by Unknown
Lucia pulled a pair of spectacles from her cloak and placed them on the bridge of her nose. She flipped through a series of overlapping lenses. One revealed the temperature of the white-hot flame, gradually cooling to the purple edges of the room. Another showed gray and white, only displaying any shade of color when she glanced down at her own hand. In yet another, the air took on the appearance of blue waves, which rippled like a rock thrown in a pond at the slightest hint of sound.
Over and over, the cogs clicked as she cycled through the lenses. Each time, her gaze was drawn to the center of the room, where the bronze box sat still and unchanging, like a creature lying in wait.
If only there was one with the ability to show spirits—a lens that could tell her if there were mischievous imps hovering above the pages of the holy men’s books or seeping out of the book’s bronze box. If only she could forget Brother Primicerius’s words about demons and vengeful spirits and ghosts.
Click.
Lucia held her breath, listening. She slid the auditory lens into place just as the noise came again.
Click.
The waves spread from the center of the room where the Book of Futures sat upon its wooden table. The table itself shook ever so slightly, and for a single heart-stopping moment, Lucia thought that Brother Primicerius had been right, that there was something sinister contained within that holy relic.
The next moment, it all became clear. A smile spread across Lucia’s face.
“You’ll be pleased to hear, Brother Primicerius, that I have solved your mystery. I discovered what has been happening to your books.”
Lucia stood in the doorway of the library. The monk had come to retrieve her before the morning bells roused the others from their cots and to their daily meditations and work. The monk clasped his hands in what Lucia could only assume was a gesture of excitement, for as before, his face remained entirely hidden.
“You have? Please, tell me! What was it? Was it the spirit within the book? The one driven out by the apostle so long ago?”
“On the contrary,” Lucia said, stepping to one side. “It was none but a small boy.”
The child standing before them looked to be but twelve or thirteen with a slight frame, ragged clothing, and large, curious eyes that even now barely rested for a moment and darted about the library.
“A boy? Why, this was the same boy who delivered the book to the monastery!”
“Indeed. It seems that upon receiving the book, you and your fellow monks were so caught up in your acquisition that you didn’t even notice the young intruder following upon your heels to the library. Once in here, he hid among the copious shadows, watching as you went about your work, enthralled by all he saw. When all of the monks retired for the evening, he found himself alone in the library.”
“Good heavens! Has he been here this whole time? And what of his family? They must be worried sick!”
Lucia turned to the boy. “Go on. Tell him what you told me, Pierre.”
The boy dropped his chin to his chest, as though suddenly recalling that he ought to feel remorse for his intrusion. “I’ve got no family, sir, nor a home. This library is the most amazing place I’ve seen in my life, and it was my curiosity kept me here. Was my curiosity made me take that book, sir, not evil spirits.”
“Tell him which one you took first,” Lucia prodded.
“It was a book about the history of this place. I tucked it in my shirt and kept it with me as I snuck out that night. I wanted to know what the monks were doing, that’s all. I intended to drop it on the front stoop the next day, but then I found the map.”
“Map? What map?”
Pierre proffered up the book, open to a sketch of the entire layout of the monastery.
“Good heavens,” Brother Primicerius said. “I’d no idea that was in there.”
“And look,” Pierre said, “there’s a hidden route to the library, up from the catacombs. Soon as I found that, well, I couldn’t help myself, sir.”
“You entered through the catacombs?” The monk quivered in his robe.
“I only wanted to see more of what you did here. The lock on the mausoleums was rusted, and from there, I used the map to find my way. I returned everything I borrowed, I swear. Please, you won’t kill me, will you?”
“Kill you?” From deep within his cavernous hood came a thick sound like the grinding of gears. It took Lucia a moment to realize that the monk was laughing. “Of course, I won’t kill you. In fact, seeing as you find our work so fascinating, I would love nothing more if you would join us, become one of our order and help us in our sacred task.”
“Truly? I could?” The boy’s head jerked upward, a hopeful smile brightening his dirty face.
“Truly. Why, I’d wager you already know more of our secrets than most the ordained brethren do!”
