The Havoc Machine

by Steven Harper

  The machine tossed the first spider into a hopper, sucked it inside, and crushed it to squeaking pieces. The second spider wriggled furiously in the machine’s hand until the machine set it down, whereupon it rushed about in angry circles. The machine exuded a third spider. This time, both of them fought until the machine sent a signal of its own that stopped them. The spiders came reluctantly under control even as the machine exuded a fourth aggressive spider.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Kill him!” Sofiya paced the wooden floor of the Black Tent in her new gown. “Why did you say you would kill him?”

  “I suppose I should have refused the tsarina?” Thad drummed his fingers heavily on a workbench. “The trouble is, the assassin wasn’t a clockworker.”

  Sofiya stopped pacing. “How do you mean?”

  “A clockworker wouldn’t use dynamite.” Thad was almost snarling now, though he wasn’t sure who he was angry at. “Too blunt. Too pedestrian. Too inelegant. Killing with mere dynamite is no fun. A clockworker who wanted to assassinate someone would use something elaborate or stylish, like a spider that delivered a drop of poison, or a thin wire that sliced your head off as you galloped past on a horse, or an automaton that disguised itself as a bootblack’s box until it sprang into action and sliced you into bits. Dynamite? Never.”

  “So who did it, then?”

  “Your hypothesis is probably the correct one,” Thad said. “Disgruntled landowner who doesn’t want to lose his serfs.”

  “And what do we do about this?”

  “How’s Nikolai?” Thad asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  She turned to look at the little automaton. Nikolai was sitting upright on the workbench next to Dante. The sparking in his head had died down, and he wasn’t speaking. Every so often he gave a twitch. His left hand jerked upward, then lowered itself over and over.

  “Failing,” she said. “He needs repairs badly.”

  “Are you going to do it, then?”

  She folded her arms. “Why do you care so much? He is just a machine, as you pointed out.”

  “Why don’t you care?” Thad shot back. The anger was growing. “You’re the one who loves machines so very much. You haven’t even repaired Dante yet.”

  “I was busy creating the act that saved this circus.” The heat rose in Sofiya’s voice as well. “I had to build the colt and put in—”

  “Don’t feed me more lies, woman,” Thad interrupted.

  “Lies? How dare you!”

  “And keep the indignation.” Thad lowered his voice to a deadly steadiness. “I know clockworkers. There’s no evidence in this boxcar that you built that colt here—no scraps of metal, no plans, no calculations, no chipped tools. That colt was inside your horse from the beginning. It’s why you thought it was funny that Nikolai gave it the name of a male deity. The only thing you’ve built lately was my hand.” He held it up. “And that was something you modified from a spider Mr. Griffin built. That’s very, very strange for a clockworker, Sofiya.”

  She looked frightened now. “So what? All clockworkers are strange.”

  “They’re all strange in the same way. I know,” Thad said relentlessly. A part of him was well aware that he was doing this to avoid what Sofiya had brought up with Nikolai, but he didn’t care. He kept going. “You don’t like to build, do you? But you want to do. You hunger to do. The machines and the numbers call to you, but you’re afraid of them. You said the madness comes on you and you have to build, but that was a lie. You haven’t built much of anything. You said you’re looking forward to going mad, and that was another lie. You’re terrified of the madness, and that’s why you don’t build anything. You’re afraid you’ll fall into a fugue and never come out.”

  “I built your hand!” she protested.

  “Only because I saved yours.” He locked eyes with her. “What happened, Sofiya? Did you fall into a fugue state and hurt someone when you built Kalvis and that little energy pistol you carry around? Or are you just afraid of what you might become?”

  “You kill people like me!” she shouted.

  “You made me swear to do it! Or don’t you want me to keep that promise anymore?”

  She spun away from him and leaned on the workbench. Her shoulders shook, and Thad realized she was weeping. The anger drained out of him, and he felt stupid and foolish. What had he been trying to prove? That he was smarter or stronger than she was? Shouting and yelling, that was always helpful. And with Nikolai sitting on the table with his head open. Thad was a schoolyard bully. His face burned with shame. He touched her shoulder. “Listen, Sofiya, I’m sorry I—”

  He was flat against the wall with her iron grip around his throat and his feet a good six inches off the floor. His breath choked off. He clawed ineffectually at the air. Sofiya’s other hand reached down and clasped his groin. A dull ache snaked up his abdomen.

