by Neil Clarke
But tricks that entertain the wealthy can give hope to the desperate. After the slaughter in Missouri, word broke that during the previous year, a group of men arrived at the facility in the guise of workers. One of the project engineers was Texan and a sympathizer to the Confederate cause. Over the course of eight nights, he borrowed the new soul-catcher to create Babbage minds of Jesse and Frank James, and the Younger brothers, as well as three criminal associates. Then eight new bodies were fabricated in the automated shop. As convincing as any fakes could be, they included not only the most efficient coal-fired Brunels, but also smooth, lubricant-free joints, and a variety of rubber faces that would allow the killers to constantly change their famous features.
Once the deception was discovered, the engineer gave up all pretence of secrecy. He boasted about his cleverness and questionable politics. And while he didn’t know where the automatons were, he claimed that Jesse’s plan was to store their likenesses with unnamed friends, and in case of their early demise, that second gang would be awakened and set loose to continue their mayhem.
Not long after the Pinkerton ambush, eight experimental horses were stolen from an Army depot. But the military decided not to mention that painful fact. There was no public warning before the robberies resumed in early summer. But where blooded men and mortal horses had perpetrated the crimes before—men who needed sleep, and horses that could ride hard for just a few hours at a time—these miscreants were machines endowed with the constitutions and stamina of fire-driven locomotives.
A bank in Salinas, Kansas, was robbed in broad daylight. But before a posse could be raised, the thieves had raced away like lightning bolts.
Just a day later, one hundred miles to the south, riders caught the mail train as it roared along at full speed, leaping onboard like alley cats to take valuables from the safe and the terrorized travelers.
And that was followed the next week, in Missouri, when a dozen banks were robbed in scattered towns. The Northfield sheriff had read those lurid news accounts aloud to Stanley. Astonished and alarmed, he described how a Missouri farmer—the distant cousin of the James brothers, as it happened—pumped three rifle shots into the gang’s leader, and at close range. Yet every round had ricocheted off the armored chest, and one of those tumbling bullets struck and killed a much-loved schoolteacher.
For three savage months, those automatons had outwitted and outrun every opponent. But what worried the sheriff most was that innocent schoolteacher. Gun battles had already killed at least fifty citizens, and scores more had been injured. That’s what the machine explained to the gathered men. “The bank is a minor concern,” it maintained. “Before anything, we have to find the means to protect our neighbors.”
Old Man Charles bristled. “We can’t just let them take our money,” he grumbled.
“But what can we do?” asked the youngster. A few minutes earlier he had teased the machine about its political future. But now he looked up helplessly at the automaton, saying, “These things can’t be killed, and they’ll slaughter us if we give them any excuse.”
For a few moments, the sheriff did nothing. Its unblinking eyes stared at the dirt street and the little river meandering through the town’s heart. Then Stanley appeared, running as hard as possible, nearly passing by the men and tall machine as they stood together on the boardwalk.
“My boy,” the sheriff said.
“There you are,” Stanley observed. “I saw the mayor. He told me what’s what.” He joined them, staring down the street. “Which one of them is Jesse James?”
“None, I would imagine.”
The bank was a neat little building of pale stone. Three figures were guarding its doorway, pistols on their hips and all the time in the day, judging by their carefree stances.
Stanley was winded. Gasping, he asked, “Are they robbing it now?”
“Perhaps they are opening an account,” the sheriff jested.
Light laughter fell into gloomy silence.
“But they can’t get to the money,” the young man pointed out. “The vault’s secured with a time lock.”
The sheriff nodded. “If they didn’t know that before, they surely know it now.”
“How many are inside?” asked Stanley.
“There’s five more machines,” Old Man Charles reported.
The deputy looked at the thin metal face. “How many people, sir? Do you have any idea?”
“Five employees, we think, and several customers.”
Stanley nodded grimly.
Then another man appeared, carrying a shotgun in plain view. With a crisp, impatient voice, the sheriff warned, “They can see you, John.”
The new man set his weapon down.
“And birdshot won’t do us much good,” the sheriff pointed out.
Charles was thinking about his savings. With the surety of someone who had never seen a large battle, he talked about putting men with rifles on the roofs and inside every nearby building.
“Crossfires can be messy,” the sheriff warned. “And believe me, these machines will prove very hard to damage.”
“They can’t see us,” the shotgun man whined. “I can barely see them.”
“Of course they see us,” Stanley blurted. “Their eyes are better than any of ours. Even the sheriff’s can’t match these new models.”
Another minute passed, and the only change was a swift decline in the traffic moving past the bank. Word was spreading. Soon the entire community would be terrified, and every man would find a gun. Immune to fear, the mechanical horses continued stomping at the ground and flicking their wire tails, pretending to be bothered by flies. One lookout offered a few words to its companions, and all seemed to laugh. Then for no obvious reason, the three of them turned their backs to the world and stepped inside.
“What does this mean?” Stanley asked.
