Clockwork Universe

by Seanen McGuire

  Threadbare Londoners bellowed and ran, clutching children, gripping sacks of precious belongings. They glanced over their shoulders in fear, terrified of pursuit. Fires burned and smoke rolled, blotting out the drab façades of row houses, turning the streets into a hazy confusion filled with muffled shouts. Horses reared, carts overturned and shots rang out.

  And above it all floated the orbs, eerily silent, slowly moving, infused with red and orange with hints of yellow that glowed dully against the roofs of the buildings. Twine-like tethers sprouted from the orbs’ sides, hanging slack save for the last few feet near the ground. There each tether attached to a skeletal automaton about the size of a man but with a spinning gyroscope for a heart. The automatons’ thin limbs and delicate bodies moved with unpracticed jerks and wobbly steps, like babes just learning to walk. They peered in doorways and windows, explored alleys and culverts as far as their tethers would allow, searching, investigating.

  Von Trite frowned. His crew stared in wonder. Dr. Jenson simply stood with his mouth hanging open, monocle forgotten. It was a sight to behold.

  “I have your guns, sir!” Mr. Mitchell, von Trite’s second in command, puffed up from below decks, red in the face, the eight foot barrel of von Trite’s mahogany stocked trophy taker, Ulysses, crushing his shoulder. Von Trite’s eyes lit up at the sight of the great gun. Dr. Jenson grabbed a peg of the wheel so von Trite could assist Mr. Mitchell in hefting Ulysses onto the captain’s deck swivel mount. Once done Mr. Mitchell pulled a radiantly bejeweled black powder pistol from his belt and handed it over, worn palm-grip first.

  “Ah Maude, it has been too long,” von Trite said as he held the ancient pistol. “Are you ready for a fight, my girl? I know I am!” Von Trite growled in anticipation and slid Maude into his belt.

  “Sir, the orbs are tethered to something in the sky!” Dr. Jenson pointed heavenward, hand shaking slightly. Von Trite followed his friend’s direction and noted that each orb sported a single large tether at its top that swooped up into the solid London overcast. Von Trite counted over three dozen before giving up and barking orders.

  “Cedric!”

  “Sir!” The burly dark-skinned man responded from the foredeck.

  “Load the eighteens with solid shot. We’re going ashore.”

  “Yes, sir!” Cedric turned and shouted orders to his gunnery crews while von Trite hauled the wheel over, pointing the Morgan’s prow directly at the chaos at the water’s edge.

  The great iron ship steamed full ahead. Von Trite stood steadfast and bow-legged on her captain’s deck, wind whipping his greatcoat and coal smoke swirling about his head. The stone wall of the riverbank rushed at them. Von Trite did not slow. Dr. Jenson flipped up his monocles, scrunched his face and clutched the railing. The rest of the crew grabbed hold of something solid and held fast. Von Trite heaved a five-foot-long lever from the railing to the floor just as the point of the Morgan’s ram scrapped the stone of the river wall.

  Steam rushed into great pneumatic struts, dropping the Morgan’s paddle wheels eight feet straight down and raising the hull skyward with stomach turning force. Her forward paddles clawed their way up onto the shore with a tremendous jolt and the middle and aft wheels followed. And just like that the Morgan rolled down Wellington Street, water streaming off her hull and cobblestones crunching beneath her wheels. Londoners dove for cover, horses shrieked and flashed the whites of their eyes at her approach, but the orbs and automatons did not spare a glance.

  “All hands, fire at will!”

  The eighteens roared with long-silenced fury, lobbing massive iron balls at the automaton invaders closest to them. The guns recoiled against curled springs and popped back into position, ready to accept the next charge of powder and round of shot. Von Trite’s blood blazed in his veins, the old adventuring fire flaring after years of neglect. He drew a breath to bellow in triumph but a bizarre sight knocked the wind from him

  “My God, sir, did you see that!” Dr. Jenson gasped.

  “Yes I did, Titus.”

  The solid iron shot of the Morgan’s eighteen pound guns had flown true towards the invaders, but had suddenly diverted a Queen’s yard before them, swooped around in a half circle and continued on their way.

  “The shot went around them, like it was traversing one of Gauss’s magnetic fields!”

  “Hmm …” Von Trite twisted his mustache, eyes narrowing in thought until he noticed the fast approaching buildings ahead and yanked two levers to turn onto Strand. The prow gouged the Lyceum Theatre’s side, showering the street with stone and iron window fittings just as the eighteens roared again.

  Boom, boom, boom!

  One shot flew low, blasting a hole in the street and flinging chunks of cobblestones into a group of invaders who were furiously pawing through coal spilled from an overturned cart. Three automatons fell to pieces, their spinning gyroscopic hearts knocked from them by the stone shards. The others paused, faceless heads rising to look at their fallen comrades and then turning to stare blankly at the Morgan.

  Cedric berated the gun crew who had missed with curses and blasphemes that would normally have warmed von Trite’s heart, but as the automatons slipped from view the Admiral could only stare in thought at what he had witnessed, his keen eyes mere slits.

  “Cedric!” von Trite bellowed.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Fire at the ground before the invaders. Give them a taste of shattered earth.”

  Cedric’s frown at the thought of missing on purpose was brief, but unmistakable, yet he shouted back with hardly a pause, “Yes, sir!”

  “Mr. Martin!”

  “Sir!”

  “Bring me my chest of shot.”

  Mr. Martin pulled an ornate chest from a heavily weathered cabinet bolted to the back railing. He opened it to reveal dozens of round shot, hand-shaped from exotic elements collected from every worldly continent and numerous uncharted islands. Von Trite gave them a shrewd glance then lifted his chin to his selection. “Load the Stone of Constantinople and pack it tight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The invaders are closing on the palace!” Dr. Jenson pointed down the narrow confines of Charles Street to the sprawling park beyond, one eye huge in a new monocle lens.