  “Fine,” she growled into his face. Her voice was not her own, and she was speaking Russian. “I will repair the child. I will even repair the parrot. And you”—she squeezed harder and his eyes rolled back from the gut-wrenching agony—“you will help me.”

  She casually flung him aside. Thad crashed to the floor, clutching at his neck, gasping for air, reeling from pain. Sofiya stomped about the Black Tent, snatching tools from racks and boxes and tossing them beside Nikolai. “Get up, boy!” she snapped at Thad. Coughing, Thad pushed himself upright. Sofiya crackled with energy. Her presence filled the boxcar and pushed at the walls. Every movement was fast and precise. Thad recognized the signs. She had fallen into a clockwork fugue.

  “Bring me that spanner!” she barked. “And that screwpick! Before I slice you open like a putrid rat.”

  Without a word, Thad handed her the tools. She snatched them from him as if he were nothing but an open drawer and bent over Nikolai’s exposed machinery. After some muttering and swearing, she grabbed Thad’s brass hand and shoved it into Nikolai’s head. “Hold this wheel in place. Don’t move it!”

  “I—” Thad began.

  The slap rocked his head back in an explosion of pain. It came so fast he didn’t even see Sofiya’s hand move. “Do not speak again unless I ask you a question. And then speak Russian, not that flea-ridden garbage you sodomite British call language.”

  Thad worked his jaw back and forth, so angry he felt he might explode. The thought flicked through his mind: She was a clockworker, just like the one who had killed David. His spring-loaded knives were sheathed in his sleeves. He could still use the right one perfectly well, and it was a better than even chance his brass left was up to the job now, too. If he backed up and waited until her back was turned, he could get in a perfect throw before she knew what was happening.

  But this was Sofiya, the woman who had saved his hand and his life. And he himself had brought about her fugue state. Now she could save Nikolai.

  A machine. Why did he care about a soulless machine? In one shot, Thad could eliminate both of them. He hung there with a sword down his throat, divided in two.

  And what would happen when Mr. Griffin returned? Mr. Griffin, the strangest and most cunning clockworker Thad had come across to date. It would be foolish to face Mr. Griffin alone. He needed Sofiya. He needed Dante. He might even need Nikolai.

  Thad swallowed his anger and, feeling cold, reached into the little automaton’s head to hold the wheel as the clockworker had ordered.

  “Don’t be clumsy, boy,” she said. “And we can finish this.”

  Hours passed. The clockworker stormed about the Black Tent barking commands and pouring vitriol over Thad in equal parts. He kept his head down and obeyed as best he could, understanding fully why clockworkers were rarely able to work with others. Twice more the clockworker struck him hard enough to leave bruises, and only through great exercise of self-control did he avoid striking back. But slowly, steadily, the little automaton’s head came back together. It stopped twitching, though it didn’t move or speak as the clockworker set new rivets into his metal skull.
She even produced needle and thread to repair his scalp with swift, tiny stitches. Hunger gnawed at Thad’s insides, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but the clockworker wasn’t finished yet. Without a pause, she turned to Dante. Her quick fingers disassembled his gears and wheels. A steady stream of invective punctuated her orders, berating Thad for letting the parrot fall into disrepair and filth. Without expression, he brought buckets of soap and water and a can of machine oil. In a short time, she had cleaned Dante out and put him back together again.

  “He needs new feathers and a new eye,” she barked. Her new dress was a wreck, and her hair was a tangled thornbush. “Heat up the forge and fetch that brass spanner. We can melt it down to make—”

  “Miss,” Thad interrupted, and this time he dodged her slap. “Miss, it’s time to stop.”

  “I decide when it is time to stop!” she howled. “You will—”

  He flung a bucket of cold water over her. It soaked her from head to foot. She gasped at him, her mouth opening and closing like a salmon’s. Cautiously, he waited a moment.

