by KW Jeter
I hesitated a moment; I could see nothing but a lightless interior before me.
“Go on – after all’s happened, ‘fraid now?”
Thus prodded, I stepped inside. The darkness was alleviated by the snap of a safety match, which Spivvem applied to the wick of a lantern – he was as apparently familiar with this space, whatever it was, as with the close-set pathways of the factory through which we had just crossed.
An eerie sight met my eyes, in the pallid glow that had been produced. Rows of beds, of cheap and nasty construction, little more than buckling planks nailed to posts of raw and splintering lumber – they stretched out into the wavering shadows, to such a distance that I could not make out the farthest of them. There were two oddities about the beds; the first was that they were all of a size too diminished to accommodate the average adult body.
The second was – and it took some close study on my part, bending my head down low, to perceive this – that they were occupied by motionless figures, covered by ragged blankets.
Children; sad, small creatures, so thin and underfed as to resemble old men, so pale as to almost provide their own illumination in the darkened room. Some lay curled on their sides, others on their backs, fragile papyrus eyelids brushing their lashes against their hunger-sharpened cheekbones.
“Who…” I straightened from the side of the bed over which I had leaned. “Who are these?”
“Who d’you ‘magine they are?” Spivvem was not smiling now. “Guess, if can.”
“They must be the orphans – that the Elohim took.” Appalled, I turned and gazed around myself; there were too many to count, if I wanted to. “Scape told me about what happened; that the Elohim scoured through all the orphanages and shelters of North England and Scotland, rounded up the children they found there, and went away with them… to someplace unknown. But now I see… that place was here.”
“Done well, Dower; keen mind you have – and almost correct, too. Need look closer, though, and tell what find.”
That Spivvem was hinting at some darker circumstance, I felt certain; it was with only the greatest reluctance that I again scrutinized the child in the bed I stood beside. A boy, perhaps ten years of age – though of course this was hard to determine, given the dim lighting provided by the lantern Spivvem held, and the underdevelopment of the child’s physique, due to the scanty fare upon which he had been forced to subsist. I brought my fingertips down gently to the child’s brow–
Which was icy cold.
I snatched back my hand, as though I had laid it on a hot stove instead. Startled, I peered closer at the boy.
“This child is dead!” My conclusion was affirmed by the absence of any breath from the boy’s parted lips, or any motion of a pulse in his scrawny chest. A terrible surmise gripped me; I quickly went from that bedside to the next, and then the one beyond – and saw the same in them. “Why… they are all dead.”
“So they are – in sort of way.” Spivvem stepped next to me. “Look closer still, and see what meant.”
Holding the lantern aloft, with his other hand Spivvem drew back the thin cover over one of the orphans, then parted the ragged shirt beneath. What was revealed there, to my widened stare, was the child’s naked chest – or rather, what remained of it. Where pallid, unsunned skin should have been, was instead intricately crafted metal, the gears and springs of what had been implanted to replace the lungs and heart, and perhaps further portions of what had been the softer and more fragile organic nature of this diminutive form.
“What abomination is this?” I propelled myself back from what I had just glimpsed, so violently that I nearly dislodged the lantern from Spivvem’s upraised hand. “What fiend would have so grotesquely murdered this unfortunate child?”
“Calm yourself. Not murdered – but sleeps. As they all do.” Spivvem held the lantern out before himself, illuminating a greater portion of the room. “See yourself.”
My initial horror had abated, so that I was able to confirm that the children, all of whom I had presumed lifeless, had had the same mechanical disfigurement performed upon them. I drew back the cover over the last of them that I inspected, and turned back toward my companion.
“But you say that they are not dead?” I frowned, as dreadful conjectures filled my thoughts. “What kind of sleep is this, then? Can they be woken?”
“‘Course they could – if get machines in ‘em running.”
