Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  Bot had insisted that Wrench left the bracers of Zeus in her cabin but the atmosphere in the briefing carriage still crackled with tension. The captain gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He stared at Wrench, making no attempt to hide his abhorrence. Between them rested a closed box file. Octavia sashayed into the carriage and Flemington sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s here to monitor the conversation,” said Bot.

  “You mean she’s going to pry into my brain.” Flemington wagged a finger. “The Grand Cabal banned that.”

  “Have you got something to hide?” said Wrench.

  “Everyone’s got something to hide. You need special authority otherwise it’s a breach of my rights. Show me your authority.”

  “I don’t have any,” said Bot.

  Flemington sneered. “Then we’re done here.”

  “Which is why after we have safely rescued Plum, I will leave Thirteen.” Bot tossed an envelope onto the table. “My resignation letter. Signed and dated.”

  “No!” said Wrench. “You can’t. Thirteen needs you.” She’d finally found somewhere that she fitted in, a place where she belonged. If Flemington was in charge the remarkables would suffer. Thirteen would be destroyed.

  Bot placed a hand on Wrench’s shoulder. “We have to do this. For Plum.”

  A crooked smile twisted Flemington’s lips. “Your word on this and I get to keep the letter.”

  “My word,” agreed Bot. “But you have to be honest with us.”

  Flemington retrieved the chair and sat at the table. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Why did you visit the Epochryphal Brotherhood?” said Bot.

  “I didn’t.”

  “They said a regulator with a burned face visited them.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  Bot turned to Octavia. “He’s telling the truth,” she said.

  “Did you lure us to the church with Carwyn, hoping to kidnap Plum?”

  “No!” Flemington pulled a face of surprise. “I didn’t even want you there interfering.”

  “Why did you go to the Astrologium?”

  For the first time the confident veneer dropped from Flemington’s facade.

  “It was just routine enquiries.”

  Octavia shook her head.

  “You’ve got to be truthful or the deal’s broken.”

  “I was investigating Leech. He was clearing too many dangerous aberrations.” Flemington sat back in the chair. “The Astrologium featured in a number of his enquiries; he’d visited several times with Chattox and I couldn’t see why. I wanted to know what they were up to.”

  “He’s being truthful but he’s holding something back,” said Octavia.

  Flemington flicked a hand in the direction of Wrench. “I got them to run a program on her.”

  Wrench leant forward across the table. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a dangerous aberration. Leech cleared you, but I know you’re a killer, just like Carwyn and the others.”

  “Leech never investigated her,” said Bot.

  But he had. Wrench shuddered at the memory of being strapped in the electric chair being submitted to the full weight of Flemington’s anger as he ranted at her about the crash of the Drake. The crash Leech had investigated. That was where this all started. Wrench opened the box file resting on the table and withdrew a framed photo. A photo she had stared at for eight years, memorising every feature of her parents’ faces, making sure her memory of them would never die.

  “This is a photograph of the Drake before it crashed. Why are you and a young lady getting into the rear carriage?” said Wrench.

  The colour drained from Flemington’s face and he folded his arms. “I’m not. That’s ridiculous. That blur in the background could be anything.”

  Wrench didn’t need Octavia to tell her he was lying. She slapped her hands on the table. “Why were you on the train when my parents died?” she shouted.

  “Because I was going to propose. The lady was to be my fiancée, only you killed her, burned her alive. How do you think I got this?” Flemington pointed to his scarred face.

  “No passengers were supposed to be on the train. It was a test run.”

  “I pulled some strings. Abused my position as a regulator. I wanted to make it a day to remember. And it was. You saw to that.”

  “I didn’t crash the train. I didn’t kill my parents.”

  “If you’re so sure, let’s ask her to delve into your mind,” said Flemington, pointing at Octavia.

  “This isn’t about Brasswitch. It’s about you,” growled Bot. “Is that why you’ve been stalking her?”

