by Gregg Taylor
“No,” said Fenwick with a smile, “I don't suppose that it would. Nice to have seen you again.” And with that, he was gone.
“For heaven's sake, Wentworth,” his father said, “have some sense of propriety.”
“If you say so, Father,” Wentworth James said, “but mark my words, there is more to August Fenwick than meets the eye.”
Ten
The room into which the small man shuffled was both vast and cluttered beyond all reason. Shelves were everywhere, running right to the top of the ceiling several stories above, and every one of them was packed with all manner of ancient artifacts, mechanical devices in various stages of completion and common household objects which had become hopelessly mislaid in a system of sorting understood best by its creator, but in reality by no one at all.
Doctor Theodore Chronopolis possessed one of the most remarkable brains in all the world. His work had touched on nearly every discipline, though he had been happiest since he had made his way to the Ancient Studies department of the museum, where his eccentricities were tolerated in deference to his sheer, instinctive brilliance. But he remained a man who loved a challenge, loved to have his perceptions of what was possible torn down by facts, and most of all, he secretly loved adventure, even if he preferred to play in the margins of such stories with a cup of tea and a biscuit.
To that end, Chronopolis had never been more pleased than when he had made the acquaintance of a remarkable young man with a crimson mask who called himself the Red Panda. It took him back to his boyhood when he used to scour the papers for tales of the exploits of the Society of Gentleman Adventurers and other mystery men. More importantly, it gave him a chance to help people, in his own way.
And that is why on this particular day a series of specimens recently brought back from an unearthed Mayan settlement had been removed from the large work table, and an enormous, man-shaped metal monster had taken their place. The casing of the great beast had been opened in a number of places, and parts as large as a fist and as small as a fingernail had been removed and spread out upon the table surrounding the creature It was easy to see that this robot would terrorize the city no more, but Chronopolis was desperate to make some discovery that might help to bring down its brethren before they could strike again.
From within the long shadows that surrounded the table, a voice hissed. “Doctor Chronopolis,” was all it said as a pair of blank white eyes appeared, Cheshire Cat-like.
Chronopolis had been greeted in this manner many times before, but he always found it unnerving. He stood hastily and ran his fingers through his mane of grey hair, which stood straight up at all times as if the good doctor were being electrocuted. “Oh, dear boy,” he said, “you do like to give me a fright, don't you? Come out here, we are quite alone.”
“Not quite alone, Doctor C,” a voice called from above. Chronopolis looked up to see the Flying Squirrel hanging upside-down high above, held aloft by her remarkable Static Shoes. He beamed at her and raised his hands apart in greeting. He was very fond of the Flying Squirrel, but not for the reasons that any man who saw her would normally be. He felt very paternal where she was concerned, though he had never allowed his own daughter to play with superheroes.
“I've made some tea,” he said to her. “I'll fetch you some milk from the icebox.” And with that he was gone. The glowing, blank eyes moved forward from the darkness and resolved themselves into a mask, then a face, then a man in a grey hat and coat. She dropped to the floor beside him without a sound, landing in a crouch. He appeared not to have noticed, but was instead already absorbed in the mechanical cadaver before him.
“Doesn't look so tough spread out like that, does it?” she asked.
“Tough? No. Brilliant? Yes.” The Red Panda seemed to be having a pang of regret about letting Doctor Chronopolis have all the fun of studying their foe. “Squirrel, this is absolutely stunning. A real cut above Captain Clockwork's original models. You were right, he didn't let them loose without making a great many improvements.” He was lost in thought for a moment, then snapped back to reality by a sudden realization.
“Squirrel, make sure that door is locked up tight, would you?” he asked. “It wouldn't do for us to be discovered here.”
“Oh, dear boy, have no fear,” Chronopolis said, hurrying back into the room with a teacup in his hand. “The outer chamber is completely sealed. I've been poking about with this fellow for a day and a half, and I had no intention of being discovered and hung up by my heels as a suspect.” The Doctor poured tea into the cup and stirred it before handing it to the Squirrel with a smile. “It makes life difficult for mad scientists everywhere when one of us turns evil, you know,” he said.
“We'll fix his little red wagon for you, Doc,” the Squirrel said with a toothy grin.
“Of that I have no doubt at all, my dear,” Chronopolis said, turning back to the object of his labor. “But you may find that to be no mean feat. Captain Clockwork is undoubtedly a genius, if a twisted and evil one. He has certainly removed the one weakness you were able to exploit last time, dear boy.”
The Red Panda seemed surprised. “The command signal?” he asked.
“Just so,” Chronopolis countered, pointing out several features within the robot as he spoke, which the Flying Squirrel could neither see nor fully understand. “His old models received instructions on a special radio beam, which you were able to overwhelm with a counter-signal. These new creatures receive no outside instructions whatsoever, apart from at their initial programming. They are completely self-sufficient and able to interpret a wide variety of inputs within the parameters of a specific mission.”
“But Doctor,” the Red Panda protested, “they certainly reacted to the counter-signal during the first attack.”
“By homing in on it and trying to kill you?”