  “Thad?” she said at last in a small voice. “What happened?”

  “It’s me,” he said, and it was a relief to see the madness gone from her eyes. “You’re all right. We’re still in the Black Tent. It must be after midnight by now.”

  She looked around fearfully. “What did I do? Oh God, did I hurt anyone? Did any person—?”

  “Everyone’s fine,” he said neutrally. “You hurt no one.”

  “Then what’s this?” She touched his cheek where she had slapped him earlier, and he moved his head away. “I hurt you, didn’t I? Dear heaven, what else did I do? Tell me the truth, Thad. I have to know!”

  Another piece fell into place. “That’s the true hold Mr. Griffin has on you, isn’t it? About your sister.”

  She sagged, soaked and sobbing, into Thad’s arms. Thad caught her before she fell, then eased her onto a stool and backed away again.

  “Olenka can no longer walk because of me,” she wept. “I did something to her, I do not even remember what. She can’t even bear to look at me now, and who can blame her? I send her all my money so she can live and pay the doctors, and still it is never enough. I feel the monster.”

  Thad nodded. He felt flat, cold, and his words came out almost stony. He had allowed himself to get too close. He had forgotten her true nature. No matter what she said or did, this woman was a clockworker, volatile and dangerous, and he needed to remember that at all times. He wouldn’t kill her, not until she had helped him against Mr. Griffin, but he couldn’t trust her. His face throbbed where she had hit him.

  “I’d wondered about that,” he mouthed. “It’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Then whose was it?” she demanded, still sobbing. “Every moment, I must keep myself under control, or I will do it again. I have done it again. I hurt you.”

  Was she truly sorry or was she trying to manipulate him again? Best to play along, regardless. “A few slaps and insults never hurt anyone,” he said. “And Griffin can’t hurt her, you know.”

  “He can. He said if I ever refused him, he would drag Olenka to me and push me into a clockwork fugue, just as you did, so I would finish her off.”

  A finger of guilt crept up Thad’s spine. He had indeed pushed Sofiya into this fugue and upset her. But no. He was tired of balancing on a knife. Sofiya was a clockworker, and Thad knew clockworkers. He would keep a close eye on her, use her to find Griffin, and then he would have to eliminate her, too. Before she did more than slap.

  “We won’t let Mr. Griffin do anything to you,” he said aloud. “We’ll stop him.”

  Sofiya suddenly seemed to realize what she was doing. She straightened on the stool and turned her head to dry her eyes on her sopping sleeve, with little success. “Well, thank you, then. It feels better to hear someone say that.” She crossed the boxcar floor to the worktable and Nikolai the automaton. “But we have other things to attend.”

  From a drawer she produced a flask of brandy that probably belonged to Dodd and emptied the contents down the automaton’s throat, then pressed a switch behind one ear. He shuddered all over and blinked several times.

  “Nikolai,” he said. “My name is Nikolai.”

  “Yes, it is,” Thad said. He suppressed the happy little thrill went through him at the sound of the boy’s voice and kept his voice neutral. “Are you all right?”

  “I…I…” He hesitated, a machinelike pause. “I am operating well. I am fine. Yes. Fine.” He held up his metal hands and wriggled the fingers. “Fine.”

  “What is the last you remember?” Sofiya asked.

  Nikolai cocked his head. “I danced for the tsar. The children wanted me to sit with them. Thad reached under the tsar’s throne. And now I’m here in the Black Tent. What happened?”

  “There was an explosion,” Thad said. “You were injured. Sofiya repaired you.”

  “Did I die, then?”

  The question caught Thad off guard. The automaton was still good at that. “I…don’t know if the question applies to something that was never—”

  “You are not dead,” Sofiya said firmly. “Are you hungry?”

  “No. But I think I will be soon.”

  “Good. That is good.” Sofiya picked up Dante, who was his normal, shabby self, but still inert, and handed him to Thad. “I see I found the time for this as well. You’ll need to wind him.”

