A Soul's Worth

by T. S. Barnett

  “Don’t you worry,” he answered as he got to his feet. “I’ll bring one in the morning. In the meantime, I expect you’ll get some sleep, Mr. ‘Ayward.” He bent to touch a kiss to Warren’s hair.

  “You aren’t staying?”

  “I’ve work, love. Mulryan’s ill, and the Heolstran road stays busy day or night, doesn’t it?” He smiled and moved to the door, but then paused on his way and spun on his heel. “Oi. Spare us tuppence, eh? Won’t have leftovers for any rabbits after Mrs. O’Leary comes callin’ for lodgin’ money on the morrow.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Warren stood and hurried to the bedroom, where he opened the small box of change on the dresser and retrieved a single coin. He returned to the dining room and placed the silver in the man’s large hand. “There’s a shilling.” He held up a hand to interrupt the coming protest. “In case you’re short. You can bring me back the change if you want to.” He put a hand on the other man’s chest, fingers curling into the rough fabric of his shirt. “Thank you, Ben. This will be worth it; you’ll see.”

  “If nothing else, we’ll ‘ave coney for supper, eh?” Ben smiled and tucked the coin into his pocket, pausing to catch Warren’s hand and give the knuckles a quick kiss before continuing on to the door.

  Warren sighed as he heard the back door click shut, and he found himself alone in the dining room with only the sound of Cam’s tinkering in the kitchen. He glanced back at the half-eaten bowl of soup but then decided against it and went back up to the workshop. He didn’t have time to sleep.

  Ben found Warren asleep under the table in the workshop with a large roll of blueprint paper pulled over him in place of a blanket. He scooped the smaller man up easily and put him over his shoulder, only earning himself a mild, sleepy protest, and he carried him downstairs to the bedroom and tucked him in.

  “Silly thing,” he muttered, bending down and kissing Warren’s forehead. He shut the door quietly behind him and went to the kitchen to help himself to the breakfast Cam had helped to put together.

  “Is there trouble?” it asked while Ben sat on the counter with a plate of eggs and toast. “Warren Hayward seems overwhelmed. He does not come out of my room very much, and he does not let me in. Why did he give me a room and then take it away?”

  “You know you can go anywhere in the house you like, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but the house is not mine. The room was mine.”

  Ben paused, inspecting the golem’s crooked jaw and the bright light of its eyes. It was definitely not human and yet not at all a machine. No machine he’d ever heard of took ownership of anything, let alone had a desire for a space to call its own. Even if Warren succeeded in recreating more golems without taking human lives, what would he be releasing into the world? Into the homes of people who would only see them as a novelty, instead of as a living, thinking thing? He imagined an intelligent thing like Cam could only go so long being told to fetch bottles of wine or carry luggage up stairs before becoming restless. But then, some honest-to-God humans had lives like that and carried on rather well.

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” he promised. “Maybe you can share, or you can stay in the guest room instead. Or the study? You don’t really need a bed, do you?”

  “No. I like the study.”

  “Very well then. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  He smiled and finished his plate, which Cam promptly took from him in order to clean up, claiming that it enjoyed watching the water in the sink despite not being able to feel the liquid on its metal hands.

  Warren didn’t stir until nearly lunchtime. Ben heard him burst out of the bedroom from where he was sitting in the study with a cup of hot tea, and he laughed at the sight of him. Half of his shirt’s buttons had come loose so that it was slipping off of his shoulder, he’d removed his belt sometime during his nap, and his hair was a disaster.

  “Why did you put me in bed?” he huffed, tugging his shirt back into place.

  “Because you were exhausted. Come on. ‘Ave a cuppa. Cam makes a decent pot actually. Then we’ll see about murdering Mr. Nibbles ‘ere.” Ben nudged the small wire cage at his feet, where a small brown rabbit sat with its whiskers twitching.

  “You named it?” Warren sighed, buttoning his shirt as he approached the chaise.

  “We’ve ‘ad time to bond. I about went out and bought another one that I wasn’t friendly with.”

