Clockwork Chaos

by C. J. Henderson

  “And just how do you think you can do that? No one from a playworld can visit our home,” the tourist said.

  “True, but I can always phone it in. Or I guess telegraph it to be more era-specific. Or did you miss the floating broadcast center up there?” Grimstone said, pointing to the hovering gawker.

  Instead of showing worry, the consciousness hosting robot laughed and waved at the floating globe. “Hi, Mom.” The mechanization turned back to Grimstone. “Yeah, I may be in all sorts of trouble, but if I’m entertaining and get good ratings all will be forgiven. And what could be better ratings magic than killing the notorious Jackson Grimstone?”

  “Jackson Grimstone kicking your mechanical posterior I’d imagine, at least if the number of gawkers stalking me at any given time is any indication.” Grimstone rammed his cane into the wrist joint of the hand holding the squire and the grip loosened. The Spellpunk pulled the boy in a dress free. “Go on and get yourself out of here, Miss. This is man’s business.” Grimstone laughed and pointed his cane at the metal hand with a knife. A single electrical blast shot out, temporarily shorting out the hand so when Grimstone hit it with his cane, the knife fell to the cobbles. “Back home that comment would have gotten me in trouble with the PC police.”

  The tourist rose to his feet. “I’ve watched you. You criticize me for cheating, but you have knowledge of higher-level tech, making people think you have magical powers and using it to your advantage all the time,” the tourist said.

  “And there is no time like the present,” Grimstone said, pulling a handful of large marbles from his pocket and tossing them on the ground where the chemicals mixed with each other and the air, creating large clouds of smoke. “Now you see me, now you don’t.”

  The mechanization swung his arms wildly in the haze. “Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I can’t kill you.”

  “But it does help my odds a wee bit, don’t it?” the Spellpunk said, his voice suddenly above the tourist.

  “What?” the tourist yelled, craning his neck upward in time to see Grimstone soar by. “You can fly?”

  “Under the right circumstances,” Grimstone said, wrapping a rope tied lasso-style around the chest and under the arms of the metal visitor. The Spellpunk yanked twice on it. “Going up.”

  With a lurch the rope tightened and the tourist launched upward, his legs clearing the ground in an instant.

  “What the hell?” the tourist said.

  “I control the forces of light and darkness. Simple levitation is well within my powers,” Grimstone said.

  “You of full of shite. You control nothing,” the mechanization said, craning his neck back to see the outline of a zeppelin soaring above them. “You think lifting me off the ground will stop me? I’ll climb up this rope and rip your head off and piss down your throat.”

  “See, this sort of thing is why we don’t allow tourists to use our plumbing facilities. You’re just too dumb to figure out how to use a water closet.”

  The tourist reached up and pulled on the rope with one hand, then the next.

  Grimstone wagged his finger at the mechanization. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “You’re not me. I’m smarter,” the tourist said.

  “That remains to be seen,” Grimstone said, taking a swipe with his cane at the floating gawker who had followed them into the sky before putting his walking stick in his mouth. Both hands free, he ascended higher up the rope with the mechanization following behind.

  The tourist climbed slowly and steadily behind the scrambling Grimstone, quickly closing the gap. Grimstone reached the side of the airship and shouted “Permission to come aboard.”

  “Granted,” a deep voice boomed and the Spellpunk scurried over the hull.

  “Grimstone, in a moment I will be onboard that airship and kill you, then scuttle it,” the tourist said.

  “Not really on the agenda for today, old boy.” Grimstone twisted the dragon’s left ear and a long blade sprung out of the carved mouth. Grimstone slipped the blade under the rope.

  The tourist was not close enough to grab hold of the hull, so he looked down, amazed at how high the airship had climbed in so brief a time. “No!”

  “Oh, yes,” Grimstone said, slicing through the rope.

  The mechanization plummeted down more than a hundred meters, crashing in the walled section of Steam Table Yard. Tourists were build tough, but not indestructible. The impact snapped one of his legs, making it difficult to stand, which made it easy for the waiting knight cops to pull out a prod from a generator as big as a large cart and shock the tourist’s system into shut-down mode long enough for them to shackle it.