Dr. Lucia Crosswire strolled down the hill from the Mont Saint-Vogel monastery, grateful to be out in the open as the sun lightened the morning sky. Somewhere in the stone structure behind her, the morning bell gonged, calling the monks from their cots. Soon, Brother Primicerius would reveal that they had another among their number. Would he tell them all how it had come about, or would that be yet another secret?
An airship passed overhead, its horn bellowing like a behemoth, and Lucia wondered if any of the books within the library of Mont Saint-Vogel had foretold those mechanical marvels. In all the time spent within the mysterious room, it had never occurred to her once to search her own futures within the pages. Only now did the curiosity tingle the back of her neck, making her wonder what she’d have found.
But just as swiftly as the airship disappeared from view, obscured by the forest’s pines, the desire vanished within her, overpowered by her good sense. The future, she decided, was one mystery best left unknown.
When Wendy Nikel isn’t traveling in time, exploring magical islands, or investigating mysterious phenomena, she enjoys a quiet life near Utah’s Wasatch Mountains with her husband and sons. She has a degree in elementary education, a fondness for road trips, and a terrible habit of forgetting where she’s left her cup of tea. Her short fiction has been published by AE, Daily Science Fiction, and others, and she is a member of the SFWA. For more info, visit wendynikel.com.
Death Wish
Parker Goodreau
My employer had crafted the paragon of a charmed life. Though not of the highest or wealthiest birth, Ajith Shankar had weathered better than most when the British airships arrived, their whirring motors spreading fine clouds of ash across the ocean. While others backed failed rebellions or became puppets of the Company, Ajith thrived: a new magnate happy to don a suit and press any white-gloved hand.
Any who offered him the business end of a bayonet in place of a handshake experienced more than their share misfortune in India. Only half the people who wanted to kill Ajith ever tried. The other half, I took care of.
The secret to his success lived in a small wooden box by his bedside where he would rest his hand through the night. But even so close, it did no good against his wife’s sudden illness.
Her room fell quiet when we entered. Attendants backed away from their fidgeting over her funeral dress. Muted lamplight gleamed on her jewelry and damp, waxy skin. Ajith knelt by the bedside, one sweaty hand picking at the tasseled edge of a cushion. “Dismissed,” he said. The servants shuffled out together, closing ranks against the tide of sorrow that swept the room.
“Erom,” he said, “you as well.”
I blinked. “I am always with you, Raj Ajith.”
He turned, forehead creased, and took the little jinni box from his pocket. “With my life I trust you, but I have never owned your mind. And you may not like what I am about to do.”
I bit my tongue and held my ground. I could not say whether I stayed for his sake or for the jinni’s.
He placed the box by his wife’s hand. His fingers fumbled as he wound the key, but at last, the clockwork chimed its familiar tune. In a voice that crumbled the s
econd it hit open air, Ajith sang. The language ached with age, its roots deeper and weightier than Hindi or Sanskrit. It made the clumsy pidgin of the British seem weak and squalling as a newborn. I could not know sorrow or anxiety while the song lasted. The melody dwarfed the whole world.
The room filled with prickling, cloying mist, and we coughed until our eyes watered. Ajith sobbed as if his dams had burst beyond repairing. When the mist cleared, the jinni knelt beside him, fawn-brown hands stretched toward Ajith’s crumpled face. “Oh, Shankar Sahib.” Sighs shifted its black veil. “You know already what I must say.”
“No.” He yanked the hands away, keeping a white-knuckled grip on its wrists. He stared at the delicate fingers, wet from smoothing away his tears. “You will bring Maina back.”
The jinni bent over their hands, white-hot eyes disappearing in the shadows of its headdress. “I cannot.”
“Refuse,” he said, “and I will order you back into that box, and I will destroy it.”
Blind with shock, I leapt halfway across the room, arm outstretched for the precious box. Both their heads whipped toward me. I paid no heed to the glare of my master. The jinni was looking at me. Slowly, it closed its eyes and shook its head. I dropped my arm. Ajith’s gaze stayed on me even as I backed away to my post.