  “I knew Leech had bungled the investigation into the Drake’s crash. I didn’t know that this Brasswitch was responsible at the time but when she turned up in the investigation at the coachworks I connected the dots. She’s killed before, and if you don’t deal with her now, she’ll be the death of us all.”

  “That’s not how we work at Thirteen,” said Bot.

  Flemington snarled. “Not now. Once you’re gone and the job is mine, things will change. Oh yes. Things will change.”

  “That’s only going to happen if we find Plum,” said Bot.

  “So, stop this charade and tell me what you need.”

  “One last question,” said Bot. “Are you totally loyal to the regulators?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Octavia nodded.

  It had taken the rest of the day to coordinate the resources needed for the plan to work. Flemington was to marshal as many regulators as he could and hold them at the tower in reserve, so as not to tip their hand. His cover story was that they were going to raid the asylum again. To reinforce this, he was to accidentally let slip that they had information the aberrations had returned but they needed to wait for confirmation from their source. In their previous encounters, the Brasswitch had always managed to have the jump on them, so surprise was essential to turn the tables.

  Meanwhile, Bot, Wrench and the QRF were to sneak into the Minster and take up positions from which to spring an ambush. Bot had been silent on the matter of how they were to access the Minster unnoticed and Wrench didn’t push him, aware that perhaps he couldn’t rule out that the leak was coming from the QRF.

  The canvas-covered delivery wagon rumbled over the granite cobbles of Stonegate. Wrench peered through a gap in the canopy. The thick glass windows of the warped Tudor buildings sparkled with a scarlet hue cast by the comet. Further along the street, towards the Minster, revellers celebrated the passing of the meteor, which in a few hours would be at its very closest. They had the look about them of university students: starched white shirts, long black tailcoats and frivolous hats. Not so many days ago Wrench would have been just like them, blissfully ignorant of the horrors that Thirteen and the regulators protected the country from. Bot pulled on the reins and the horses slowed to let a scrum of drunken revellers stagger into the White Hart tavern. The wagon turned into the yard at the back of Torvill and Trent gunsmiths and Wrench caught a glimpse of the Minster. The magical maelstrom above the shattered tower pulsed, lighting the night sky, and this time there was no doubt that its luminescence had grown.

  The wagon trundled to a halt. Wrench jumped down and pushed the yard’s gates closed, dropping the bar securing them in place. Now hidden from view, the QRF dismounted and followed Bot into the gunsmiths. The door was held open by a thin, grey-haired man who sported a marvellously curled moustache. He could easily have been mistaken for an accountant were it not for the polished six shooters he wore on each hip and the look of a killer in his eggshell-blue eyes. “I got your message,” said the man.

  “You knew this day would come, Trent,” said Bot.

  “I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t, not in my lifetime at least.”

  “Me too,” said Bot. “Just don’t get all twitchy with the trigger.”

  “I’ve never shot anyone who didn’t draw on me fi
rst.”

  “Undoubtedly. But there’s a bit more at stake here.”

  Trent led them down a flight of stairs into a stonewalled basement with a target range at one end and a steel-riveted door set into the wall at the other. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled a small gold key which appeared incongruous with the heavily reinforced door.

  He twisted the key in the lock and with a clunk, the door swung open. Lining the walls of the vault was enough weaponry to start a small war. The QRF already brandished firepower of a calibre far exceeding anything Torvill and Trent had to offer, and Wrench wondered why Bot had brought them there.

  Trent lifted a revolver from a rack at the end of the vault, opposite the door. He placed the heel of his hand under the empty rack and slid it upwards. Beneath, a large keyhole was recessed into the plasterwork. Trent slid the pistol’s excessively long barrel into the hole and twisted.

  Wrench sensed the mechanism behind the wall. The weapon’s foresight acted like the bit of a key and rotated a cam, sliding the locking bolts aside. Clockwork whirred, and the vault’s end wall swung into a tunnel behind. A damp musty smell with a hint of sewers filled Wrench’s nose.