  “Smart move, heading toward the yard, Captain,” Grimstone said.

  “Daring move, catching him in the noose like that,” the airship captain replied. “Can I drop you back by Sir Reginald, so the two of you can head to the yard together to finish the paperwork and the tourist’s incarceration?”

  “That would be wonderful,” Grimstone said, looking down and seeing a familiar horse pulling a familiar cab that he had told to wait for him. “Actually, I have a better idea. Do you have a spare anchor line?”

  Moments later, Grimstone was again dangling below the airship, this time his foot in a loop, so he only needed to hold on to the rope with a single hand. The airship lowered so Grimstone was gliding above the busy street in a straight line for the cab.

  "Hello Stevie!"

  The driver turned around to see Grimstone descending toward him like a flying spider. Stevie cursed and urged his horse to greater speeds as if the devil himself was chasing him.

  The next morning papers featured not only the tale of how the Spellpunk stopped a murdering tourist, but how he flew through the air to catch a cab driver who had done him wrong.

  Miss Winterdove and the Erupting Eulogist

  Angel Leigh McCoy

  Apparent failure may hold in its rough shell the germs of a success that will blossom in time and bear fruit throughout eternity.

  – Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

  Miss Josephine Winterdove gazed down at Ernesto Aperador in his coffin. He looked peaceful, and that did nothing to assuage her wish that he burn in Hell. She dabbed her handkerchief at the corner of her eye, as did several of the women in the church. Señor Aperador had left behind many broken hearts, including Josephine’s.

  Unlike the others, she hadn’t craved his romantic attentions. Rather, she coveted the cravat pin positioned in the middle of his chest. It broke her heart that the powerful carnelian cameo would be buried with him, despite her unrequited efforts to purchase it.

  She couldn’t stand by the coffin for long, or she would draw attention, but she had to find out how the cameo was attached. Already, she had spotted a strange joint on the base of the pin. She assumed it was connected to a tripwire. Leave it to ol’ Ernesto to booby trap it, out of spite. He had to have known she would make an attempt.

  Josephine opened her purse, reached into it with her handkerchief, and wrapped the cloth around a ball small enough to fit in her hand.

  Elijah Newton, Josephine’s escort, appeared at her elbow. He whispered, “Have I mentioned that black does not suit you?”

  “Thrice,” replied Josephine. “You remarked that it makes me look too pale, that it turns my red hair positively bland, and that it darkens the green of my eyes to boring brown, like yours.”

  “Brown is not boring.”

  “Everything about you is brown,” Josephine commented. “Your hair, your skin, your eyes. You’re awash in boring brown.”

  “At least brown isn’t a color you wear to steal a family heirloom from a corpse.”

  Josephine hissed, “Keep your voice down.” She glanced around to make sure he hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention.

  Elijah leaned in over her shoulder to study Ernesto’s Spanish features. “You think he’s more handsome than I am?”

  “At this moment, yes.”

  “What doe
s he have that I don’t? I mean, look at him. His nose is enormous.” Elijah shrugged his shoulder against hers. “His hair is black, it’s true, but it’s also thinning, and his jowls have begun to sag.”

  “For one thing,” Josephine replied, “he’s dead and unable to embarrass me in public.” She rested her wrist on the rim of the coffin and let the metallic ball slip from the handkerchief in between the satin and Ernesto’s hip. She said, “On the other hand, what Ernesto is attempting to do is a crime against humanity. I will not allow him to take such an important item with him to his grave. I’d be equally guilty if I didn’t at least try to rescue it.”

  “Ah yes,” countered Elijah, “you’re doing this for the sake of humanity.”

  Josephine looked up at him, eyes blinking in surprise. “Do you doubt my intentions?”

  Elijah sighed, smiled, and stole the opportunity to gaze into Josephine’s green eyes. She held a challenge there, one that dared him to repeat his accusation. The truth was, however, that he knew better. He knew beyond all doubt that Josephine’s intentions were noble, even if her methods didn’t always stand up to scrutiny. “Of course not, my dear girl. I knew when I first saw you that you were a force to be admired. You were scolding chubby Darren Hadley for bullying the smaller children, if you remember. Your braids were flying, and your eyes were flashing.”