“Well, yes,” the Red Panda admitted, “but I get that a lot.”
“I'm sure,” the scientist smiled. “It is true that the tin soldiers involved in the first attack appeared to be a different model than these, more closely resembling the original clockwork men. But it strikes me as very likely that this was by design on the part of their maker.”
“You mean they looked like the Model-As so we'd try the same takedown,” the Squirrel began, “and get blown to Topeka for our trouble?”
“Pure speculation on my part, but it seems likely,” Doctor Chronopolis nodded.
“Doctor, are you certain of this?” the Red Panda asked. “These models fell down en masse when we broadcast the counter-signal. Why would Captain Clockwork sacrifice them like that?”
“I couldn't really say,” Doctor Chronopolis admitted. “Tactical analysis isn't my field at all. It is possible that once they had driven those unfortunate people to their destruction their mission was complete and Clockwork left them rather than risk them being followed back to his lair.” Chronopolis clucked a little. “Does seem like a waste of resources, though.”
“It certainly does,” the Red Panda agreed.
“Or,” the Flying Squirrel began with a click of her tongue, “they could detect the counter-signal just like the others could and they dropped so we'd think we had beaten them and not suspect a thing when we started to pull them apart.”
“She thinks it's a trap,” the Red Panda explained.
“Oh, dear,” Chronopolis said soothingly, “there's no danger.”
“But there is,” she said, her eyes dancing with frustration. “Maybe 'trap' is the wrong word, since it sets you boys in knots, but Clockwork gave us this free sample for a reason. And whatever that reason is, it isn't gonna be good.”
The two men exchanged a look. “She is most likely correct,” Doctor Chronopolis said.
“She usually is,” the mystery man agreed, “but since for the moment I can't begin to guess what that reason might be, perhaps you ought to tell us what you know. You say the mechanical men are capable of independent operation now?”
“Oh my, yes,” Chronopolis enthuse
d. “It is really most ingenious. Where his earlier models were very advanced puppets at best, these new designs can be said to have a true electronic brain.”
“Is that really possible?” the Red Panda asked, startled.
“Not merely possible,” the Doctor said, more and more excited, “it lies here before you! I admit that I don't yet truly understand all of its functions. If the opportunity presents itself to bring me back one or two more samples, for comparison purposes–”
“I promise that we'll try, Doctor Chronopolis,” the Red Panda said, leaning in to examine the circuitry close-up.
“So if these doo-dahs have a brain now, does that mean we should be aiming for the head?” The Flying Squirrel was a practical sort of girl.
“Oh my, no,” Chronopolis said. “The head is quite another matter altogether. Remind me to show you.”
“Oh, good,” she sighed.
“The brain itself is actually composed of a staggeringly complex web of neural circuits scattered throughout the torso of the beast.” The Doctor was in something of a lather now, and seemed almost giddy. “A really impressive piece of work. You see, these filaments wound throughout the creature's inner works connect the brain in such a manner that any damage done can simply be re-routed around. In order to have any effect on the functionality of the brain, one would have to damage so much of the robot's body that I find it hard to believe the beast would still stand. Quite a step up on our own design actually.”
“Not that you're complaining,” said the Squirrel with a bat of her eyelashes.
“What's that?” The Doctor seemed startled for a moment, then smiled. “Oh no, of course not. Evolution did the best it could, my dear. But that is no reason for us to repeat its mistakes.”
“Doctor, this is amazing,” the Red Panda said with wonder in his voice. “But unless I'm very much mistaken, these monsters have capacity they are not even beginning to use.”
“Whaddya mean?” the Squirrel asked.
“I mean it appears to me that with a network like this, Clockwork's creations have an intellectual capacity far greater than they have shown so far.” The Red Panda's face was serious, but there was no denying he was impressed. “They could almost pass for human.”
“You mean they're as smart as real people?” The Squirrel was horrified.
“I saw that myself, dear boy,” Chronopolis said. “But if you will notice, the network is not connected here, or here. But it certainly appears that with a very few modifications, his creations could be much more than they are.”
“Is it possible that he doesn't know that?” Kit asked hopefully.
“No,” both men said together.
“Yeah, I didn't think so,” she sighed. “So that's the brain, what about the head?”
“I'm sorry?” Doctor Chronopolis seemed lost for a moment.
“You said I should ask you about the head,” the Flying Squirrel said with a patience she showed to few others.
“Ah! The head!” He was lost in enthusiasm again and picked up the creature's bisected cranium. “Another masterpiece of mysterious functionality. As you can see, the face of this mechanical man was unadorned in any way. Cold metal.”
“Sure.” Kit was pretty sure that she wasn't going to like this.
“Look inside,” Chronopolis said opening up the metal skull. “Hundreds of tiny actuators and gears, all clearly intended to control something, but what?”
“What indeed?” the Red Panda said, mystified. A moment later his attention was drawn to the creature's arms, neatly removed and lying beside it. “Doctor, do these whiplike appendages simply snap on and off?”
“Oh, yes,” Chronopolis smiled. “Easily changed for something able to manipulate like a human hand, or at least a claw, assuming that he has such parts available, which I have no doubt he does.”
