by Jared Millet
I would certainly find out. I emerged from beneath and had Marcus hoist me to the nearest window, but not before tearing the sleeves from my jacket and wrapping them around my hands to protect from the glass. I was able to pull myself over the sill and onto the floor of an empty room just in time for a dogsbody to enter.
I crouched and it fired over my head. I rolled and it followed, the sharp report of its gun spurring me ever on. I reached the far wall, then spun on my heels to face it. As long as I kept moving, I might get the chance to knock the machine off its feet.
The dogsbody suddenly stopped with its gun pointed at a section of wall some four feet behind where I stood. Sheer luck must have brought me to a floorboard that the house could no longer detect.
I strained to recall the pattern of broken wire I’d noted while crawling below. In one section it had seemed that every other board was still connected to the lattice. I couldn’t stand against the wall forever, so I gingerly stepped to the next board over.
The dogsbody didn’t react.
I shifted my weight and moved two boards closer to my opponent. Again, it didn’t move. If my luck held for a moment longer, I would have one less automaton to fear.
I stepped on the third board. The dogsbody swung at my head with uncanny aim. I ducked and blocked its arm with my own. Its gun went off mere inches from my face.
The blast left me stunned by heat and noise. Blindly I threw myself on the dogsbody and wrestled it to the floor. It threw an automated punch at my shoulder. If I’d been fighting a man, I would have struck for its jaw.
Instead, I reached under its breastplate and forced my hand into its spinning guts. Twisting metal tore at my flesh, but I screamed through the pain and reached the steel rod that held its internal components in place. I yanked the rod out of joint, and the dogsbody shuddered to its death.
I lay there for a moment across its crumpled form. As my hearing returned, I noticed Marcus shouting outside. I examined the bleeding mass of my hand as if it were someone else’s and told Marcus that I was all right.
There were footsteps in the house. The door to the room that I’d entered was ajar, but there were no other dogsbodies immediately visible. If one were to find me, I wasn’t sure what I could do.
The machine I’d crippled was a Model Eight. I recognized it as the very one that I’d first come to Knockwood to repair. I felt a slight sorrow at seeing my handiwork wasted, but it paled beneath my concern for Miri.
I climbed to my feet, cradling my wounded hand. The footsteps I heard on the floor above were in time with the others throughout the house. The dogsbodies on patrol moved in lockstep as they did their rounds through the building.
Could it be that simple? I couldn’t go any farther undetected, but the house’s engine was just a machine: blind, deaf, and dumb. I listened to the rhythm of the dogsbodies’ march and exited the room in time with their cadence.
The stride of a Model Eight is two feet, six inches. My own is slightly shorter, so I made a conscious effort to adjust it. At a bend in the hall, I executed a sharp, military turn as dogsbodies are built to perform.
My path took me toward the foyer and to the base of the stairs. The Seven in Confederate gray that stood guard at the entrance paid me no notice.
I had no way of knowing what commands the master engine was sending the model whom I was attempting to impersonate. I hoped that the dogsbodies were instructed to return upstairs for maintenance in case of malfunction. I turned the corner, once again in military fashion, and marched to the second floor.
The hall above was patrolled by the new Model Nine. I didn’t have time to consider my options. In order to maintain my ruse, I had to remain in motion. The Nine was heading in the direction of Mirielle’s chamber, so I turned right and walked to the end of the hall. There I did a precise about-face and stopped moving.
The Nine regarded me in silence. The engine above was probably confused. The Nine walked toward me. On a whim, I marched in place and matched its steps.
It halted before me, raised its arm, and jabbed me in the shoulder where, were I a dogsbody, there would have been a button to return me to my “home” location. I didn’t react. I wasn’t sure what the house expected to happen.
The Nine resumed its patrol. I followed it in lock-step, praying not to tip my hand. I couldn’t help but notice that the attic panel was open and I would soon be in range of the house’s deadliest weapon.
As I neared Miri’s room I called to her. This time I heard a reply. Her door cracked open. I pushed the Nine off its feet and dove inside.
Gunfire rained from above and the floorboards behind me exploded into splinters. Lunging through the doorway, I knocked Mirielle off her feet.
The Gatling gun stopped, but the Nine rose from the floor. I slammed the door shut just as it fired. Shells punctured the oak at the level of my head, so I crouched and covered Miri with my body. Once the Nine’s ammunition was spent, it started pounding on the door with its fist.
“Mr. Cotton,” said Miri, “you came.”
“Please,” I said, “call me Daniel.”
She was starved and very frail. She wore only a night-dress that was soiled by debris that had blown through her window in the storm. She shivered in my arms and had trouble standing, so I helped her into her bed. The Nine continued to hammer on the door.
“Why didn’t you leave after the storm?” I asked. “Marcus would’ve gladly taken you in.”
“The house wouldn’t let me,” she said. “I tried. I did. I think the house is frightened. It tries so hard to keep me safe.”
“Let me keep you safe. You can’t stay here anymore. Your father wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Fear flashed in her eyes, then she nodded.
“It’s all I have left of him.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But it’s time to leave.”