  Josephine remembered. She said, “He hit me for my trouble. I had to go home to my parents with a black eye.”

  “That’s true. He did.” Elijah’s voice had gone soft with affection. “But, you made him regret that punch for the rest of his schooling.”

  A smile tilted the corners of Josephine’s lips. She whispered, “It was fortunate for me that he was so afraid of spiders. He made it easy to torment him. If there’s anything I hate, it’s a bully.”

  “Speaking of bullies,” continued Elijah, “I have to say, Señor Aperador has the most wretched taste in jewelry.”

  Josephine turned so she could rest her head on his chest, feigned a sniffle, and whispered, “I presume you’re referring to the ancient, priceless, and world-famous Candileja carnelian cameo. You may find it hideous, but I, my dear Eli, am enamored of it. That stone has special alchemical properties.”

  Eli’s arm fell around her shoulders. He answered, “Special properties?” He lay his cheek against her hair and breathed. “Is that so?”

  “That is so, yes, it is. Though few use its properties for good, it has the ability to increase a person’s creativity and analytical capacity.” Josephine watched the metal ball from the corner of her eye. It wriggled a bit to orient itself between Ernesto and the side of the coffin, then it unfolded like a pill bug, armadillidium vulgare, revealing a dozen short legs and two antennae. A small puff of steam huffed out of its posterior vent, and it began to climb Ernesto’s hip. Josephine continued, “The old woman and the two children you see in the cameo are called ‘the Candileja.’ According to Colombian legend, she allowed her grandchildren to become bullyragging tyrants who took whatever they wanted from the locals and killed those who resisted them.”

  Eli interjected, “And here you are, stealing the cameo from poor Señor Aperador’s dead body.”

  Josephine jabbed her elbow into his gut, causing a huff. “The story goes that when the grandmother died, she met St. Peter, who had noticed her negligent parenting. He doomed all three to roam the world, for eternity, as balls of flame.” Josephine wiped away more imaginary tears. “In my opinion, our own justice system could take a page out of old St. Peter’s book and punish parents along with their children.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Eli. “Your parents are dead.”

  Josephine gasped, though she didn’t look away from the mechanical bug. “What an evil thing to say.”

  Eli harrumphed and turned his head to scan the crowd. “Funerals put me in a foul mood.”

  “You’re a coroner.”

  “It’s exactly because I’m a coroner that I hate funerals. It’s one thing to tend a body; it’s another entirely to be exposed to the rituals of mourning.”

  Josephine felt him shiver and had to hide the small smile it inspired. “I don’t hate funerals, but I do wonder what it is about churches that always make me feel like I’ve stepped back in time to a more barbaric era.”

  “Maybe it’s the lack of whirligigs, ticking thingamajigs, and flying machines with which you surround yourself at home. Churches have none of that.”

  “Maybe it’s the lack of imagination and self-government, not to mention the feudal ethos.”

  Eli snorted a laugh and was forced to hide his face and pretend he too was crying for Ernesto.

  Josephine patted him on the shoulder, comforting him.

  He whispered, “Heretic.”

  She replied, “I prefer the term ‘scientist.’”

  They fell silent for a long moment. Josephine lowered her chin and focused on the cravat pin. She wanted it so badly, she feared she would cry for real if she didn’t get it. Its monetary value meant nothing to her. She already had more wealth than she could spend, having made a fortune off her invention of the telescoping ferrocerium igniter. For Josephine, the cameo’s true worth lay in the stone’s alchemical properties.

  She cursed Ernesto again for his stubborn refusal to part with it. After a full year of coaxing, cajoling, guilting, and goading hadn’t worked, after all the money she’d offered had been refused, she had made a mistake. In anger, she had warned him that, come Hell or high water, she would own the cameo one day. Ernesto had laughed in her face. He’d told her that he would take it to his grave before he would let her have it.