A memory rose to the surface of my thoughts, from long ago in my life; within myself I viewed again that moment when the construction known as the Paganinicon, one of my father’s most artful achievements, had drawn back its elegant dress shirt and exposed the workings inside its chest, that propelled its every human-like motion. That had been a startling revelation, for which I had been ill-prepared, not yet knowing the extent of my progenitor’s creativity. But to be sure, it had been a moment less horrifying than this – for it is one thing to see a machine become so much like a human being, and quite another to witness specimens of humanity such as these orphaned children become more like machines, if only in part.
“You say if – if these mechanical portions could be set into operation.” I pressed the question upon Spivvem. “Is there some impediment to that happening?”
“Somewhat,” he allowed. “Machines actually be working right now, to degree, even as palavering about ‘em. If were to put ear down close, would hear a bit of whirring and ticking; that’s enough to keep blood moving ‘bout, and certain other bodily functions, so that general decay not set in. But more’n that, so as these sprats would open eyes, talk and jump like living children – really living ones – that’d be problem, all right.”
“Why would that be? These are my father’s devices, are they not, that have been surgically implanted in these unlucky orphans?” Another nightmarish recollection came to me, or rather a series of them – all the times when I had discovered that yet another machine, of malignant purpose, had come from the hand of that person, of whom I had so little knowledge other than through this unwanted legacy. “Surely if those responsible for this were able to determine these machines’ operation, so as to set them functioning to this degree, then they should have been able to resolve any other mysteries about them.”
“They have that, indeed.” Spivvem tilted his head to one side, with a knowing expression. “But to know what be involved, not same being able to do. Set yourself; I’ll explain.”
He placed the lamp on the bare floor between us, as he sat down on the corner of one of the beds. Gingerly – though I knew I could not disturb its occupant – I did the same on the bed opposite.
“Take it,” said Spivvem, “that old Jamford fed you line about evolution and adaptation, and lot other codswallop besides, and how that Elohim bunch just want make all the workers happy in future, yadda yadda yadda, as old friend Scape would’ve said. Am correct?”
“I did hear quite a bit about that. Frankly, it all seemed a bit far-fetched to me.”
“Too right. As if those bluidy industrialists, folk with all the money, could care farthing’s worth about what employees are feeling. Rather like imagining when wolf’s feasting, it’s wondering whether lamb’s enjoying the process. Glad shot that bastard; can’t bide hypocrites of sort – give decent thieves and swindlers such as self bad name, they do. All that claptrap – importing sunlight from fookin’ Burma, for God’s sake – nothing but front, bit of song-and-dance to make tender-hearted folk feel better, all while boots are planted on others’ necks. See poor children here?” Spivvem gestured about the room, with its silent and motionless tenants. “Really what fookin’ Elohim up to. Ripping out hearts, shoving in those devices your father invented – they’ve a whole workshop up by Hull, doing nothing but cranking out copies of ticking things, ready to go. Orphans nothing but ones come first, see if idea works at all – then can shove like into every mill-hand, work ‘em to death, then work ‘em some more after they’re dead. What they feel, whether happy or rebellious or whatever,
hardly matters when machine you’ve got in place of guts tells you what to do! Which it can, ‘course, with flick of switch. So yes, come to think, maybe Jamford and his Elohim bunch aren’t so much liars, after all – really are int’rested in evolving workers into something new; just that new thing is more like dependable, useful machines, and less like flesh-and-blood that’s always moaning and complaining, and might come after bosses’ throats someday.”
“But if that is the Elohim’s intention – and I do not doubt it; I put nothing past anyone’s self-interested scheming – I fail to see its fruition here. If the devices created by my father have any fault, it is never that they fail in the function for which they were designed.” I pointed to the form in the narrow cot on which I sat. “Why isn’t this child up and about, and all the others here, set to work and performing useful labour, impelled by what now ticks and whirs in their tiny frames? It would seem that there is enough found for them to do, in the vast factory beyond the door. Instead, they just lie here, neither dead or sleeping, but just as immobile.”