The jinni gathered itself and spoke. “Master of my fate, I would do this for you if I could. If you were to find yourself so tied to the will of another, you could not capture the sun for him, no matter how he scourged or threatened.”
Ajith thundered to his feet, dragging the jinni after him. “How dare you speak to me so?”
“With the utmost respect,” the jinni answered in a measured voice. “I tell you only the truth. I can no more reclaim the dead than I can create life.”
“What good are you?” He tossed the jinni aside as if it were no more than the mist that clung to its shroud. Of course, the jinn are not so easily hurt. Even so, I slipped away from the door and knelt where it had fallen. Its cheeks ran with streams of molten silver. Ajith scoffed and stormed away from the bedside.
“I can’t.” It grabbed my arms, its fingers burning through the fabric. “I truly can’t.”
“I know, Laksha.”
Laksha drew back and curled its hands before the veil as if in prayer. Its eyes drifted over my shoulder, and I turned.
Ajith’s staccato pacing petered out near a niche in the wall. He reached into the shadows and yanked free the cage inside. The cage clattered; the inhabitant jerked awake. The little yellow bird belched steam as it warmed up. Ajith had commissioned the mechanical marvel when his wife proved to be allergic to the real thing. Europeans liked to think themselves the foremost experts in automata, but others had carried on the methods of the Golden Age inventors. The delicacy of the synthetic-feathered body, the seamless and silent gears, were owed to the artist-engineers under Ajith’s patronage. The bird was far more complex than the towel-baring automated servants triggered by running water in the lavatory or the greened copper figureheads on English airships who folded their hands in prayer when the wind was against them.
The machine cocked its head at Ajith and began to sing. Ajith stared, knuckles jumping as he pumped his fists.
His head swiveled toward us, eyes gleaming in his deeply shadowed face. Laksha gripped my hand. He stumbled toward us, catching himself on the corner of Maina’s bed. His gaze skimmed over her body, and a tremble shook the last of his composure away. He looked less healthy than the corpse. “I know what you can do,” he rasped.
Laksha recoiled, scrambling behind me as I stood. Ajith had been Laksha’s master, body and soul, longer than I had known them, but I had never feared what he might do with that power. Never before.
He laughed, and my hand went to my gun belt. “Away with you, Erom! I have business to conduct with my slave.”
“I will let no harm come to Laksha.”
“Who’s going to harm it, man?” Ajith said, voice hitching with gasped chuckles. “I’ve simply figured it out, like always. The hard thing about wishes is knowing how to get what you want. Precision, surety . . .” He staggered forward and caught himself against me. His cologne smelled dank, sodden with tears. “Loopholes,” he whispered, gripping me by the collar. “You swore an oath, remember. And much as you pretend otherwise, you are not invincible. If you reach for your gun again, I promise you will not leave this place with your hands.”
Laksha gripped my hand. “I will hear my master’s wish.” Trembling fingers clutched my arm, the heat crawling across my skin. “It is my duty.”
“The jinni sees sense at last,” Ajith crowed. He dropped onto the bed’s edge as if he had put his wife’s body from his mind. “It is a simple thing, really. I would not deprive my men of the opportunity to do the real work. All I need from you, for now, is a plan.”
Ajith’s household became a tortured place. Mechanics and artisans worked hour after hour, faces empty and sweat-stained, until they fell asleep haphazardly draped on their worktables or squirreled away in dark corners. Doctors were called in for macabre consultations. The craftsmen were forced to observe her autopsy, scribbling notes and sketches with shaky hands.
Servants whispered that the palace was becoming unclean, their mistress dishonored by the delayed cremation. They became nervous of Ajith’s past creations: creeping between the lions at the main gate as the mechanical jaws roared, jumping when metal monkeys chattered from the garden trees. The automated servants in the baths soon ran out of soap and towels since none of their flesh-and-blood counterparts would restock them.
Perhaps the worst thing was Ajith’s cheer. Though his body grew haggard, he strutted and grinned, acting more the bridegroom than the widower. His laughter filled the house, oblivious to our haunted exhaustion.