  A lantern emerged from Bot’s shoulder and shone into the tunnel. “You remember on the tower when I said I’d taken a few secret precautions?” said Bot.

  Wrench nodded.

  “This is one of them. It will take us to the Minster unobserved.”

  The walls were made from a grimy red brick that formed a low arched tunnel. Bot led the way, shuffling along in an uncomfortable-looking half-stoop. Wrench followed the hunched mechanoid. Trent trudged beside her, in his hand a battered leather case. Behind them marched the QRF. The floor was made from worn stone flags with some sort of pattern on them. It wasn’t until they’d been walking for several minutes that Wrench realised the flags were old gravestones and the markings weren’t patterns but worn-down inscriptions.

  A cool breeze wafted along the passage and the smell of the air changed; no longer that of a sewer, it possessed a caustic, chemical tinge. They entered a stone vaulted chamber that reminded Wrench of the under-crypt, only many times bigger. Tarnished brass tubes that looked like giant shell cases filled the chamber with only a few narrow paths weaving between them. Each tube was the size of a locomotive’s boiler tank. Thick copper cables ran overhead between the domed cylinders, forming an interconnected web. From the closest tank rubber-covered wires ran to a clip hammered into the stone wall near the passage entrance.

  Trent put down his case and flicked the catches open. From inside he withdrew a wooden box with a T-shaped plunger atop it. Wrench didn’t have to sense inside the box to know what it was for. She’d seen similar devices used to detonate explosives when blasting away rock for railway tunnels. The plunger would spin a dynamo, generating an electric charge that would trigger the blasting caps on the cylinders.

  With nervous precision Trent removed the rubber wires from the clip on the wall and twisted the exposed copper ends onto the plunger’s terminals.

  Bot rested a chunky hand on Trent’s forearm. “Only as a last resort.”

  “I’ve survived two wars and seven duels. Believe me when I say I have no desire to die today,” said Trent. “But if there’s no other choice, you won’t find me lacking.”

  “You’re a good man,” said Bot.

  “No, I’m not. Just a foolish one.” Trent upended the case, using it as a seat.

  Bot beckoned the QRF closer. “It probably goes without saying, but it would be a jolly fine idea not to bang into the shells as we pass through.”

  They wended their way between the maze of cylinders. The faint smell of ammonia stung Wrench’s nose. She didn’t know how much explosive was packed under the Minster; however, she was certain it would not only destroy the cathedral but a considerable amount of the surrounding city. It felt odd to be walking so close to something so dangerous, something that in the blink of an eye would wipe her from existence. She examined her warped reflection in the dulled brass surface of a cylinder. Did she have the power to stop the catastrophe? Was the face that stared back at her truly a Brasswitch, or was the only real brass the metal beneath her reflection? She guessed very soon she was going to find out.

  Bot drew to a halt at the base of a flight of stairs. “These lead to a secret door into St George’s chapel. Once we’re inside, consider yourself in enemy territory.”

  Wrench stepped onto the stairs in front of Bot. “Actually, you’re not coming,” she said.

  Gears whirred, and Bot flexed his shoulders. “What?”

  “It’s supposed to be a surprise. The Brasswitch is going to sense you the moment you go up there.”

  “I’m not sending you without the QRF,” said Bot.

  “Yes, you are,” said Wrench. “She’ll sense their weapons, so I’m going by myself.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What can you do?”

  Wrench unstrapped her bracers. “I’m a Brasswitch at the peak of my power. I can do whatever I want.”

  Wrench carried a candle. Even the simple mechanism on a lamp for raising and lowering the wick might lead to her discovery. The wall at the top of the stairs incorporated a secret door that was a miracle of ancient engineering. She eased it ajar and the candle flickered in the breeze; its glimmer illuminated the dusty back of a thick velvet curtain.

