by Neil Clarke
“Are you certain?”
“Oh, yes. We had this face, the same body, but he was wearing his funeral clothes, and his delicate brain was torn apart by the assassin’s bullet.” The machine closed its glass eyes, and then it opened them. “Yet his corpse seemed to function quite well despite the wound. He smiled straight at me and handed me a long rifle and said, ‘Shoot the cat, boy. Do it now.’”
Stanley nodded, intrigued despite his worthy doubts.
“I started to do as I was told. I crept close to the wild animal. In my hands was a marksman’s weapon, but instead of shooting from a forty paces, I found myself as close to the cat as that doorway stands from us. Then I took careful aim, as instructed. All the while, the cat continued to look me in the eyes. It stared as if it knew me. And then do you know what happened?”
“No, sir. What?”
“The cat stood up. It suddenly rose from the tall grass, balancing on its hind legs, and it showed me its narrow chest. Then before I could discharge my gun, it peeled back the spotted fur and its ribs, exposing a collection of machines that looked remarkably like my insides, only smaller. Shiny, elegant devices, and lovely too, I told myself. The machine’s guts were more advanced than anything either of us has seen before.”
Stanley nodded, wondering if he could be wrong. Was this fantastic dream genuine? Or was the machine simply recounting a fantastic tale that it had read in one of its many books?
“Do you remember your dreams, my boy?”
Stanley shook his head. “Rarely.”
“Well, perhaps you are a machine, too.”
Humor was not one of Stanley’s strengths. The young man dismissed that suggestion with a snort.
Then like the cheetah in its dream, the automaton suddenly rose up, its weight making the floor creak, its considerable height readily apparent. And as it pinned the sheriff’s star to the lapel of its vest,
it remarked, “I have an idea, son. Or my ancestor left me this useful thought.” With gravity and unusual seriousness, it said, “Either way, there are a few inquiries that I would like you to make on my behalf. And if necessary, see them through to their logical ends.”
In life, the ancestor had been an exceptionally busy man, but for reasons of politics and statecraft, he had invested a entire morning doing nothing but sitting alone inside a silver-walled box. This was the first soul-catcher brought to the New World, purchased in London by a Union representative. In the brief history of the device, few subjects had been as thoroughly rendered. The man’s patience might have been the reason, or perhaps his mind was more open to the sensitive explorations. Or maybe the soul-catcher’s delicate mechanisms were set perfectly, and success was a matter of pure luck. Whatever the reason, an exceptionally clear portrait of the American president was achieved, and when that sophisticated mathematical picture was joined with his writings and speeches and the testimony of close friends and family, the final design bore an astonishing resemblance to the Illinois lawyer that had carried this nation through more than three years of terrible war.
It was 1864, and the national election was approaching. The free male citizens of the Union were to decide if the killing was to continue. If the president was not reelected, the survival of the democracy was in jeopardy; and should the nation split in two, a pair of radically different states would find themselves sharing a long dangerous border.
To help win the election, fifteen Lincoln automatons were built and tested. Three of the machines proved too flawed to be repaired and were subsequently thrown out as scrap. But twelve of those grand experiments were dressed like the president, complete with his trademark stovepipe hat, and then shipped to various states and territories. Blessed with his wit and memories and good political instincts, the Lincolns campaigned for their ancestor, begging all who came in earshot for their votes come November.
Perhaps because of them, the election was won. But the war lingered on, and the automatons continued working, publicly supporting the fight by calling for fresh recruits and money, working tirelessly up until the moment when that last battle was won. But what was to be done with the machines afterwards? Three automatons were brought to the White House for a dinner of beef and coal dust. Lincoln had never met the machines, but he quickly realized that each was unique, blessed with its own distinct personality. Even as they sat at the table, the finest, most expensive Babbages in the world were learning and growing intellectually. The president enjoyed stories from the campaign trail and some wonderful jokes. Later, to Mary and his closest friends, Lincoln mused that it would wrong to slaughter thousands of good men in order to free millions, but then for their next act, carelessly turn these marvels of science and metaphysics into mindless scrap.
