by Stone, J.
Erynn made her way to a nearby cafe and ordered a light meal. While sitting out on the veranda, she watched all the rich and important people go about their busy lives. The young chromesmith pondered how she could increase the bullet capacity in her revolver similarly to the rifle, but came to no immediate decisions or revelations.
A young, unnaturally attractive woman with expensive, clean clothes walked by her table, with a mechanical parasol rolling alongside her to protect her apparently delicate skin from the mild brightness of the sun. A young gentleman who was dressed similarly accompanied her. He had a leather strap reaching from his shoulder down to his waist and hanging from it was some form of revolving flintlock pistol. Probably never even fired, Erynn wagered to herself, looking at the level of sheen the metal held.
The woman gave one glance to Erynn and shuddered taking in her dirty, disheveled appearance. She turned to her companion, “Surely someone should escort that street urchin back to the slums she belongs in.”
Erynn looked away from the aristocratic couple and spotted a raven perched on a building across the street. It pecked at some small animal’s corpse on the ledge intently, occasionally cawing at the citizens passing it by on the streets below. It picked up a chunk of the meat it was pecking at and dropped it down to the cobbled street. The raven then flew off, passing over Erynn and the diner she sat at.
Remembering the mail Germ had delivered to her and wishing to forget the elitism of the aristocracy within the city, she pilfered through her disorganized bag finding the notes of paper. She pulled out three pieces and began opening them in no discernible order. First was a letter from the Colby Pistols and Rifles Company who she had written to about a flaw in one of their designs:
Dear [Ms. Clover],
Thank you for your interest in the [Colby Revolving Pistol PK-21] on the [Sixth of Autumn’s Wane]. After reviewing your letter describing [the huge freaking fatal error in your design!], we have prioritized your concern and will look into it as we have time.
Thank you for your time and we wish you all the best. If you would like to know more about Colby Pistols and Rifles please reply with a single coin and include the phrase, Informational Pamphlet, in your letter.
Regards,
Samantha Jones
Director of Customer Relations
Erynn groaned and then muttered to herself, “Freaking worthless paper pusher. Don’t blame me when you all blow your damn hands off.”
She moved onto her next letter, which she immediately recognized as a flyer for a local business she had gone to only once and made the mistake of giving them her mailing address. Erynn quickly placed that with her previous letter and moved onto the third.
Her heart skipped a beat, when she finally gave the envelope a proper glance. The embroidered seal in the upper left corner, the quality paper material, and the calligraphic mailing address -- she knew exactly what the contents of this letter would hold for her. Her hand shook as she ripped open the top of the envelope and pulled out the letter:
Dear Ms. Erynn Clover,
Congratulations! You have been chosen in the random lottery to serve the Cultwick Empire and the Church of Biosynthesis. We’re sure you wish to cement your place in the advancement of Cultwick and the eventual cure for the Sweeper Bot Plague that has grasped our fair city. Please report to the C.E.R. (Center for Empirical Research) at your earliest convenience or we will send a member of the Cultwick Corps to retrieve you for this wonderful opportunity. Remember, it is your duty and obligation to serve Cultwick in whatever way we deem best.
Ever Your Faithful Servant,
Rebecca Whitaker
Lottery Officer
Erynn sat staring at the paper in disbelief for what seemed to her an almost endless period of time hoping to will the words on the page into something else. Anything else. She knew what the lottery really was - a death sentence. It wasn’t even a clean death.
The plague doctors and various other amoral scientists would poke and prod you until your last breath, all in the name of advancing science. Rowland had been railing against this policy for as long as she had known him, and she briefly wondered if this was some government official’s way of getting back at him.
When she was still a child, Erynn’s brother was selected by the lottery as well. After they took him, she never saw or heard from him again.
Eventually Erynn found some form of courage and packed her things back into her bag and silently paid her bill leaving a larger tip for the waiter than she had likely intended. She began to make her way back to her home but soon decided to take a detour through one of the many slums in the city.
Within mere minutes, she witnessed heaps of bodies, dead from the plague piled up along the curbs of the street, entire families homeless and starving, and small children coughing up blood in tattered rags. She wondered how a government that was supposed to care for its people could subject them to this level of pain and indignity and then to simply demand more from them.
The Sweeper Bot Plague had been killing entire swaths of the population for over two decades, and they still claimed to be no closer to offering a permanent cure to the disease. Instead, they treated the symptoms with painful, expensive, and short-term injections, forcing families to choose - suffer the disease or starve to death. All the while, the aristocracy seemed to be getting richer and no government officials or prominent church members had become sick.
Erynn thought back on her parents who had been killed by the plague, when she was only seven years old. Her brother was taken from her by the lottery soon after their deaths.
She had somehow managed not to contract the disease herself, but it had taken everything else from her. If not for Rowland’s kindness towards her, she would still be in the slums -- no, she thought, she would probably already be dead without him.