The door was starting to rattle under the Nine’s blows. I cleared the broken glass from the window and called down to Marcus. Miri and I quickly fashioned a rope out of her bedsheets, and I made one of her blankets into a harness in which to lower her to the ground.
The Nine was relentless, and it sounded as if the door’s hinges were about to buckle. As I lowered Mirielle out the window, I pressed my wallet into her hands.
“There’s money here for passage down the river. Have Marcus take you to the Sisters of Charity Hospital. It survived the storm and they can care for you there.”
“Daniel,” she said, “aren’t you coming?”
As she spoke, the door burst open. I lowered her to Marcus as quickly as I dared. The dogsbody grabbed at me and the rope slipped out of my hands, trapping me inside the house.
That was just as well. My business wasn’t done.
I let the dogsbody grab my wrist, then used my weight to pull it off its feet. The Nine’s responses were more complex than the Eight’s, but since it had spent its store of bullets I could afford to disable it properly. I wrestled it over to expose its back, then I used my good hand to switch it off.
I took a moment to tend to my injury, binding my hand with scraps of Miri’s clothing. My fingers were already so stiff they were useless.
Marcus shouted outside. I told him to carry Miri back to Sotile and take the first boat to New Orleans. I said that I would catch up later, and I prayed I wasn’t lying. I still had a gauntlet to run, but since there was no longer any life at stake but my own, I could take my time and plan my assault.
As long as it remained active, the house’s difference engine would prove deadly to anyone who approached Knockwood unawares. I had to disable it, either directly or by sabotaging its batteries. I didn’t know how to do either, but I guessed that the answer lay in the journals I’d glimpsed in the attic. I had an idea as to how to reach the attic without being shot, but it would be a gamble.
I stood the Nine on its feet and pressed the homing button on its shoulder. It marched into the hall and, as I’d hoped, waited for the ladder to descend. I went with it
, careful to step only on the boards that had been damaged by the Gatling.
I had to help the Nine ascend past a rung that had been destroyed, and I heard dogsbodies elsewhere in the house react as the engine deduced my location once more.
I was betting my life that the engine would not destroy one of its own automatons nor the workspace of its Creator. When the Nine took its last step off the ladder, I scurried around it and into the chair in front of the desk.
The dogsbody faced me. The Gatling gun swiveled and took aim. Neither made any further action. I sighed with relief, then set myself to the tasks of disabling the house and planning my escape. I had to do both, or never leave the attic alive.
~
I have spent many hours poring over Mr. Perrilloux’s journals. The difference engine is indeed the product of his genius. It is the true wealth of Knockwood and it belongs solely to his daughter and heir.
Mr. Perrilloux devised a way for a dogsbody to mimic his handwriting so that his daughter could conduct his affairs in his absence. I think back to the “hand-written” letter I received and can picture Miri dictating it to one of her servants via the attic typewriter that I am using at this very moment.
It is possible to instruct the difference engine by entering commands into this typewriter, but the codes Mr. Perrilloux devised for doing so are far too complex for me to decipher in the time I have remaining.
I have deduced how to issue commands to the dogsbodies, which use the same codes as all of my company’s products. However, I have only been successful in issuing commands to the Model Nine. The engine cancels any commands I send to the other machines in the house.
I am left with no choice but to destroy the battery. I do not know that I will succeed, but this is what I intend. I will send the Nine before me down the steps. I will mimic its movements to confuse the house as to which one of us is its target.
When we reach the first floor, the Nine will walk to the door and outside while I will head for the battery. With luck, the house will mistake the Model Nine for myself long enough for me to disable the source of its power.
I pray that I will survive this adventure and all will work out for the best. I know how dogsbodies “think,” and I believe that I can outsmart them. Since I must follow after Mirielle immediately upon leaving the house, I have enscripted my story into this dogsbody’s memory.
If everything has gone according to plan, you will find me in New Orleans tending to the needs of Miss Perrilloux. If I have failed, then my remains lie somewhere in the house, but I urge you not to enter if you detect any movement within.
If I live, please accept this document as my statement of the facts in this matter. If I do not, then this is my final testament — rendered, as it were, in a dead man’s hand.
Daniel Cotton,
Knockwood Plantation,
Sotile, Louisiana
Jumping the Rails
The Dogsbody Program: 2
September 30, 1899
Dear Mr. Cotton,
You do not know me, but I am sure that by now my name has come to your attention. I am also certain that any ‘facts’ you may have heard about the incident which has led to my incarceration are wildly inaccurate. Be that as it may, I do not write to defend my own actions but to explain those of your protégé, Miss Evangeline Despre.
As you may know, I have been employed for several years as a troubleshooter for Northern United Railways, and in that capacity I was recently dispatched from Colorado to our station in Wyoming. I first noted Miss Despre when I boarded the train in Denver, finding it odd that a young woman of color should be traveling alone in first class accommodations, but by the time we were underway she had slipped from my mind.
The locomotive pulling our train was an Ambrose 2-6-2. We had just passed the junction at LaSalle when the engine shuddered, whistled, and accelerated with an uncharacteristic jerk. Curious at what appeared to be a fault in one of our engines, I pressed the call button for my car’s attendant.
