What Lies Beneath The Clock Tower: Being An Adventure Of Your Own Choosing

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What Lies Beneath The Clock Tower: Being An Adventure Of Your Own Choosing Page 10

by Margaret Killjoy


  Gu’dal, however, dives into the melee with a sadist’s glee, dodging blows and rays as she draws her sword-cane across face after leg after neck. You stand resolutely behind her and fire your pistols. After nine shots, you’ve struck four gnomes and one goblin.

  Then Gu’dal goes down under the blow of a lightrifle’s butt. She shrieks like a wounded bird, but never rises again.

  A gnome stands in front of you, face hidden behind armor, lightrifle aimed squarely at your chest.

  To surrender, dropping your remaining gun, go to Seventy-Nine.

  To shoot the gnome and flee, go to Eighty-Four.

  To shout, “Death to Hak’kal!” and continue to fight until your dying breath—which is presumably not so far from now—, go to Eighty-Six.

  Seventy-Two

  “Well I must say I’ve never been one to speak to monarchs on amiable terms,” you say, “so perhaps it would be best if I were to accompany you and take up arms directly?”

  “Slowly. English is my…” the gnome lifts up his fingers and begins to count. You suddenly realize that the gnomes have eleven digits: one hand has an extra opposable thumb on the far side of the pinky. “Seven… seventh. Seventh language.”

  You nod, and speak more slowly. “I will fight Hak’kal with you, for the goblin liberation.”

  “Good! It is good!” The gnome claps you on the thighs with both hands, in a gesture you take to be one of greeting. “My name is Comrade Eleven Stroke B.”

  “Gregory,” you introduce yourself.

  The door to your room swings open, and in comes an angry, drunken guard. She says something in Gnomish and swings at Eleven with the butt of her lightrifle.

  Of pure instinct, you reach down and pick her up as though she were an impertinent child. She slams her helmeted head into the bridge of your nose, bloodying it, and you drop her.

  “We go!” Eleven shouts, “Out the window!”

  You do as ordered, clambering out the glassless window as quickly as possible, while Eleven kicks the fallen guard.

  As soon as you are outside—or as “outside” as you’re likely to get in this place!—Eleven dives headfirst through the window, landing in a practiced roll, clutching the guard’s lightrifle across his chest.

  He begins to run down the wide boulevard, and you follow. While it is easy to keep pace with his stride, you realize after four blocks that Comrade Eleven Stroke B. has far more endurance than you. Soon, too, you realize you’ve left your cane behind.

  Ten breathless blocks later, he pulls you into an alley. Without giving you the opportunity to regain your wind, he leads you through a maze of side streets. The ceiling gets steadily lower, and you realize you must be nearing the city’s edge. Finally, when the cavern roof becomes so low that you stoop, the gnome reaches up and pulls down a staircase from a trapdoor in the ceiling, as though it were a stairway into an attic. He leads you up.

  Go to Eighty-Two.

  Seventy-Three

  You stay your hand from disobeying for the sake of disobeying, and lean against the wall to think things through as best as your drunken state will allow.

  And you lean right against the lever, pulling it down. A rumble and clank fills the air, and a piece of ceiling falls and clonks you soundly on the head, casting you into a comfortable blackness.

  When you’re roused, you see the sooty face of a human woman.

  “Thank heavens, it was a dream. And what a marvelous dream!”

  “What were you dreaming about,” the woman asks, her accent Castilian.

  “I was dreaming about…” you say, then sit up and take in your circumstances. “This. I was dreaming about this.”

  The woman laughs. “Well then, dreamer, my name is Comrade Difference Engine. And you are?”

  “Gregory,” you say, reasonably certain that you’ve gotten your name right.

  “Comrade Gregory, you’re a hero. You’ve saved us all.”

  “I did what?”