  “Good Lord, Ben.” He sat down and took the spare cup from the tea tray, pouring himself a serving and shutting his eyes as he took a sip. “This is serious, you know. This is day eight out of fourteen, and all I have is a casing hiding some very shoddy machinery and a named rabbit that’s about to give its life in the name of progress.”

  “So, you’re sayin’ it’s not nothin’,” Ben said with a grin that made Warren smile.

  “Let’s just get on with it, can we?” Warren drank the rest of his tea in a rush and set the cup aside before carefully picking up the rickety cage. “Come along, Mr. Nibbles,” he said as he carried the animal down the hall to the stairs. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t like, Ben. I promise I’ll be humane.”

  “Poor Mr. Nibbles,” Ben lamented as he poured himself another cup of tea.

  Upstairs, Warren set the cage on the table beside the lifeless machine and set about preparing the rest of the ritual. He lit the incense, washed his hands in the basin, and made sure he still had the book on the lectern open to the right page. Then he moved to the cage, picked up the small knife nearby, and opened the latch. The rabbit edged away from his hand, but he caught it by the scruff and carried it tentatively over to the chalk circle on the floor.

  “Sorry for this, Mr. Nibbles,” he mumbled while the rabbit squirmed in his grip, and he placed the edge of the knife against the animal’s throat. With a quick breath, he read the words from the book, drew the blade across the rabbit’s skin, and dropped both hastily to avoid his hand being inside the circle when the blood hit the floor.

  The rabbit crumpled to the floor with a slight bounce and the knife clattered away, and Warren waited for the shockwave and the light, but the rabbit’s blood only oozed slowly into the chalk while the creature’s leg kicked one last jolt of life. Warren stayed still and tense, hoping for a delayed reaction. He crouched to inspect the chalk, and a bit of it seemed to have burned into the wood the same way as before, but the machine remained motionless.

  “Did it work?” he heard Ben’s hushed voice say through the door, and he sighed.

  “No, it didn’t work,” he called back, dropping onto his rear and leaning back on his hands. “I think we need something bigger.”

  A long pause passed before he heard Ben’s voice again. “Bigger?”

  Warren considered, his eyes on the seeping blood on the floor. “Do you know where we could buy a goat?” His only answer was a small grunt of distaste and the heavy thud of Ben’s forehead against the door.

  Chapter Five

  As it turns out, a goat has enough of a life to make a golem’s body twitch, but not enough to make it live. Warren considered that perhaps it wasn’t the size of the animal, but the intelligence. It was easy enough to catch a stray cat, even though Ben protested and threatened to keep it. When that produced a small result, Warren was kind enough to kill the dog while Ben was away and to have it cleaned up before he returned. The dog actually burned away a fair bit of the circle. It could be done, he was sure of it.

  Cam was a great help to him, scrubbing the floor clean and drawing the chalk circles over and over much more precisely than Warren could have done himself. It also didn’t complain about the poor animals and give them precious names right before they died.

  Ben drew the line when Warren asked if he knew where they might acquire a monkey.

  “That’s enough,” he said over supper. “There isn’t no other way, love. Life takes life. We got Cam, but he took Sir Ed. Unless you’re standin’ in that circle yourself, you’ll never make another one
like him.”

  “That can’t be,” Warren insisted. “There has to be a way.”

  “Why? What makes you think there should be? Something doesn’t have to exist just because you want it to.”

  “No. I’ll figure it out. I just need more time. I need more tests.”

  “You’re out of tests, love. You’re done. Your gentleman is comin’ in two days’ time. You have to call and tell him it can’t be done.”

  “I won’t,” Warren snapped. “I’m not giving up on us.”

  “Us?” Ben leaned forward in his seat and put a hand on Warren’s clenched fist. “This isn’t about us, love. Us will be here no matter what.”

  Warren sighed, rubbing at his baggy eyes. He was exhausted. His hands were still scraped and bruised from building the machine itself. The brass had to be shaped, pieces connected, insides forged and put in place, joints oiled, surface polished. The final product looked infinitely more professional the the job he’d done on Cam, but it was still a hasty production, and he’d spent every spare minute poring over the books in Sir Bennett’s workshop looking for a solution to the magic problem. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Mr. Wakefield came to call, excepting when Ben had put him into bed against his will.