The dogsbody that appeared in the hall outside my cabin, like all Northern United automatons, was little more than a torso with two arms and a mannequin’s head, all of which hung from a rail in the ceiling. It spoke in stock phrases pre-recorded on a wax cylinder, but before it could ask how it might be of assistance, I typed my company code into the control pad on its chest.
“Thank you,” it said. “Awaiting instructions.”
I typed the code to inquire if the engine had malfunctioned.
“No, sir. There are no difficulties to report. Shall I contact the engineer?”
Before I could press the button for ‘yes,’ the train shook again, more violently than before. I tumbled into the dogsbody, spinning it out of position, and grabbed the doorframe for support before completely losing my feet.
Down the hall another door slid open. The coffee-skinned beauty I’d noticed earlier spilled out of her compartment, hiked her skirt and petticoat, and barreled past me toward the engine.
“Miss!”
“Stay in your cabin, sir,” she said. “Everything’s under control.”
Feeling usurped, I followed. When we arrived at the car’s forward hatch, I used my company code to open it. She gave me the briefest of curtsies, then jumped the gap to the lumber car.
Using the hand and foot rails, we made our way around to the engineer’s cabin. The lady’s hat blew free, revealing her chestnut curls. I almost stopped breathing at the thought that the wind might catch her skirts and pull her off of the train, but she moved with a quickness that showed her experience as a rail-hand.
When we reached the engine, the mechanical arms that fed wood to the boiler were moving at breakneck speed, while the volume of steam pouring from the stack warned us that an explosion was imminent. In the cabin, the lone engineer pressed buttons and pulled levers, seemingly at random.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Evangeline Despre,” said my companion, “Cotton-Perrilloux Automation. What have you done to our engine?”
“Your engine? Nothing! Your damned Perry-Lou’s gone crazy.”
Given his age, he must have learned his trade in the days of firemen and brakemen, before computation machines had automated the railways. I flashed my company badge and pushed him out of the way.
“Nathan Adsworth, Northern United,” I said to Miss Despre. “What do you think is the problem?”
“I’m asking.” Without further ado, she wrenched open a panel under a bank of chrome dials to expose a typing machine. Its keys bore symbols I’d never seen before. She knelt, ruining her dress, and quickly tapped a series of commands. In response, a miniature ticker-tape reader spat a numeric answer.
“The engine thinks there’s no boiler pressure and it’s feeding the fire to build it back up. What does the pressure gauge read?”
“About to blow,” I said, “but I could’ve told you that from the smoke.”
“There must be a break in the nerve cable.” She referred, of course, to the wires by which the locomotive’s mechanical brain received sensory inputs from the engine and passenger compartments.
“Of course there is,” said the engineer. “I cut it.”
Miss Despre and I both turned to face him. In Evangeline’s eyes I saw a fire that could only be describe as hate.
“You what?” she said.
“The thing kept saying there was a crack in the boiler and we had to take it out of service. I tried to tell it there wasn’t nothing wrong. I looked the engine over myself. But the Perry-Lou wouldn’t damn well listen, so I cut the line to shut it up.”
Miss Despre’s eyes widened at the mention of a crack. “We need to stop this train right now.”
“Can you tell the Perrilloux what’s going on?” I asked.
“Not if I don’t know what else this moron’s done. You’ll have to shut the boiler down manually. I’ll try to get the difference engine to stay out of your way.”
~
It was hours before ano
ther locomotive arrived to tow us into Greeley. With the difference engine inoperative, none of the train’s dogsbodies would function, forcing the two human porters to see to the needs of hundreds of irate passengers.
I suppose that as the ranking company representative I should have personally assuaged everyone’s irritation, but I used my prerogative to inspect the locomotive instead. The excess of pressure made it easy to find the crack, which appeared to be due to a flaw in the original casting. I told Miss Despre as much when we arrived at Greeley’s best hotel for the evening.
“Well, that figures,” she said. “I went over the train’s incident log. The poor thing had been warning the engineer for weeks, but he recorded it as ‘machine error’ every time. There’s only so much contradictory input a difference engine can take before it starts getting twitchy.”
“You say that like it’s alive.”
She smiled. “In some ways, they’re as smart as kittens. In others, they’re dumb as doorknobs.” She would have said more, but a clerk stopped us in the hotel lobby.
“Sir, I’m very sorry.” He didn’t sound it. “You can’t bring your servant in here. There are lodgings for coloreds on the other side of town.”
I was so dumbstruck that I didn’t answer. Had I been in Miss Despre’s place, I might have responded with outrage. Instead, she pulled a clean white envelope from her soot-stained valise.
“I’ll explain in case you can’t read,” she said. “This is a letter from Daniel Cotton, president of Cotton-Perrilloux Automation. I presume that your hotel’s dogsbodies are managed by one of our computation engines. Mr. Cotton requests that, as a representative of his company, I be afforded the same level of service you extend to the rest of your clientele.
“I carry another letter from Uncle Danny, as I known him, which states that should any establishment not treat me with the respect he feels his company’s operatives are due, I am to reprogram your mechanical manservants to perform circus tricks with your cutlery and to use your guests for target practice. Am I clear?”