  The woman from Spain explains everything to you. You released all of the pressure from the central boiler of Hak’kal—in order to pronounce the name of the city you’re in you have to sound like you’re about to spit, or like you’re Dutch—and shut down most of the machinery of the city. The gnomes diverted power from the military generators, and the goblins attacked. Aided by the Aboveground of the city—which is what the resistance in an underground world is called—, the revolution was a resounding success and the whole empire is transitioning to a system that is half a workers’ council and half a direct democracy.

  “That sounds lovely,” you say.

  “It is,” Comrade Difference Engine says.

  “Care to kiss a hero?” you ask.

  “No,” Comrade Difference Engine replies.

  “Alright then. Could you find me a drink?”

  “That I can do,” Comrade Difference Engine says, taking her leave of you.

  “Sure am glad I pulled that lever,” you say, then live out your life as the not-really-deserving folk hero of a egalitarian society full of mystery, wonder, steam engines, goblins, gnomes, kabouters, humans, and lions. You find meaningful physical work—designing and constructing elaborate and functional fountains—and while no one cares to hear your poetry, you are still very well regarded. You even drink less.

  You never do find what became of A’gog, however.

  The End

  Seventy-Four

  “This one Guy Fawkes day,” you tell your companions, “I went to a party that seemed quite promising. More absinthe and less baked potatoes, you understand. I let myself go a bit. I danced, I spoke at length with a startlingly attractive poet. I smoked and I watched the fires with joy. But at the end of the evening, there was nothing more to do. I hadn’t succeeded in wooing, I hadn’t delved any great new depths of consciousness. It was simply time to go home.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” A’gog asks.

  “My dear Sergei, I wish you the best of luck. A’gog? Call on me if you ever need my help: I dare say you’ll know where to find me. But I think it’s time for me to go home.”

  And so it goes. A’gog leads you back through the dark maze of corridors and crawlways, and soon you stand alone on the ground floor of your clock tower, the passageway under the stairs slamming behind you and inaccessible.

  You make your way up your steps, open your door, and climb into your bed. You ignore the sunlight that streams in through your window and you sleep for a day.

  You wake up with a headache worth dying over, and you never do ascertain if you’d been dreaming, hallucinating, or perfectly lucid. You never discover the fates of the slaves and their masters that bustle beneath your feet. But then, you’d never involved yourself with the bustle of the poor and the aristocracy outside your door, so perhaps this is no surprise.

  Still, you’ve fodder for your poetry, though its strangeness is likely to condemn you to obscurity. But if such is to be your fate, you will meet it head on with the civility and drunkenness that you bring to all your endeavors.

  The End

  Seventy-Five

  Twenty minutes later you are at the fairgrounds accompanied by a nervous Gu’dal. You’ve a beautiful (but sadly muzzle-loaded and antique) rifle strapped across your back, a spyglass in a leather satchel on your side.

  “I stole this idea from Nadar, a man of my brother’s acquaintance. He organized a fleet of balloons to aid in the defense of the Paris Commune. Quite a fellow. Famous photographer, too. Took my brother’s portrait.” You explain this to Gu’dal, your voice filling a bit with pride when you think of your exiled and imprisoned elder brother. Your goblin companion, however, doesn’t appear to understand you in the least.

  Unfortunately for you, an elderly fellow is currently attending to the balloon you hoped to commandeer. He’s stoking the fire in the brazier, most likely preparing to launch at sunrise to draw attention to the fair. He is, however, the only person in sight.

  “We need that balloon?” Gu’dal
asks.

  “Yeah,” you reply.

  Gu’dal draws her sword from her cane and smiles.

  To calm Gu’dal down, then attempt to beguile the attendant, plying him with spirits, go to Eighty-Eight.

  To allow Gu’dal to handle the attendant in her fashion, go to Ninety-Three.

  Seventy-Six

  “We’ll be out here,” you whisper. “Inside, we’d just slow you down.”

  “Alright,” Sergei says. “Wish me luck.”

  You nod, though of course, Sergei doesn’t hear you.