Standing there thinking, she had been working the emerald necklace around in her hand unintentionally. Having seen enough, Erynn made her way home, seething with contempt and disgust for what was happening in her city.
Entering the manor doors, she wished she had the power to stop such injustices from happening, but she feared she was too weak to do anything about it. She was still going to try though.
Erynn headed downstairs to her room where she was greeted by a robotic contraption that looked not unlike a metal human. It was made of varying bronze, brass, and chrome pipes and gears, with a large metallic box comprised of many complex parts welded to its back that resembled a backpack.
Its face looked like a large bronze bucket with a triangle grate where his mouth was and opaque yellow lenses for eyes. His arms and legs were spindly tubes cobbled together into an exoskeleton-like framework. Inside the frame of his left arm was a hidden blade that he could retract and extrude at will.
“Greetings, debugger,” the automaton said.
“Hey, Tern,” she replied. “Time you get a new punch card. Come here.” She sat down in a chair and gestured to Tern who complied happily, walking over to her and standing in front of her chair. Steam billowed out of his back and gears whirled in his chest opening up to reveal a keyboard that jutted out of the compartment, while a small black screen flipped up just above that.
She began rapidly pressing down on the keys as corresponding symbols lit up on the screen. Tern stood motionless as she worked - eager to assist in whatever way he could. Tern was an automaton that Erynn had managed to cobble together back when she was still a child. Her father had taught her all he had known about the mechanics and logic of such machines and she was always a quick learner.
The bot was created based on the technology of punch cards, which were by the standards of the day obsolete and quite outdated. She, however, found them fascinating and built Tern to specialize on a small and limited set of specific tasks rather than trying to shove too much data into his memory banks.
It wasn’t more than ten minutes later that she decided her work was finished. She reached behind Tern, pulling a lever, and he bega
n spitting out a punch card from his back. Tern retracted in the keyboard, and the monitor flipped back to the standby position, his chest closing back in on itself.
Erynn pulled out the card and placed it on the desk in her room, leaning over a blank piece of paper and grabbing the quill in front of her and dipping it into ink. She wrote a hurried letter, took the punch card and the letter she had received from the lottery office and placed all three items on a table near the front door.
Just before Erynn opened the door, she stopped, turning back to the table and added a last touch to the note. Satisfied, she opened the front door to leave and found that two members of the Cultwick Corps had just arrived at the front step.
The corpsmen wore thick, black armor over their whole body. Shiny, black rubber gloves and boots covered their hands and feet. Strapped to their waists were various weapons and pouches hanging from a belt. Concealing their faces were large, metallic helms with protruding tubes that wrapped around behind them and connected to a respirator on their back.
“Erynn Clover?” asked one of the corpsmen.
“That’s me,” she replied.
“We’re here to take you to the C.E.R.,” he continued. “You’ve won the lottery, ma'am.”
“Yeah,” Erynn said. “I know. It’s my lucky day.”
Chapter 2. Rowland the Father
The professor strolled back to his lab after his final lecture concerning the Implications of Molecular Expansion in Higher Functioning Life Forms, his eye still twitching with irritation at the questions he received from his students.
“Why should we concern ourselves with unintended mutations?” he recalled one of the students saying.
“Because you are going to get us all mutated into some sort of floating spaghetti monsters, you dolt,” he had answered.
“But doesn't the church teach us that all scientific mutations will bring us closer to god?” the student asked.
“Only if you believe in a god that evolved from manicotti!” the professor yelled.
Greeting him at his lab door, Germ stuck out his head, “I see the lecture went better than expected, sir.”
“I cannot teach them if they will not listen, Germ. The church! It is always that damn church,” Rowland yelled as he threw his books across the room in no general direction. “I am going to have to quit. I have had it with these pea-brained baboons and their conceit... vanity... arrogance... narcissism! It is too much, I say!” He slammed his hands down on his desk and stared down into the dull chrome metal, hanging his head.
“I know, sir,” Germ consoled the professor. He walked over to the books and gently began picking them up. “You say this almost every day. It will pass, I’m sure. Besides, who will be there to fight against them if not for you, sir?”
“Perhaps, Germ,” he said before a pause. “Though, maybe it is time to simply claim defeat. They have indoctrinated too many, and their power is too great.”
“It will pass, sir” Germ replied. “It’s going to be curfew soon. We should go to avoid the Cultwick Corps.”
The professor nodded to Germ and began gathering his things. The rat butler tidied up a bit more, while the professor collected his papers and placed them in a metallic briefcase. Having acquired what he needed, Rowland shut the case close and flipped a switch on the top, causing a series of cogs to spin and slide a bar across, locking it safely shut.
“Off we go, my rodent friend,” the professor said, and the two exited the lab and continued out the university’s front doors. The sun was gone and darkness descended upon Cultwick City, though with all the smog in the city it could sometimes be hard to discern the time of day.
After a short walk, Rowland could see his home, considered a mansion by some, but he simply called it the manor. It had been left to him by his considerably wealthy parents, when they had died, and he had done very little with it aside from live there.