  Wrench snuffed out the candle and listened for any sign of activity. Hearing nothing, she pushed her way through the heavy material to emerge at the rear of St George’s chapel. She ducked behind the altar and took stock. Out in the south transept Chain-Head and Parrot-Man stood guard with another remarkable Wrench didn’t recognise. He had a tail like a monkey curling from the rear of his breeches. Below his tasselled red fez was a face more simian than human. In his hands, the monkey-man appeared to be carrying a pair of giant brass cymbals.

  The glow of hundreds of candles shone from the ragged entrance to the under-crypt. Wrench waited until the remarkables in the transept had their backs turned, then darted through the hole smashed in the wall and down the stairs. Stealing from pillar to pillar, she made her way to the railed area surrounding the phosphor-bronze casket. The silhouettes of Chattox and Leech still blackened the wall, but the sooty tang was gone, replaced now by the aroma of burning sage and sandalwood.

  Bowed and broken, Plum knelt before the casket. Stripped to the waist, his body was a bag of bones, his shoulderblades and ribs clearly visible. His back was to Wrench, the milk-white skin scarred with the brands of his torture, strange twisting sigils burned deep into the flesh.

  Wrench cast her gaze about. The under-crypt appeared otherwise empty. “Plum. It’s me,” she whispered, hurrying towards him.

  “Wrench,” he croaked, his voice as broken as his body. “I knew you’d come.”

  “I couldn’t leave you,” said Wrench.

  “No,” said Plum, his voice stronger, commanding. “I knew you’d come.” He stood. His body was somehow no longer withered, but powerful in its emaciation. Magic crackled over his skin. He turned to face her, his eyes glowing the deepest purple.

  Wrench took a step backwards, almost physically repulsed by the magic. “Plum. What’s happening?”

  “I’ve had enough, Wrench. The looks, the hateful comments, the revulsion. You said it yourself: we’re remarkable. We shouldn’t be hiding in the shadows, fearing our neighbours, living in terror of the knock on the door when the regulators come to take us. Tonight I will summon the old gods, flood the world with power and aberrations will become the norm. No longer rare freaks but the majority. The rulers.”

  Nausea gripped Wrench, her head giddy. This couldn’t be. She’d come to save Plum, but not from himself. “This isn’t right. It’s not what we do. You’ll destroy the world.”

  “That’s what they want you to believe. Lies spread by the fear-mongering cabal. The world wasn’t destroyed when the Monks of Mayheim summoned the old ones before.”

  “Because people fought against it.
Sir Dereleth sacrificed himself to save us.”

  “Not to save us. To save them. You’re an aberration too. Join us. It’s time for the remarkables to rise.”

  Wrench had always wanted to belong. To be part of the group rather than the outcast. Even at the regulators she was an outsider. They needed her and perhaps some even respected her, but did they actually want her? With Plum and the other remarkables there would be no half-glances and hurtful comments whispered behind hands. But how long would that last? And how many innocent people would she be condemning to death?

  “This isn’t the way, Plum. If the old gods don’t destroy the world, the war between remarkables and everyone else will. What we have now is wrong, but this isn’t the way to change it.”

  “It’s the only way to change it. We’ve been persecuted ever since the Rupture. They don’t care about us.”

  “Some of them do. I can’t let you do this.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  Pain encircled Wrench’s arms. Thick tentacles wrapped around her, crushing her muscles and stinging where the suckers met her exposed skin. “No electricity this time,” said Octo-Man. He dragged her towards the casket where waited a regulator with a scabbed burn scar on his face. She flexed her arms, struggling to break free of the thick rubbery coils. Octo-Man squeezed tighter, forcing the air from her chest. Without her bracers, she felt powerless. She probed with her mind but there was nothing mechanical about Octo-Man and she found no purchase. She pushed further, searching for the Minster’s bells or the steampipe organ. Anything to summon help. From nowhere, the oily feeling surrounded her, stronger than ever.

  “Save your energy,” said Plum. “When I killed Pippa, I inherited some of her powers. An unexpected bonus that’s enabled me to interfere with your abilities.”