  You pass the next five minutes wondering whether Sergei can see at all without screeching. If he’s trying to be silent will he even know where he is? You decide that he can probably echolocate based on the noises about him, but just as you begin down this next train of thought, you hear a blood-curdling screech—even more piercing than the usual—and footsteps running towards you from inside the building.

  A’gog has the torch lit in seconds, and you are stunned by the city around you.

  To stare at Underburg, a place you’re not likely to see again and who’s details you’d love to express in poetry one day, go to Eighty-Five.

  To pull your cane and pay attention to the fight that seems to be heading your way, go to Ninety.

  Seventy-Seven

  “Look you, I don’t know the whole of your difficulties with the gnomish establishment, but I do know that the gnomes have treated me with civility and grace! I plan on speaking with them, not running around on some madcap adventure!” You speak rapidly in your anger, and it is clear that your would-be revolutionary rescuer understands only your tone.

  “Guards! Guards!” you shout.

  The handsome gnome throws himself headfirst through the window opening, landing nimbly on the ground outside in a roll.

  Not three seconds later, a guard open the door to your room, clearly drunk. “Yes? Yes? You have been yelling. Have you had poor dreams?” she says, walking towards you, her lightrifle hanging loosely at her side.

  To attack the guard, capture her rifle, and follow your rescuer with intent to apologize, go to Eighty-Seven.

  To report the interloper to the guard, go to Eighty-One.

  Seventy-Eight

  You slip cautiously into the building, feeling with your hands. Fortunately, the ceiling is a hair’s breadth above your head, and as long as you walk carefully, you don’t need to crouch.

  You make your way perhaps a hundred yards before a question occurs to you: “Can you see without screeching? Since we’re trying to be quiet, I mean, I wonder how you know where you’re going?”

  “Shut up!” Sergei whispers, but it’s too late.

  Words in Kabouter are shouted from quite nearby.

  “They asked who we were,” A’gog translates.

  “Oh,” you say.

  To attempt to beguile the guards or officers or whoever it is that is hailing you, go to Ninety-Two.

  To answer reasonably honestly (perhaps excluding the bit about poison) and appeal to their humanity, go to Ninety-Four.

  Seventy-Nine

  You let the revolver slip from your fingers and hit the pavement. Owing to your hyper-focus, it rings out loudly, clearly over the din of battle as it strikes the ground. You raise your hands above your head.

  The gnome shoots you regardless, and everything goes black.

  When you come to, you find yourself naked in a human-sized birdcage swinging in near-total darkness. Far beneath you, you see the lights of a strange city that must be Hak’kal. It’s beautiful, in its way.

  On the floor of the cage is a small bowl filled with something that smells like oatmeal. Next to it is a sign, written in sixteen different languages. In English, it says: “Sing, and you eat. The louder and more beautifully you sing, the better you eat.”

  And thus do you spend the rest of your days, a caged bird. You may sing or not. In the end, it truly makes no difference, because you will never again see the stars, never again hold a conversation. Never again will you wander the streets drunk and unruly, never again will feel the touch of another. The difference between life and death is so thin as to be transparent.

  The End

  Eighty

  A guard—a different one from the night before, you are nearly certain—takes you from your cell and walks you through the city streets. This time, you’ve only one armed gnome accompanying you. Clearly, by not escaping the night before through your open window, you have proven that you are either amiable or know that you have nowhere to go.

  The streets are full of laughter and pleasantries, with every gnome of every gender doffing his or her cap to every passerby, including your silent guard and yourself. A cooper makes a barrel from metal staves, her cheeks a ruddy complexion, a smile on her face and a tune on her lips.

  Everyone, and everything, is downright jolly. Except for yourself. You’re not certain you’ve ever been jolly in your adult life—at least not while sober—and certainly, it is disconcerting to be surrounded by so many happy, smiling, slave-keeping creatures.

  You’re led, in short order, up and into a building carved out of a momentous stalagmite that reaches up, connects to its corresponding stalactite, and disappears into the darkness above.