  “I need to do this,” he said finally, turning his hand to lightly grip Ben’s fingers.

  “And what if you can’t?”

  Warren couldn’t look him in the eye. “I have to,” he whispered. He squeezed the other man’s hand. “Will you stay tonight?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “I do.” He rose from his half-eaten meal and pulled Ben along behind him by the hand into the master bedroom. It already didn’t feel like Sir Bennett’s room to him anymore. This was his house now. He was going to stay here as long as he could, and he would do whatever it took to make certain that was a very long time.

  He shut the door behind them to keep Cam’s questions away and tugged on Ben’s hand so hard that he stumbled. He pushed him onto the bed on his back and crawled up to straddle his knees, hands deftly working on the other man’s belt buckle.

  “Oi, I thought you’d be too tired for this sort of thing,” Ben protested with a laugh. “You should rest, Warren. You look a fright.”

  Warren ignored him, tugging his trousers down his hips and bending to kiss the skin of his stomach. Ben’s telltale shudder and sharp breath were sweeter to him than a whole day’s worth of sleep. He wouldn’t let the other man turn him over, keeping him pinned by the hips during his hands-free maneuvers, but he gave in when strong fingers twisted in his hair and pulled him up for breath and into a crushing kiss. He let Ben over top of him then, clutching at his shoulders and biting at his neck as they moved together with familiar ease. Ben’s quiet sighs and panting groans filled Warren’s ears, making him smile into his lover’s chest despite the deadline looming before them.

  He had to shove Ben’s heavy body away when they finished, and for a while they lay silently, nose to nose, with Warren’s fingers combing gently though Ben’s hair. The larger man’s breathing slowed into a pattern of sleep, and Warren closed his eyes under the weight of Ben’s arm. This was what he wanted. This warmth. This comfort. This safety. What wouldn’t he do to protect it?

  Warren worked even harder in the morning, abandoning the warmth of Ben’s arms before the sun even rose. He thanked Cam for the tea and biscuits it brought to the workshop, but he didn’t stop to eat or drink. The golem lingered in the hall, watching him with curious eyes while he scribbled in books and marked pages and sketched circle after circle in his notes. Nothing he tried gave even the slightest indication of life from the machine on the table. Not without blood.

  Ben appeared in the doorway and told him that he had to work, but Warren only waved him away in his distraction.

  The room was almost cloudy with chalk dust by the afternoon. It wasn’t going to work. The animals weren’t going to work. Mr. Wakefield was coming tomorrow. If he didn’t have a solution tonight, that would be the end of it. He sat in a smeared circle of dust on the floor and felt hopeless.

  Cam knocked on the door and offered him tea, so he patted the chalk from his shirt and went downstairs to eat at least. Maybe a warm cup of tea would help him think. Before he could make it to the dining room table, a knock at the front door stopped him, and he paused to sigh before turning to answer it.

  He actually took a step back as he saw Mrs. Burnham on the front step, which caused her to bustle her way inside without so much as a how-do-you-do.

  “Where is Sir Bennett?” she asked, calling out his name a few times before whirling on Warren with a disgusted frown. Mrs. Antonia Burnham was a skinny, rickety old woman who had been wearing nothing but black dresses since her husband died in 1874. She lived with her son’s family in the house next door to Sir Bennett’s, and she spent the majority of her time with her watery eyes stuck to her bedroom window so that she could more easily keep an eye on the goings-on of the neighborhood. Warren had seen her more than once as he tried to sneak Ben in or out of the garden at night. She didn’t seem to sleep.

  “I’ve kept quiet for long enough, you filthy creature,” she spat, coming up close to Warren’s face with an accusing finger, “but I won’t have this brazen debauchery going on any longer!”

  “Debau—Mrs. Burnham—” Warren tried, but the woman turned away from him again and continued calling out for Sir Bennett.