But as yet, no final decision had been reached. Those three Lincolns were sent to the Army for study. Word went out from the Department of War for the machines to be emptied of their fuel, their inert bodies shipped back to the Pittsburgh factory from which they had come. This particular Lincoln was wandering across Minnesota when the ordered arrived. Half a dozen young government men were assigned to its care and feeding. They explained what was about to happen, and the machine did as it was ordered, without hesitation. To what degree its Babbage felt worry and fear could not be known. But it was sitting at the train station, its fuel almost gone, when word arrived of the president’s assassination. And five days later, it was still sitting there, inert and unaware that Andrew Johnson had just signed a special order that freed the Lincoln automatons from all service and every debt.
The gesture was made in grief, without consideration for the results of the unplanned kindness. The government handlers and mechanics that cared for the machines were sent to other duties. The next years proved especially difficult for the twelve machines. A real man would heal his wounds with nothing but food and rest. But the new citizens demanded replacement parts that were scarce, and few mechanics understood their complicated bodies. Several Lincolns perished through preventable failures of their Babbages. Another was crushed in a train wreck, while a boating accident drowned its brother in Lake Michigan. In order to keep itself moving and thinking, the Minnesota Lincoln earned what money it could through common labor—a skill with which it was quite adept. Every penny was invested in coal and lubricating oils and the special tools, plus copies of any book that helped with its upkeep and continued happiness. That life might never have ended. But in 1871,
while the automaton was helping load freight on a train car, two local men got into a terrible brawl. Hard words escalated into fists, and then guns were drawn and fired wildly. One bullet buried itself into a plank inches above the head of a child, and without consideration for its own safety, the automaton covered the little girl with its body, absorbing two more bullets in its iron guts before the revolver was emptied. Then the machine turned, and with a few Sterling-powered chops of the hand, disarmed both men.
After that day, the town quit regarding their neighbor as being only a curiosity. Remembering the dead president’s early career, some of the citizens approached the machine for legal advice, and while it refused to serve as anyone’s attorney, it gladly gave its opinion and accepted the few dollars that found their way into its pocket.
That new career lasted most of a year.
It was during that interval when Stanley arrived—a sharp young fellow attending Carleton College. He took a deep interest in the automaton, first as a challenge to his skills, then for increasingly personal reasons. Then one day, the town sheriff complained of a headache, went to bed and died. There was a sudden need for an officer of the law, and after judging all of the candidates, people decided to elect a machine to serve as their protector.
The mechanical Lincoln agreed to serve, but certain unimpeachable rules had to apply: it would never kill or maim any person or beast, and nobody should try ordering it to do otherwise. Under no circumstance would it carry any weapon more treacherous than a screwdriver. And Stanley would serve as its deputy and doctor, and in
case of its demise, he would inherit the honorable post.
For the next four years, Northfield, Minnesota enjoyed peace and prosperity, and whether their reasons were sound or not, the citizens by and large credited their good fortune on the towering, coal-powered entity that patrolled its streets, more alert than any man, yet possessing a quick wit and the natural charming authority of a great and good man who was still sorely missed.
“Perhaps I am not alive,” the sheriff would concede. “But this contraption before you still enjoys its little pleasures, thank you.”
Reading was a reliable joy. In that, the ancestor and his metal image were the same. And close behind was the companionship of men. There was a favorite barbershop where the sheriff would sit in the strongest chair, trading jokes with the patrons as it allowed its metal face to be painted and patched. And there were several taverns where every other customer enjoyed drink and cigars, probing the machine’s memories about its first term as president. The town’s largest hotel had been renamed the Lincoln House, in honor of the automaton that often camped on its wide porch, offering opinions and shrewd observations about local matters. But on that particular September day, some of the town notables gathered on Division Street. The machine was walking its rounds, but it decided to join them. To save energy, it stood with its steel knees locked and its arms motionless. But it listened carefully to every word, even as it said and did nothing, and when inspiration struck, the sheriff would suddenly offer up a few gemstones of wit and self-deprecating humor, earning well-deserved laughter from its eager audience.