  After witnessing the massive clockworks, crystals, mirrors, and general technological madness outside, the inside of the building seems rather austere. The ground floor—as you have no choice, it seems, but to refer to this room so far beneath the earth—is a single massive room, a circle of some one hundred paces in diameter. The ceiling is twice your height above you. Three flaming braziers light the place, and the walls are plain and featureless.

  An empty throne sits in the center of the room, and a semi-circle of smaller chairs surrounds it. In these sit two-dozen gnomes, speaking quite animatedly in Gnomish. Most are dressed like any other gnome you’ve seen on the streets outside, in plain work clothes or casual attire, although quite conspicuous is a young gnome child in a one-piece jumper and an older fellow decked to the nine hells in gold and jewels.

  Your guard walks you into the center of their semi-circle, signaling for you to stand in front of the throne. She then turns, pulls off her helmet, and tugs at her ears in a comic and exaggerated way that you decide must be some sort of gnomish salute. She replaces her helmet and walks out the building, leaving you to the council.

  “Please, have a seat,” a very elderly gnome says in excellent English—with a bit of a French accent.

  You look at the throne. “Here?” you ask.

  “Of course.”

  And so you sit in the throne, surrounded by what you presume to be the government of Hak’kal. The child laughs and whispers something into a neighbor’s ear. You are quite certain that the child is laughing at you.

  “I’m here to speak on behalf of the goblins,” you say, because it’s the truth. “I want to negotiate peace.”

  When you speak, one of the gnomes in work clothes translates your words into Gnomish. By watching their reactions, you realize that only three or four of the councilgnomes speaks English. You hope that your interpreter is a good one.

  “Of course,” the elderly gnome says. “We want peace very badly. We, the council, have ourselves been tasked with helping the goblins. A representative that they trust would be a welcome ally.”

  You have absolutely no idea if you believe the gnome, you realize. You have absolutely no idea what to believe at all. You dearly miss your drugs. Wormwood never lies to you. Well, except when it does.

  “I’d like you to take a tour of Hak’kal. I think it’s important.” The gnome speaks in a voice that betrays that his request is not actually a request. “Anywhere you’d like to go.”

  “Take him to the schools!” the child says. “The schools are wonderful!” This is, you decide, quite an unnatural and unnerving thing for a child to say.

  “The engineering district,” grumbles a middle-aged councilgnome in a canvas smock and heavy boots—where do they get the fibers for c
anvas?

  “I don’t know,” you say. “It doesn’t matter so much to me. Truthfully I’d just like a drink. Perhaps brandy?”

  But the councilgnomes seem to ignore your request for refreshment, and the interpreter doesn’t bother interpreting.

  “Alright,” you say, “I’ll take a tour.”

  To visit the school district, go to Ninety-Seven.

  To visit the engineering district, go to One Hundred.

  Eighty-One

  “If it was a dream, it was a dream with rather terrible manners,” you say, then report to the guard about the interloper, your would-be rescuer.

  The guard nods. “I’ll take that into advisement. I would suggest however,” she says, “that you not tell any others that you’ve had involvement with the Aboveground. The council will not take it well.”

  “But I had no involvement! I reported to you as soon as I saw one of them!” you protest.

  “Look, just listen to me. It won’t win you any favors. Forget about the Aboveground. If you see one of them again, say nothing of it to anyone. Good night.”

  You don’t understand the guards agitation, but she walks out of the door without explaining herself to any real degree. You lay back on the bed, and sleep overcomes you before you manage to worry yourself overmuch further.

  You wake up what feels to be the next day—for there is no sun with which to tell time, nor is your watch in working order—and rub the sleep out of your eyes. Sure enough, you’re still in an easily escapable cell in an inescapable city some unknown depth under the city you had presumed to call home.

  Go to Eighty.

  Eighty-Two

  You are momentarily blinded by the brightness of the room above the city street. Even after your eyes have adjusted, the great cacophony—both auditory and visual—keeps you from processing what you see.

 

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