“There’s rub, indeed.” Spivvem gave a nod of his head. “Father’s devices are as you boast, just fine – nae amiss with them, oh no! But like so many that came from hand, need be triggered, set into operation by proper kind of shove – otherwise, might tick away like mantel clock, but useless as one without hands to tell the time.”
I knew whereof he spoke. This aspect of my father’s creations had been amply demonstrated to me long ago, when I had first encountered that demonic Paganinicon. Without the necessary triggering impulse, it had been nothing but a dumb mannequin, stuffed with purposeless gears and springs. But when its machinery had been set into motion, it more than exceeded an imitation of human activity, being able to play upon the violin in the superlative manner of its namesake, and wreak seductive effect upon the fairer members of our species. Of course, it had been entirely to my chagrin and horror to have discovered that I myself was the trigger for the Paganinicon to spring fully into its artificial life, and begin its rampage through the elegant salons of the British elite; the device created by my father held subtle elements within it, that were so finely tuned as to receive etheric vibrations, otherwise imperceptible by even the most sensitive register, that were exactly those radiated by my nerves and brain. No more had been required than to bring me into close proximity with that human-like machine, and all its ticking and whirring had leapt to a higher pitch, fully animating the thing and setting it upon its course.
“Was this, then, the actual purpose in bringing me here?” I addressed this urgent question to Spivvem before me. “And the presence of my son nothing more than a lure to accomplish that? If the hideous devices residing in the chests of these orphans are of the same nature as others that my father invented and assembled, then my being so close among them should have already triggered the machines, and animated their bearers into whatever activity would be compelled upon them. But I see no such response on their part; where is their driven waking?”
“Know all of what talking about,” said Spivvem. “No mystery for me there. But you’ve some confusion – you are not the trigger for what seen. Trigger there is, just as happened with other crafty devices, but someone other than yourself.”
“If not me, then who?”
“Your son, ‘course. He’s the necessary element, key sets all chiming and whirring as should. The elder Dower, your father – his genius had no bounds, seems. Could not only build machines that set into motion by vibrations from his own son – that’d be you – but could do as well, with some sprat hadn’t even been born yet. Dead clever, that is. As to why he did… well, perhaps thought these devices we’ve here were bit too awful for him to bide, and so set ‘em to be inoperable until long after own death. Nice for him; too bad for rest Humanity.”
As ever, conjectures about my father served only to annoy me. The man would always remain an enigma to me, best left unexplored.
“You perplex me still…” After a moment’s thought, I spoke again. “I have been led to believe, by you and others, that my son is already in the custody of the Elohim; they came into possession of him when they were about their general scouring of orphanages, bringing them en masse to this dreadful locale. And then, as I was also informed, they were elated to discover his true identity, having been alerted to it by Scape’s quest for the particular child. So here is something I do not understand: if my son is the trigger necessary to set into full motion the devices sutured into these other children, and if the Elohim have my son – then why has that triggering not been accomplished? What reason would there be for any hesitation on the part of the Elohim?”
“Again, Dower, lack bit knowledge – there’s diff’rence between sort of trigger that you’ve been, setting off certain of your father’s devices, and sort your son is. And that is, you’ve no say about being trigger; those fine, mysterious vibrations you give off, to which those devices were tuned – radiate ‘em whether want to or not, and there’s end of matter. But the Elohim found out something else with your son; little bugger can choose whether his vibrations set anything off. If decides suits him, then happens; if not, then not. Good joke on Elohim, eh? Thought just be able to snap their fingers like, and boy’d get all the other orphans up and running – but bit of surprise they had; he’s apparently stubborn sort, with mind of own. Figured out what deal was, that all depended on him, and told those bastards where could put it, if he didn’t get what wanted in exchange.”
“I believe I understand now – at last.” There was no need for my companion to link together the last pieces of the puzzle. “What he wants is me; his father. He wants to see me.”