The sheriff was trying to piece together everything that it had read about the mechanical terrorists. How strong were they, and how fast? And how could anyone stop horses that were meant to ride into modern wars? But all that mattered were the automatons. They were like eight rattlesnakes curled up in a baby’s bed, and as long as they were under the sheets, you would be a fool to pick a fight with them.
Turning to the gathered men, the sheriff spoke as quickly as possible, outlining the makings of a plan. But the preparations would require time and some effort. Surely the bandits wouldn’t remain inside the bank much longer. And eventually some hothead was going to take an impulsive shot, setting off a great fight in the middle of town. Calm was essential. Delays would be blessings. The sheriff asked Stanley, “By any chance, did you bring extra coal with you?”
“I didn’t think of it,” the young man confessed. “Why? Are you low? Do you want me to run home and grind some?”
“Never mind.” From its own trouser pocket, the sheriff withdrew a small leather sack filled with black dust—an emergency stockpile reserved for the direst circumstances—and then using its widest straw, the machine inhaled every mote of that foul-looking goodness, its long hands beginning to quiver from the sudden influx of fuel.
As it stepped into the street, Stanley asked, “What are you doing, sir?”
“I am going to meet with the robbers,” the sheriff reported. Then it paused and turned, showing the scared men its own worried grin. But with a sturdy voice, it added, “You need time, and everybody needs peace. And who can say? Perhaps I can talk my brothers out of this foolishness.”
A pounding sound came from inside the bank. It began as the sheriff approached, and whoever was doing the pounding was finding their rhythm, the pace quickening and the sound growing sharper as each blow was delivered with increasing force. The Youngers were serving as the lookouts. Standing behind the bank windows, the brothers watched the sheriff’s steady approach. One turned to shout to someone deeper in the darkness, and the hammering stopped for a moment. The other two pulled Army pistols out of their holsters—automatic models with several dozen rounds
sleeping in the hilts. The sheriff kept walking, but when it passed between two of the mechanical horses, it hesitated. The rumble of powerful fires burned inside the bellies. Machine guns were tied to the saddles, no human hand strong enough to break the heavy wire. The sheriff looked at the glass eyes of one horse and then the long twitching ears, and as an experiment, it started to reach for the bridle. The bank door flew open.
“You don’t want to do that,” a sour voice warned. “It doesn’t know you, and its bite’s worse than a mad dog’s.”
As if to prove the point, a decidedly unhorselike mouth open wide, revealing steel teeth and a dark tongue bristling with sharp wires and savage razors.
“Thanks much for the warning,” the sheriff allowed.
The Younger at the door asked, “What do you want?”
“Are you Cole?”
“I am.”
“The town has sent me to meet with you boys,” the sheriff offered. “Everybody is scared, and they want to know your intentions.”
Cole stepped away from the open door. Its brothers searched the sheriff, pulling pliers and a pair of screwdrivers out of its pockets. Each automaton was wearing its original, now famous faces. Stepping indoors, the sheriff recognized them in turn. Cole Younger was a balding creature with a short dark beard and moustache and the distant eyes of someone who had been soldiering for too long. The James brothers were in the back, watching while three associates resumed working on the stubborn safe. Fully fueled, the sheriff was as powerful and tireless as a machine press. But these entities were a notch or two stronger. Twelve years of refinements showed in their fluid motions, each delivering a very precise blow with a massive steel hammer. The safe’s handle and dial had been twisted and battered. Sparks flew, and the racket deafened. The sheriff turned away, discovering the bank’s patrons and employees huddled in a dark corner—seven people tied together like livestock. Nodding in their direction, the machine tried to lend encouragement. Then somebody shouted, “Quit,” and the pounding came to a merciful end.
Jesse had given the command. That automaton had a handsome face and a strong, self-secure voice. Into the sudden silence, it said, “We need the kick-putty. Where’d you put it, Frank?”
Kick-putty was a powerful new explosive, expensive and rather touchy. If a mistake was made, these metal creatures would weather the blast, but not the people tied up on the floor.
Frank James told one of the hammer-wielders, “Go get the putty. It’s in my saddlebag.”
“You shouldn’t waste your time,” the sheriff advised.
No one seemed to notice its words. The humans kept their terrified heads low, while the robbers were too consumed with the promise of money.
As the associate passed by, the sheriff added, “There’s no gold in the safe, boys. I’m sorry to tell you.”
Frank had a heavy wire moustache and sober, watchful eyes. The automaton offered a smile, and then with a mocking tone, it said, “Honest Abe.”
The sheriff nodded slightly.
“So where is the money?” Jesse asked.
“The gold and silver were moved out last night,” the sheriff lied. “I heard you might be coming here, so I ordered it taken away for safety’s sake.”
“You didn’t hear anything of the kind,” Cole said.
The sheriff looked only at the James brothers. “Didn’t I spot you as soon as you arrived?” it asked. “Despite your disguises and fancy horses, I saw you for what you were.”
Jesse stared at the very famous face.
“You should leave now,” the sheriff advised. “Otherwise you will have troubles.”
“Why? Is somebody going to fight us?” “That is a possibility, sir.”