“So Captain Clockwork has mass-produced enough units of a basic model of mechanical man that he can add or subtract functionality depending upon what is required for the task at hand.” The Red Panda was horrified.
“It gets worse, Boss,” the Squirrel said. “Maybe the reason that nobody saw any robots with guns is that the ones that did the shootin' looked like people! You said these big brains could pass them for humans.”
“If no one engaged them too directly I suppose,” he nodded.
“And Doc, those gears and whatsits could be used to move facial muscles, couldn't they? I mean, if they had any?” Her eyes were wide at the thought.
“Well, yes, in theory.” Chronopolis was fascinated. “I have no idea how the full system would work, but now that you mention it, I cannot imagine what else they could possibly be used for. How interesting!”
“And then some,” the Flying Squirrel said, slapping her fist into her left gauntlet with a sharp crack. “That means those poor people were gunned down by robots. Robots with human faces! Captain Clockwork's killers could be anywhere!”
“And we still don't even know what his plan is,” the Red Panda said grimly.
“But if he had the power to hide his creatures among us,” the Doctor asked, “why risk the discovery of this power by allowing us to capture these units?”
“He may have assumed we would never be able to understand what he had created,” the Red Panda said hopefully.
“Or it's a trap,” the Squirrel added helpfully.
“In any event, we have learned one or two things along the way,” the Doctor said brightly. “And I haven't even told you the good part.”
The Panda and Squirrel exchanged a look. “Oh swell,” she said. “I was waiting for the good part.”
“Last time, Captain Clockwork crafted all of his creations from hand-rendered components, nearly impossible to trace.” The Doctor sounded very pleased with himself indeed. “But in order to make an army this large, he has been forced to buy off the rack. Every major component in this unit came from a single source.”
“Doctor Chronopolis, that's marvelous!” the masked man cried. “Tell us where!”
“Fenwick Industries!” the little man said proudly.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Trap?” she asked.
“Trap,” he agreed.
Eleven
Philip Norfolk was not a man accustomed to hurrying, nor to playing fetch-and-carry. It did not suit his disposition or his demeanor. As a corporate head of one of the many divisions of Fenwick Industries, Norfolk was responsible for the direction taken by a multi-million dollar business and for the working lives of thousands of men. In the course of a day he did not normally carry boxes of paperwork and company records, and he only very rarely took any sort of order from anyone.
But this was not a normal day. Today Chief O'Mally and his band of clerks had come to call, with a warrant in hand for an audit of paperwork related to the movement of certain items of high-technology. Norfolk knew that he was not only answerable for the lives and livelihoods of his workers, but also for the good name of the company. He had begun his career under the late Thomas Fenwick and was just as loyal to the interests of the son as he had been the father. And though his new employer took a much more relaxed attitude towards anything that smelled like work, Norfolk took that as his cue to be even more proactive on his behalf. Thus to keep the presence of the police as quiet as possible, Norfolk himself, together with a dozen senior managers, had spent the day bringing the requested files to the large conference hall that the police had commandeered for their search.
He opened the door and came face to face with Chief O'Mally. “These are the last of them,” Norfolk said, holding out the box.
O'Mally went so far as to uncross one of his arms to point at the table with the stem of his pipe, but he said nothing and gave no sign of thanks to Norfolk. This was not Chief O'Mally's kind of police work. The small army of well-scrubbed young men the department used for investigations of this sort struck him more like actuaries than policemen. And this was a bad business, coming into the offices of one of the city's
wealthiest men with a warrant. Bound to get complicated, but O'Mally felt he was too close to the answer to take any risks, to have any records hidden. Captain Clockwork had built his technological terrors out of Fenwick Industries' parts, that much was certain, and somewhere in this unholy mess of shipping manifests, orders and receivables there must be a clue that would lead him to the mastermind behind the senseless slaughter of innocent people.
But it had been hours now, with nothing for him to do but stand and wait. He watched Norfolk brush himself off and mop his brow.
“Surprised we haven't seen Mister Fenwick himself,” O'Mally said. “You have called him, I assume.”
“Young Mister Fenwick can be surprisingly difficult to locate,” Norfolk puffed, “when he takes a mind to be. The operation of the company does not require his day-to-day involvement. Still, I can only imagine what he will say when he hears of this.”
“August Fenwick is as keen as anyone for Captain Clockwork to be brought to justice,” O'Mally said sternly.
Norfolk bristled. “If you are so certain of that, what was the need for the warrant?”
O'Mally turned away from Norfolk and watched his men shift through the piles of paper. “True or false, Mister Norfolk: if I had asked your permission, I would still be standing in the car park while you were trying to locate Mister Fenwick.”
Norfolk was silent for a moment. “Will there be anything else, Chief O'Mally?”
“If there is, Norfolk,” O'Mally said without looking, “you will be the first to know.
A moment later O'Mally was alone with his men. He regretted his demeanor for a moment, if only because it had deprived him of any distraction from watching his squad of accountants in action.
“Chief O'Mally, do you have a moment?” It was Green, the head of the team at work on the books.