“Should be flattered,” said Spivvem. “Boy’s got whip hand, might’ve asked anything at all; maybe even own freedom, after doing Elohim’s bidding. But ‘stead, asked for just what you’ve said.”
“But what does he want from such a meeting? What could I possibly do for him?”
“Who knows? Child’s not same sort creature as men of the world, blokes like you and me. Still has some tender sensibilities, like – haven’t been beaten out of him yet, as events of life tend to do. And ‘course, knows nowt of you – such as stated pref’rence to leave him abandoned and friendless, rather than risk your own precious skin; very paternal and loving, that. Might think diff’rent, and harder, if knew – but as said, mere child, with great deal to learn way things are.”
I lapsed into another bout of silent musing. That the meeting between the two of us was inevitable, there seemed little doubt; Spivvem would effectively bar the door if I were to attempt to flee. And – I thought of this as well – why should I? What was being asked of me, that I should consider it onerous? A child – very well then, my own son – who, for his own foolish and childish reasons, wished to come face-to-face with he who had sired him, then as quickly abandoned him; would he fling some tearful accusation in my face? He well might, and be perfectly justified in doing so; at one time, my neglect at least had the excuse of ignorance, my having been unaware of his existence. But I had learned of him since then, and the knowledge had provoked no fatherly concern on my part, but only – as Spivvem had pointed out – a craven anxiety for keeping my own hide in one piece.
So, likely the confrontation would be an uncomfortable one, complete with recriminations and childish weeping, and no response but guilty silence on my part; did that matter? It had been a lengthy while since I had entertained anything but the lowest opinion of myself – would a child’s words be able to send me farther into the pit of my own disdain?
And what about the child himself – was he any less self-absorbed than I? Did he put anyone’s interests before his own? Once his selfish demand was met, and he had his meeting with his father, then what? The Elohim, having given him that for which he asked, would then insist upon having his side of their bargain completed – would he balk at having his fellow orphans, those poor creatures with whom he would seem to have the most in common, transformed into clacking, labou
ring automatons by his triggering of the devices planted in their chests, or would he comply? Granted, a child cannot be held to the same ethical standards as an adult, by which I judged myself a moral failure, but surely his sin would be of more grievous effect, and harm greater numbers, than any of which I was guilty.
“D’ye have more questions? Or know enow?”
I withdrew myself from these bleak musings, and gazed upon my tormentor Spivvem. His canted smile was a slight thing this time, but still evident, as though he were in some measure relishing my discomfort.
“And what,” I asked, “is your recompense for bringing about this event? You indicated that Jamford had double-crossed you; am I correct in assuming that at one time the both of you, and that repulsive individual Weebsome as well, were acting on behalf of the Elohim? And that you were doing so in order to bring about that which would enable them to advance their loathsome designs upon the labouring classes? Not that appalling bright Future which Jamford rhapsodized to me about, but an even worse one, made possible by my own father’s creations?”
“Don’t get so worked up ‘bout it. Let’s just say, have my agenda – being on no one’s side but own, that is.”
“Trust me–” My voice turned even more bitter. “I never assumed otherwise. And which would make you no different from the general run of Mankind.”
“Oh?” Spivvem raised an eyebrow. “And yourself?”
“I am among the worst of them, in that regard.”
“What pity, then – feel bit sorry for your boy, having self-confessed wretch like you for father. Maybe if he’d been aware, would’ve asked meet somebody else, someone altogether more personable. Be as may – his lookout, sorry little bastard. Shall get on with it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really, no.”
“And when I am done with this meeting…” I wanted to make my stipulations as clearly as possible. “When I have heard the child say whatever it is he wishes to impart to me, and I have made whatever reply of which I am capable; when he is surely sadder for having made his long-delayed acquaintance with his father, and I am no happier for having seen his face; when I have done my part to make the World and the Future an even more wretched place and time, enabling the conspirators known as the Elohim to advance their plans against Humanity, by granting my son’s wish; when I have done all of that – then am I free to go?”