The vegetation in the courtyard of the home was left to its own devices for many years and had been creeping up the side of the metallic walls. Germ had once attempted to cut back the vegetation, but the vines seemed to have somehow been given life - probably from one of the professor’s numerous experimentations. He had not tried a second time.
The pair entered the home to find Tern standing motionlessly in the mansion’s foyer, his left arm extended toward the table in the center of the room. “A note for you, Professor Rowland,” he said.
“Oh? Did Ryn go out?” he inquired walking to the note.
“Affirmative,” he replied.
On the table, Rowland found a scribbled note that looked quite different from Erynn’s usual handwriting:
Max,
The lottery finally called me up. I’ve left the letter here if you want to see it. There’s no way I can ask you to get involved in this, so please don’t. I do have an easy favor for you though. I’ve written a new punch card for Tern that may be enough to help me escape their clutches. I just need you to put it in, boot him up, and then make sure he understands his task. I expect the corpsmen will be here any minute, so he’s my only hope.
Thank you for everything. I love you and tell Germy I love him too. I would’ve been lost without you two.
Ryn
P.S. - I may have completely forgotten to feed and water Gerald for the past week, so the world may have to wait on your carnivorous potato invention.
“Poor Gerald,” the professor blubbered to himself.
“What’s that, sir?” asked Germ.
“Ryn,” he continued. “They have taken Ryn for the lottery. Those bastards took her!”
“Let me see that,” the rat rushed over to read the note as Rowland fell into a nearby chair.
“She was the only one who could find the perfectly squishy squid tentacles down on Second Street. Just the way I like them,” Rowland lamented to himself.
“The punch card, sir,” Germ reminded him and picked up the card. “We should insert it into Tern.”
“And who will fix my glove when it breaks, now?” Rowland went on.
“She’s not gone yet, sir,” Germ reminded him.
Rowland abruptly stood from his chair and snatched the card from Germ’s hand. The professor balanced himself, placing one hand on Tern’s shoulder and dropping down to eye-level with the card slot in its chest. Carefully, he slid the card inside and, standing back up, reached to the automaton’s back and pulled his lever. Tern made a series of beeping sounds, before his frame slunk down and his head tilted forward. Rowland and Germ took a step back.
“Did she make an error, sir?” Germ asked.
Before Rowland could answer, Tern stood straight up once again and said, “Objective... Processing... Processing... Objective... Release Debugger from Government Control... Processing... Resources... Processing... One Semi-Autonomous Unit Programmed for Debugger’s Retrieval - Relentless - Versatile... Processing... One Blueprint of the Center for Empirical Research - Necessary... Processing... Debugger’s Rifle and Pistol - Custom - Lethal... Processing... Probability of Successful Retrieval: 12.782%.”
“She does not often make errors, Germ,” Rowland finally replied. “But her plan will not work like this.” He turned his attention to the robot, “Tern, include Germ and I in your resource list and recalculate probability.”
“Updating Resources... Genetically Engineered Rat Man... AKA Germ - Small - Quick - Loyal... Processing... Professor Maxwell Rowland - Brilliant - Augmented - Arrogant - Motivated... Processing... Recalculating Probability of Successful Retrieval: 46.583%.”
“Small?” Germ muttered to himself.
“We have to help rescue her, Germ,” Rowland stated flatly.
“She asked you not to, sir,” the rat replied. “Madam Clover wouldn’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way.”
“Bunk to that nonsense, Germ,” he responded. “We are doing this. She was like a daughter to me.”
Smiling, Germ replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Tern,” the professor continued, “what
is the plan?”
“Processing... Plan with Highest Probability of Success: Attack Two Corpsmen in the Cultwick Corps... Retrieve Equipment from Corpses... Impersonate Corpsmen... Take Professor Rowland into Center for Empirical Research as an Unwilling Lottery Winner... Find Debugger... Free Debugger... Free Other Prisoners to Serve as Distraction... Escape Through Sewer Tunnels... Never Return to Cultwick City.”
“Never... return?” asked Germ.
Rowland stared through a window at the dark contours of the city against the moonlight of the night. “Ryn deserves better than this horrid place. We are going to see to it that she gets it. Germ, go to the lab to retrieve Ryn’s rifle and pistol. She will need those where we are going. I will pack up some things here with Tern. Come back here and we will start toward the center.”
Hesitating briefly, Germ headed back outside. Walking to the door, Rowland saw the rat drop to all fours some way out and begin running.
“Tern,” he began, “you retrieve some of Ryn’s clothes and other things she will need. I will ready myself and arrange Germ’s things.
Tern headed down to Erynn’s room and began making something of a racket, and Rowland hoped that was a good sign. He headed up toward his chamber, stopping in a hall closet to collect a large wheeled suitcase. He dragged it into his room, grabbing a few changes of clothes, a series of strange looking and worse smelling bottles of liquid, and a small closed box containing various lab equipment.