At last, it was ready. They settled it in Maina’s sitting room and bedecked it with her finest clothes and jewelry. Girls crept in under Ajith’s beaming watch to paint the wooden face. It did look a great deal like Maina. The joints and eyelids were softened by leather overlays. The wig of human hair was arranged just as she would have had it. Still, the machine was limited. Even the talented minds behind Maina’s songbird had balked at the idea of fully lifelike machinations for a human automaton. The mechanical breast moved with a facsimile of breathing, and the eyes blinked—stiffly and too predictably—but its only real trick was offering a wood-plated hand to be kissed.
The house enjoyed a moment of respite. The work was done, the unsettling tribute made. Now surely they would be given instructions for the cremation and things would proceed as normal. But Ajith gave no instructions. At first, perhaps, it was too horrible for him, but by the time he stood caressing the automaton’s delicate hand, I think he had forgotten his desecrated, rotting wife. While he fawned over his creation and ordered “her” room made fresh for it, I slipped away to organize a hasty funeral. Only with my false assurance of Ajith’s blessing would the servants light the fire. Relieved as they were to have her out of the house, they all feared their master’s new temperament.
I returned to find Ajith enclosed with the machine in his wife’s rooms, the box clutched in his hands. He startled when I shut the door. “Ah, there you are. What happened to being with me always?” he joked, but his smile was faulty.
“What are you doing, Raj Ajith?” I left my usual post, coming nearer than I cared to the automaton. In the dim light, it might have been my late mistress, though eerily still and smelling faintly of metal lubricant.
He knelt by the chair and placed the music box on the machine’s lap. “The last step.” He placed a hand over the box, covering the white roses carved across its top. The music I expected never came. Instead, he sang to the silence. The old words, twisted into a new song. Mist seeped sickly thin through the seal of the closed box and filled the room until I could not see my master, only hear him coughing. When the mist settled, gathering in the drapery of the automaton’s clothes, I wiped my stinging eyes and blinked. The machine blinked back.
“A moment, my dear,” Ajith said. He brought out a veil, the half-sheer, embroidered style favored by Maina, and laid it over the automaton’s hands. The jointed fingers curled, slow and arthritically stiff. Its arms lifted with painstaking grace, a choreographed dance. It settled the veil across its face to cover the painted mouth. Its arms drifted back to its lap. Ajith beamed and patted its folded hands. “There now, say hello to Erom.”
The automaton shifted, like a breath drawn in and sighed out. It looked at me, head tilted on its flexible brass spine. “Greetings, favored guard of my husband.”
“Laksha,” I breathed.
Ajith grimaced and waved me off. “The jinni sleeps in its box as always. If you cannot be polite to my wife, return to your post.”
“You are using the jinni most cruelly,” I said, knowing it would do no good. “It is its own . . . person. Laksha can never be your wife, no matter how you command it to act.”
He grasped the automaton’s hands. “Do not force me to dismiss you, Erom,” he said. “Maina will need protection now. It would be a shame to lose you.”
It was true. In the past, Ajith had revealed Laksha’s existence only to those he trusted most. Now, trapped in this grotesque machine, Laksha would be vulnerable, even if Ajith only made it keep up the act in private. People would be curious about the automaton, and as a mechanical achievement, it had to be immeasurably valuable. If it were stolen, or God forbid, damaged . . .
“I will stay,” I said through gritted teeth. “But only for . . . Maina’s sake.”
Ajith sighed. There was a twinge of regret in his frown, perhaps, but he shook it off.
I stood at my post, blocking my ears as he wooed his machine. Laksha’s voice, thinned and accented to mimic the deceased, made my skin prickle. It spoke as little as it could and moved only when Ajith obviously expected it. We stole glances at each other, its glass eyes expressionless. The longer I stood, with the doorjamb branding an aching crease down my spine, the more the room regressed to the surrealism of that morning when Maina was found dead. Had I disposed of the body, or did it still lie behind the drawn bed curtains? Was Maina dead, or Laksha? Did a machine truly live if you stuck a spirit inside it? Was a spirit truly alive when forced to possess a dead thing?