  Elijah had noticed the mechanical bug slowly moving up Ernesto’s abdomen, and his discomfort was growing. Josephine could feel it in his fidgets and increasing alertness. He asked, “What’s that thing going to do?”

  “That thing,” Josephine replied, “is an aqua regia injector device. I call it Arid, for short. I designed it to seek out gold and wrap itself around it. Arid’s body contains a pool of corrosive fluid that will leak out through its legs and attack the gold fixings holding the cameo in place, hopefully without triggering whatever trap he’s put on it. Once liberated from its seat, I’ll bend in to give poor Señor Aperador a good-bye kiss and snatch it right out from under his dead nose.”

  Elijah patted Josephine on the back. He whispered. “Are you sure you want to risk this? It’s my understanding that this whole family is involved in felonious activities.”

  Josephine did not deign to reply. She lifted her head off his chest, looked up at him, and instead asked, “Have you seen the dowager?” She glanced over her shoulder at the old woman dressed in black from head to toe.

  Abuela Aperador, Ernesto’s grandmother, was twice as wide as she was tall, especially with the old-fashioned crinoline and skirts she wore. She inched her way down the aisle on the arm of a hefty male relative, coming toward the altar, her face hidden but for the gleam of her eyes behind a lace veil.

  Josephine doubted those eyes missed much. She said, “It explains why Ernesto was so attached to the pin. He and his brother were raised by their hawk-nosed old grandmother to be murderers and thieves, as in the legend.”

  The mechanical bug had made it up onto Ernesto’s chest and was heading straight for the cameo; its double rows of legs fluttered across the wool of Ernesto’s coat.

  Elijah murmured, “Yeah, it’s the ‘murderers’ part that bothers me.” He put his mouth to Josephine’s ear and whispered, “She scares me.”

  Josephine brought up the handkerchief to cover her spontaneous smile and turned away from the coffin. “Perhaps we should take a seat. I don’t know what will happen if Arid triggers the trap. It’s safer at a distance. Besides, now that Abuela Aperador is here, I imagine the eulogies will begin soon.” She led the way, presuming that Elijah would follow. After a few steps, her heel caught in the ringed handle of a trap door. She tripped, and Elijah came swiftly up beside her to steady her. She covered her misstep with a sm
all sob into her handkerchief.

  Elijah whispered, “Aren’t you taking this grieving act a bit too far?”

  “Hush,” Josephine replied. She proceeded more cautiously and headed for the side wall. The entire church was full, with standing room only at the outer edges. As Josephine made her way along the wall, moving in and out of multi-colored pools of glass-stained sunlight, a young man rose from the end of a pew, stepped to the side, and bowed. “Miss? If you please?” He waved her to the proffered spot.

  Josephine gave the young man a wan smile and a weak, “Thank you,” and sat. Elijah propped himself against the wall near her.

  She hadn’t been wrong about the timing of the eulogies. Within five minutes of taking her seat, Father O’Connell stepped to the dais and introduced the first speaker, Ernesto’s younger sibling, Marcos.

  Josephine watched the coffin, alert for any sign of smoke, mist, or sparks, but nothing happened. She was sure the bug had reached the pin and was already wrapped around it, disassembling the gold molecules and tightening its hold—Josephine’s hold—on the cameo.

  While the eulogies were underway, Josephine could do nothing but wait. She made a game of counting the number of times Marcos dropped a Spanish word into his broken English. He droned on for an interminable time, extolling his brother’s virtues with understated monotony. He looked at the dowager throughout. The other eulogists did the same, some kneeling to kiss her hand on the way back to their seats, as if she were royalty.

  The Catholic church had gone all out for Ernesto’s funeral, dressing the altar with pristine linens and golden crosses. The smell of incense lingered in the air from the morning mass. It drifted in waves through the nave and mingled with the aroma of burning wax. There were candles on the altar, around the eulogy podium, and in the side sanctuaries where people lit them to guide Ernesto to Heaven.

  Josephine looked around at the gothic architecture with its arching ceiling and magnificent woodwork. She studied the mourners with their serious faces and black attire. She was relieved that some seemed as bored as she felt.