The rubber face smiled while both hands unbuttoned its shirt. Jesse James showed everyone a chest that could have belonged to a human male, but for the countless pits left by high-velocity rounds.
Quietly and firmly, the machine promised, “We like to fight.”
The sheriff said nothing.
“Don’t we?” it asked the others.
Seven voices said, “Yes. Sure. Always.”
That last meal of coal dust was beginning to fade. The sheriff felt its strength diminishing, its old-fashioned Babbage already beginning to slow. But it didn’t allow its voice to fade. “I don’t doubt you. I don’t. But I think you like something even more than fighting.”
“And what would that be?” Frank asked.
“You love to live. You want to be alive. Isn’t that the truth?”
“If we don’t run away, what happens?” Cole asked with a mocking tone. “Are you going to kill us?”
“Not at all,” the sheriff replied. “But I’m prepared to help you. In exchange for releasing these my friends, I will give you something far more valuable than money.”
The machines with the hammers looked ready to pound on the sheriff. But Jesse was curious enough to ask, “And what would that gift be?”
“Set one of them free first,” the sheriff coaxed.
“No.”
“A woman, maybe?”
“Tell us what you’re trading for her,” Frank insisted. “Ideas,” the sheriff said.
The machines laughed, but the James brothers were first to quiet down. Then Jesse drifted closer, saying, “Give me an idea I can use. Then I’ll decide just how nice I want to be.”
“Life,” the sheriff repeated. “Meat and blood might believe they hold a monopoly on living, but don’t the nine of us know a good deal better than them? Each of us is more than a box full of memories, more than sets of complicated and cooperative instructions. I can assure you: from the first moment when I made these metal hands move, I have been very much my own man. Every day, my life proves interesting. My story, such as it is, belongs to nobody else. I am jealous of no man, bone or steel, because I so much enjoy the faces and routines that fill my stellar existence. And why, praise the Maker, should that be any other way?”
The initial curiosity was flickering. A master politician could see its audience losing its fragile interest.
“But I am extra blessed,” the sheriff called out. With a wide smile building, it added, “In a very special way, the entity standing before you is immortal, and its destiny is to live on forever.”
Cole snorted. Otherwise, the reaction was surprised silence, from machines and the tied-up humans both.
Finally Jesse said, “I never took you for a religious man.”
“Nor should you,” the sheriff replied. “No, I am a pragmatic creature, and this is my peculiar situation: a soul-catcher absorbed my ancestor. Everything that was Abe was transformed into mathemat ical equations and carefully weighed factors, influences, and tendencies. Then the information was given a flavor that any Babbage can digest. Dozens of powerful and very durable machines were involved in the creation of me. Even today, inside their deepest workings, the Babbages remember me. Which implies that as long as just one of them is kept in good repair, my ancestor and much of me will live on, at least for as long as this world cherishes their dead president.”
Cole was puzzled, Frank dismissive. But Jesse attacked the statements by the most fruitful route. “Maybe the world likes you today. And maybe it will tomorrow too. But do you believe that there’s some big Babbage holding our ancestors in the same motherly way?”
“Not at all,” the sheriff replied.
“Why not?” Cole asked.
Jesse stepped closer. “Tell him why, sheriff.”
“Because you are hated, vilified, and despised, and the owners of those Babbages would have purged you from their system as soon as they learned of your existence.”
The eight bandits had probably never considered this promise of immortality. But here it was, offered to them without warning, and then in the next moment, shattered.
“I don’t see why you’re crowing,” Jesse admitted. “So what if ten or fifty years from now, somebody decides to punch out another dozen Abes. They won’t be you. When you die, this little lif
e of yours is going to be lost.”
The sheriff took a half-step forward, declaring, “And that, my friend, is where you are wrong.”
A furious glare preceded the question, “Now why is that?”
“Because at this very moment, smart men are designing and testing brand-new types of soul-catchers—machines that will read and record our minds, and do it in a matter of moments. Good commercial reasons are responsible for this work. It will ease the process of saving whatever an important Babbage holds inside itself. And by the same token, that trickery will make it possible to duplicate each of us. Provided we have the money and freedom, of course. And not just punch out another Jesse James, or a dozen. But an entire army of you could be manufactured inside one factory, in a single good day.
“Which means, gentlemen, that your lives can last longer than you have ever imagined. But only if you allow them to survive into this Golden Age.”
Among the gang, there was confusion was mixed with the interest, plus a healthy dose of doubt. As the machines looked at once another, something massive began to move in the street. But the sheriff didn’t dare glance at the windows. All it could do is continue to delay whatever was to come next.
“Perhaps you know the story of my grandfather’s ax,” it mentioned.
Eyes opened wider and lips narrowed. Those rubber faces were much more expressive than the sheriff’s, and despite its statements to the contrary, it did feel jealousy toward these other machines.
“What ax is that?” Jesse inquired.
“My grandfather’s treasured ax,” the sheriff said. “It was handed down to my father, who then gave it to me. And in its life, it has had two new heads and three new handles. But it is still my grandfather’s ax.”