  An enormous yawn split Thad’s head. Sofiya mimicked him, unusual for clockworkers, who rarely slept. Apparently not wanting to be left out, Nikolai followed suit.

  “I think it’s food and bed for me first,” Thad said.

  “Yes.” Sofiya staggered slightly. “I have not slept in over a week now, and I think that is the limit for even a clockworker.”

  “I will watch you sleep, then,” Nikolai said. “And I will wind Dante.”

  The exhaustion grew worse as they stumbled through the dark circus back to Thad’s wagon, where he and Sofiya downed a cold supper. By now, Thad felt numb, physically and emotionally. Sofiya was a clockworker, Nikolai was an automaton. He had stepped over the knife. Thad only vaguely remembered undressing and climbing into bed.

  * * *

  “Bless my soul! Sharpe is sharp! Applesauce! Bless my soul!”

  Thad barely stopped himself from sitting up and cracking his head on the wagon roof. He was in his own bed above the wardrobe. Sunlight streamed through the side window of the wagon, creating a slanted square of gold on the opposite wall. It was chilly—no one had made a fire in the tiny stove last night. Sofiya lay sleeping on a pull-down shelf bed beneath the window. Dante was doing energetic somersaults on his hanging perch, and Nikolai stood beneath it with the tireless patience of a machine.

  “Good morning! Good morning!” Dante chirped.

  “That’s new.” Thad ran a hand through curly dark hair. His muscles were stiff and achy from everything that had happened yesterday.

  “I taught it to him,” Nikolai said. “Good morning!”

  “Hm.” Thad climbed down from the bed, shivering a little. He would have to get some coal for the stove. To his surprise, he was able to manage buttons when he pulled on his clothes. At the last moment, he remembered the strand of pearls the tsarina had given him and transferred them from yesterday’s coat to his pocket.

  “What are we doing today?” Nikolai asked.

  Thad regarded him. The little automaton, with his thoroughly inhuman face and hands and his utterly human eyes and voice, still acted the little boy, but last night had been a sharp reminder that he was indeed just a machine. The illusion of humanity was realistic, but like any skilled circus performance, it was still an illusion, and eventually it would end. It was foolish to become attached to an illusion. That road only led to pain and loss. It would probably be best to hand Nikolai over to Dodd after all. Nikolai would protest, perhaps even cry, but it would be nothing more than noise created by steel and wire. As well to become upset by sad songs pla
yed on the calliope.

  “I think,” Thad said, “that it’s time for you to—”

  “I’ll bet Dodd will want us in the circus now,” Nikolai interrupted. “We should work on our spot before the show this afternoon.”

  That stopped Thad cold. With everything that had happened, he hadn’t even thought of—

  Someone pounded on the door. This brought Sofiya awake, and she snapped upright. Her hair stood out in a golden haystack. “Who? What?”

  “Doom,” said Dante.

  Now what? Thad reached for the door, wishing things would slow down for just a moment so he could catch his breath and sort things out. Nathan Storm was on the steps, dressed in his customary Aran sweater and fisherman’s cap. He was handsome man, no doubt about that, and more than one woman in the circus had lamented over his romantic choices.

  “Oi,” he said. “Sleepyhead! We’ve been wondering when you were going to make an appearance.”

  “What do you need, Nathan?” Thad asked tiredly.

  Nathan brandished a handful of papers. “We’ve been getting notes and telegrams all morning from Lord Snootyfruits and Lady Tenderslippers. Every one of them wants you and Nikolai to dine with them or attend their parties or appear in their boxes at the ballet. Three of them are offering marriage to various daughters and sisters.”

  “Oh God.” A year ago, even a month ago, Thad would have been thrilled at this development. Now it just filled his chest with heavy dread.

  “And Dodd wants you back into the ring,” Nathan went on relentlessly. “The show must go on. The Stilgores were both hurt yesterday—he twisted his ankle and she broke her arm when the explosion knocked them off their stilts. The lions and Betsy are still nervous and in no condition to go in front of an audience. That means we’re short, short, short. You and Sofiya and Nikolai are our new headliners.”

  “Told you,” Nikolai said.