  “He isn’t in!” Warren said at last, leaning back instinctively when she turned on him. “Sir Bennett is on holiday. Please, is there something I can help you with?”

  “You’ve done quite enough. You think I don’t see you, sneaking that man in at night, right under poor Sir Bennett’s nose. You ought to be ashamed.”

  “Mrs. Burnham, I assure you, there isn’t anything—”

  “Don’t you tell me a lie!” she snapped. “I’ve seen your kind before. It’s an abomination is what it is, and it’s a disgrace. I had hoped to tell Sir Bennett directly and have you sacked, but I suppose it’s his absence that’s made you so shameless, hasn’t it? And that man dares wear a constable’s uniform, as though someone with his proclivities could be trusted! I didn’t want to get the authorities involved—I must think of the reputation of the neighborhood and of Sir Bennett. Doubtless he has no idea of the detestable crime being committed under his own roof.”

  Warren could barely breathe. They’d been sloppy. Ben had been coming and going much more regularly since Sir Bennett’s unfortunate passing, and he’d been seen. Warren tried to say something, to deny, defend himself, make excuses, but he’d lost his voice. This woman could destroy him.

  “With Sir Bennett away, I’ve no choice,” she continued, turning away from Warren to shuffle back to the front door. “This can’t be allowed to carry on any longer. The constabulary will deal with you and your abhorrent pastimes.”

  Warren was in a panic. He could see everything crumbling in front of him—living in this house, seeing Ben whenever he pleased, being responsible to no one but himself—all because this woman had nothing better to do than eyeball people from her bedroom. She seemed to reach for the front door knob in slow motion. She would ruin him.

  His hand found the silver candlestick almost of its own volition, and he flinched at the dull thud it made when the heavy base connected with the back of her skull. She cried out so loudly he was certain someone would hear, and she collapsed to the floor and began scrambling weakly away from him. He lifted the candlestick to hit her again, and a wicked thought flashed through his mind as he watched her raise her bony hands in defense against him. A waste. This would be a waste.

  He snatched the old woman up by the back of her mourning dress and put a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, the candlestick clunking noisily on the floor when he dropped it. She could only struggle feebly against him while he half carried her up the stairs, Cam watching silently from the barely open kitchen door, and he dropped her to the floor inside the workshop door. He moved a
way when he saw her lying there, curled up and whimpering, and he covered his own mouth to stifle his sob.

  She looked so pitiful. Just an old woman, frail and thin, who couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business. She was begging him, quietly, pleading with him in between prayers. He almost left the room and ran from the house. He almost went to Ben and told him they had to leave the city, that they’d make do somewhere else. Why should this woman get to decide my fate? he asked himself. This pathetic, prying creature who had wormed her way into his life. She would take everything away from him if he gave her the chance. He couldn’t let her leave now.

  His gaze moved to the knife on the small table, and then to the completed brass husk and the chalk circle on the floor. Don’t waste it. He pulled her by her arm over to the circle, snatching up the knife on his way, and she pulled away from him, calling out and struggling how she could. Don’t waste it. He pushed her down over the circle, and he shut his eyes and turned his face away as he pulled the knife swiftly across her neck. The blood poured from her, splattering hot against his hand. The blast knocked him back as the blood touched the circle, and he hid his face in his arms from the light. He laid like that until the room was silent, curled up on his side on the workshop floor and taking heaving breaths that came out as half sobs.

  He heard the creak of metal and lifted his head. The woman’s body lay like a shrunken mummy where it fell into the circle, and on the table, the machine twitched to life and sat up. Its eyes were the same bright blue as Cam’s, matching the glowing ring on its brass chest where Warren had installed an imitation power source. He got to his feet while the thing stared at him, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath and spoke before the golem could question him.

  “You are zero-one,” he said, hoping that his voice sounded steady. He’d planned what he would say to the machine when it awoke, but he hadn’t anticipated it being predicated by murder. “You are an automaton that is to be presented to Mr. Charles Wakefield and to serve in his home. When he picks you up tomorrow, you will do anything that he asks of you without question. Do you understand?”