That was a bright, busy day. Wagons and horses and people on foot shared the street with a variety of new machines. As often happened, someone mentioned the great changes that were sweeping across the world. Who could have imagined so many revolutions in engineering and science? And where would these changes strike next? Those perfectly fine questions brought a long, thoughtful pause. But no one dared make predictions about the future. Finally someone brought up the subject of politics—not an unexpected occurrence with this group. With a tone that was rather less than complimentary, the current president was mentioned. Every eye was fixed on the sheriff’s hard face, waiting for its reaction. But the entity preferred to keep its emotions to itself. Finally the youngest fellow present—a freshman at Carleton, more boy than man—rose to the challenge. He decided that he would elicit some response from this fancy device.
“I have a question for you, sir.”
“Yes, son?” the high-pitched voice replied.
“Do you ever consider running for higher office? With the world as it is, I’m sure your talents would prove most valuable.”
The other men nervously held their breath.
But the machine creaked out a large smile, declaring, “When there rises a nation of machines, I will run for some worthy post. Of course I will.”
“As if that would ever happen,” barked one old man named Charles. “‘A nation of machines’ indeed!”
Most agreed with the skeptic. Everybody laughed, and loudest of all was the sheriff. But it did not go unnoticed when the machine suddenly announced that it should be leaving, that its rounds would never finish themselves. Long legs strode with precision, taking it away from the joyful group, and as it moved up the busy street, it let the smile fall back to a neutral expression, tipping the tall hat to the women that it passed by but otherwise showing nothing about its present mood or its persistent fears for the future.
Northfield was miles and years removed from the giant cities and newborn industries. But even here, life was changing in ways impossible to ignore. Each spring brought new machines designed to lessen the burdens of farmers and tradesmen. In one glance, the sheriff spied three quite different mechanical wagons. The oldest model sported giant wheels that looked as if they had been repaired by a series of increasingly angry blacksmiths. But in a world of ruts and rock and deep mud, brute engines and revolving limbs were proving to be failures. The other wagons were newer and more successful. One resembled a giant brass spider, while the next one reminded the eye of a great ox that could be marched over any terrain. Neighbor to neighbor, the sheriff waved at the prosperous riders steering both wagons. Then an old-fashioned freight wagon came along, pulled by four powerful horses. But it was the cargo that was a matter of some interest: ten mechanical laborers were sitting in the back end, destined for the mill that lay across the river. The sheriff paused long enough to study the motionless bodies, unclothed and definitely inhuman, with blank simple faces, lidless eyes, and mouths that had no purpose but to eat coal in great sloppy lumps. According to conventions only a few years old, the automatons’ bodies were deeply black. The symbolism was obvious. One suffering race had been freed by war, but factories were gladly producing a new species of slave, and there seemed to be no voice that seriously complained about what was transpiring.
For several moments, the sheriff did nothing but watch the wagon and its brothers crossing the Cannon River. The oak bridge creaked under the combined weight. No black face moved; no simple hand lifted. Presumably the machines were not even fueled. But the scene made the automaton ache, and it remained standing motionless for a minute longer, trying to understand from where these emotions could have arisen.
Bodies and vehicles continued to stream past. Everyone acted preoccupied with his busy life. Even when the sheriff began to walk again, it was distracted by the hubbub and dust. A rider on horseback was moving in the same direction, and he almost slipped past unnoticed. But then one of the eyes caught the sunlight, shining too brightly, and when the sheriff looked up, the stranger looked away, as if to keep his face out of view.
