I did a sweep of the station. The carriage driver told me he’d brought you here.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not in so many words. You do tend to stand out in people’s minds. You’re no longer the grey girl.”

  “No, I’m the blue train, or the Brasswitch, or possibly the end of all creation.”

  Octavia smiled. “Let’s stick with the first two. Did you find anything?”

  “I’ve not had a proper chance to look. Something was wrong when I first visited with Bot, only I can’t remember what.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Not really.” Wrench ran her hand over the embossed sigils on the casket. “You weren’t here when we opened it.”

  “I can be. I can help you remember, share your memories.” She tilted the candle and dribbled wax onto a stone plinth then set the candle into the molten pool and waited for it to harden. “Come stand by me.”

  Wrench hesitated. Should she do this? She was used to extending her own mind into machines, but they weren’t sentient, well mostly not. To have someone probe her thoughts was strange, personal. This was different from when she’d previously let Octavia examine her. Octavia would be reliving her memories, feeling her emotions. She would be experiencing what it was to be Wrench.

  “You’ve done this before, right?”

  “It’s not my first tea party. Trust me.”

  Wrench shuffled closer and removed her bowler hat. With a delicate touch Octavia wrapped tentacles around Wrench’s head.

  “This won’t hurt, but you may find it a little disorienting,” said Octavia. “Close your eyes and relax. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Wrench let her eyes flutter closed. It was easier to relax than she’d expected. The tentacles were warm and soft like velvet on her skin. They pulsed ever so gently in a reassuring, comforting way. Wrench sighed, all her troubles melting away. “I’m ready,” she said.

  A procession of images flashed across Wrench’s mind. The ambush in the Shambles, the Astrologium, the battle at the church, saying goodbye to Mr Grimthorpe, then she was back in the under-crypt with Bot at her side. The sooty smell burned fresh in her nose and the conversation with Bot replayed.

  “No, you’re a moron. The casket’s empty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s something odd about the last lock. It’s got a counterbalance that won’t allow it to open if there’s a weight in the casket.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Wrench’s eyes sprang open and nausea overtook her. She gagged and spat bile onto the flagstones. Octavia’s tentacles uncoiled. One of them retrieved a handkerchief from the folds of her dress and offered it to Wrench.

  Her head spinning, Wrench leant against a stone pillar for support and wiped her mouth. The casket couldn’t be opened if something was inside. They’d been so on edge at the time that they’d missed the obvious. Leech couldn’t have released an NIA. There was no NIA, just its remains turned to ash.

  Octavia rubbed Wrench’s back. “Deep breaths. The sickness will pass in a minute.”

  “Carwyn killed them. Same as at the church.” The church where Flemington had been acting strangely, determined to slay Carwyn. He didn’t want the remarkable to talk. “I think Flemington put Carwyn up to it, then tried to silence him.”

  Octavia’s tentacles undulated. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Wrench gazed at the casket. Maybe Flemington hadn’t wanted it disturbed. Only a Brasswitch could open the locks. Flemington had arrested her and if it wasn’t for Bot she’d have been electrocuted at pretty much the same time the only other Brasswitch, Pippa, was being turned into a sooty smudge. That couldn’t be coincidence.

  Raised voices drifted from the chapel above. Octavia’s head snapped up. “We may have some explaining to do.”

  Bot clanked down the steps, his red eyes scanning the under-crypt.

  “Come quickly. We’ve got to stop Flemington,” he said.

  Wrench took a step towards him. “What –”

  “He’s sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted. No time to waste,” said the mechanoid.

  “What happened to you, is what I was going to say.”

  Bot’s eyes narrowed. He turned and stomped back up the steps.

  “Your shoulder. It’s silver,” said Wrench, hurrying after him.

  “Todkin didn’t have time to electroplate it.”

  They stepped into the light of the chapel and Bot’s shoulder armo
ur sparkled like a million diamonds.

  “Oh! That’s beautiful,” said Octavia.

  “It’s not a fashion statement. It’s a new alloy Todkin’s invented: Carblingium.”

  “Is it designed to dazzle the enemy?” said Wrench, failing to keep the amusement from her voice.

  “Brasswitch, I’d wind your neck in. There’s a conversation to be had about you running off on your own, but that will have to wait until later.”

  “I wasn’t on my own. I was with Octavia.”

  Bot stormed from St George’s chapel. “That makes it even worse. I could have lost two of my most valuable assets in one go.”

  Octavia took Wrench’s hand. “He said assets, but what he really meant was friends.”

  Outside the Minster waited two regulator walkomobiles, smoke billowing from their chimney stacks.

  Bot headed for the front carriage. “Octavia, go back to Thirteen. I don’t want you mixed up in this. Brasswitch, you’re with me. Plum’s in the carriage; he’ll bring you up to speed.”

  “Take care,” said Octavia to Wrench. “I can’t see the future. Not in any real sense, but something bad is coming. That much I can tell.”

  Wrench climbed into the carriage, Octavia’s warning loud in her ears. The door had barely shut when the walkomobile lurched into a sprint, sending her sprawling onto the seat.

  “Chuff it!” A spasm of pain jolted through Wrench’s ribs. She pushed herself upright and hugged her arms around her torso, trying to deaden the stinging sensation. Her body felt like a punching bag. Over the past few days she’d been electrocuted, whipped with chains and savaged by tentacles from another dimension.

  “You still suffering?” asked Plum. He sat unnaturally straight, his back pressed into the padded leather seat, his arms held stiff, bracing himself against the carriage’s movements.

  Wrench sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Feels like I’ve been through a steampress.”