Curiosity made the sheriff pause, staring as the stranger continued on his way. What should have been apparent was not. It took several moments of hard study before the sheriff realized that the horse was no horse, but instead an extremely convincing simulation, complete to the false dun coat and the twitching tail and a glassy black eye that rolled in its socket as the bridle was tugged slightly, telling the device to walk faster now.
An automated horse! There were stories about such wonders, but they were expensive and very new, and outside the Army, no more than a few dozen were owned by the wealthy. The sheriff’s astonishment was honest and lasting; it couldn’t help but stare. At full gallop, these false horses were at least twice as swift as the living beasts. But if memory served, that was a problem that was bedeviling the Army. At rapid speeds, these mechanical chargers could stumble in an instant, and while they were all but invulnerable to most hazards, their weight and momentum tended to kill every unfortunate rider trapped beneath them.
And what about this fellow riding on top? The sheriff tried to match the stranger’s quickening pace. Whoever he was, the stranger didn’t look prosperous enough to afford such a machine. But it took several more moments to see what no one else on the street had noticed. The rider was dressed in heavy clothes, and the back of his neck was exposed to the sun. With the heat of late summer, he should be bathed in perspiration. Yet he looked entirely dry. And despite the glare of the sun against the man’s neck, his bare flesh was as white and slick as any good piece of carefully shaped, heavily painted iron.
The sheriff stopped in the middle of Division Street, unblinking eyes watching as the rider pulled over at the bank and dismounted, tying up the false horse with a thoroughly convincing motion. Then what wasn’t human joined what seemed to be four others like it, and the five entities looked farther up the street, watching as another three riders entered from the opposite end of town.
A local boy and his father happened to be strolling past. The sheriff called to them by name, and to the boy it said, “You’re quicker than me. Run now. Run up to my house. Find Stanley and bring him straight here. Will you do that for me?”
“Oh, yes!” Happy for the task, the boy raced up the nearest side street and vanished.
With concern, the father asked, “Is something wrong, sheriff?”
Removing its
tall hat, the machine admitted, “Much is wrong, yes. And in this particular corner of the world, it seems.”
The man turned pale. “What is happening, sir?”
“A few moments ago, I was speaking to that group of men,” the sheriff mentioned, motioning in the opposite direction. “Do you see them standing in the street? Old Man Charles and the rest of them? Well please, if you would do this for me. Join them now. Quietly, I want you to warn them that our bank is about to be robbed. And if I don’t miss my mark, it’s the James-Younger Gang that’s going to do the robbing.”
Only last spring, the nation’s most notorious thieves and murderers were brought to justice. Pinkerton agents had collected photographs of the gang’s leaders, and using the new high-speed telegraph, sent their likenesses to law enforcement officers across the West. But more effective were several hundred artificial eyes linked to empty Babbages. Each eye was shown the images until it knew exactly what it was hunting for, and then the eyes were hidden in every likely corner of Missouri, tracking the comings and goings of every person. Eventually one mechanical spy delivered on its promise. The Pinkertons cornered their foes at a remote farmstead—forty agents employing the newest munitions, killing every outlaw as well as the family giving them shelter, including five children and an elderly grandmother.
But the James and Youngers were dead. Much of the nation cheered, and every bank owner and train conductor breathed easier. Only in the Confederate hotbeds were the bushwhackers were mourned—looked upon as heroes, the last brave soldiers in a lost but noble cause.
Yet while the men were dead, their terror managed to survive.
Southwest of Chicago, standing on what used to be prairie, was a wondrous new factory. Within its walls was a wondrous soul catcher equal to the machines used by European royalty. The facility was intended to serve the new Babbage millionaires. For a stack of gold bars, an important man’s essence would be absorbed and replicated inside the tiniest, most complex Babbage ever constructed. Then inside an adjacent facility, precise mechanical hands would fabricate a new body—the perfect mirror to the customer’s shape and natural motions. This was the latest pleasure among the exceptionally wealthy: Realistic automatons that would stand in for their busy, self-important owners, doing the routine and occasionally spreading harmless mischief.