  Six orbs floated across the green pastures of St. James’s Park, the automatons tethered to them slogging through the lake, some completely submerged. Von Trite steered for Parliament Street then heaved back hard on the starboard lever to bring the Morgan around onto Great George Street and finally Birdcage Walk.

  Screech-Boom! The London gloom lit up to a tremendous thunderclap. Dr. Jenson gaped, pointing in front of Buckingham Palace at a line of crackling, sparking barrels spun by furiously pumping steam engines. In front of each barrel, connected by a thick bundle of exposed wire, stood a team of men holding a large, flat sheet of metal with sparks dancing across its face. A bolt leapt from one sheet, streaking out to strike a group of automatons before terminating on another flat sheet of metal staked at the other end of the park.

  “Tesla cannons!” Dr. Jenson shouted with glee.

  But the bolts from the cannons passed around each individual automaton just as the iron shot had, leaving them untouched. Von Trite scoffed.

  “A lot of good they do, they already have to out-flank the enemy to use them!” Von Trite pointed to the staked metal sheets. “Cannon there would be better!”

  Just as von Trite spoke, a volley of cannon and musket shots rang out from behind the Tesla canons on the raised stairs of Buckingham Palace. The metal shots slid around the same invisible spheres and continued on their way, leaving the automatons untouched.

  “Hmpf,” von Trite commented. He wheeled the Morgan around, plowing her hull through the wrought iron fence that enclosed the park. The Morgan burst forth onto the rolling lawn just as the gathering automatons stomped firmly into a long, straight line. The automatons’ arms rose into the air and dropped in unison.

  Bwaaaa! A massive, concussive soun
d wave leapt from them, knocking the riflemen on the steps of the palace to the ground and throwing the Tesla cannons and field artillery into haphazard piles. Men moaned, steam engines shrieked to a halt and the Tesla cannons popped, sizzled and fell silent.

  “What in God’s name!” Mr. Mitchell cried, clutching his ears.

  “Ack!” Dr. Jenson stumbled sideways, falling to his knees with one hand on the railing.

  Von Trite winced, feeling his glass sight tubes vibrate to the sound, but he held course. A rakish smile spread across his face as the Morgan steamed straight for the end of the automatons’ line, in perfect flanking position.

  The wheels of the Morgan crushed over the first automaton, riding up its invisible field onto the field of the one beside it. The glowing orb to which both automatons were tethered suddenly flared, shrinking as it did so, until it abruptly winked out, revealing a silvery metallic sphere. The Morgan dropped straight down, crushing the two automatons flat then chewed through the remaining eight automatons as they staggered feebly under the dragging weight of their own severed tethers.

  The remaining automatons watched, arms raised to the sky, in a stunned stupor, then suddenly broke ranks as the Morgan’s paddle wheels rode up over the next group.

  “Fire at will!” von Trite bellowed hoarsely.

  Mayhem reigned. Automatons fell like pigeons at a social shoot, crumbling from gyroscope hits, spinning away with broken limbs from glancing blows, collapsing over shattered legs to lie clawing at the ground. The Morgan dropped down, squashing another half dozen automatons flat. The men roared in bloodless lust, the recovering Tesla gunners and troops on the steps joining in, cheering them on as the crew bashed and bullied their way through the park.

  But von Trite suddenly staggered, catching himself on the iron rail. He let out a pained breath and lay his hand against his chest, where his heart should have been. He felt the bag of Battle Coal resting there.

  He reached under his coat, searching for the appropriately sized nugget and tossed it over his shoulder into his hopper. The fire door opened and closed. Smoke poured from his stack, clean and shimmery as the nugget ignited.

  And at that instant an unearthly wail tore the air, rippling the drifting smoke, causing the men to crouch and cover their ears. Every automaton in sight stood stock still, pointing at von Trite and emitting a screech that drilled into skulls like whirling diamonds.

  Four automatons leapt onto the deck of the Morgan, but found themselves hovering three feet above it, their invisible fields repulsed by the iron. Von Trite bellowed, “Boarders on deck! Send ‘em overboard!”

  Cutlass and daggers slid out and swung high, but bounced harmlessly from the automaton’s invisible spheres.

  “Your billy clubs, lads! Use something of the simple earth! Wood or stone!”

  The crew complied, leaping for their foes. But only two made it close enough to bash at flailing shins. The others found themselves yanked backwards by the metal adornments they wore, rings or necklaces or nosepieces that the automatons’ protective spheres did not allow to pass. But two sailors were enough. The automatons tumbled overboard, save for one that fell to pieces after a savage poke to its gyroscope heart.

  “That’s it boys! Give them the old heave-ho!” Von Trite yanked levers again, clipping a fleeing automaton with the prow.

  With a short booming report an eighteen-inch gun blasted apart the last remaining automaton with a skillful miss. The orbs, their tethers dangling empty and flaccid, floated back up into the clouds, lighting them up from the inside before fading completely away.

  “We’ve bested them, Titus! They are fleeing!” von Trite shouted with triumphant glee.

  But Dr. Jenson did not hear his friend. He had scrambled forward as soon as the decks had been cleared and knelt in front of the pile of automaton bones, his hands hovering an inch from them, afraid to touch.

  “Titus!”

  Dr. Jenson looked up, microscope monocle already in place. “We must get these below and study them, sir. They are invaluable to science and to our cause!”

  Von Trite smiled at the earnest look on his friend’s face. “Of course, my friend. Take them below. I will call you if I see anything of note.”

  Dr. Jenson grabbed an empty gunny sack and carefully slid the pieces inside, then disappeared below with the sack clutched to his chest. Von Trite smiled after him then turned as Cedric pointed to the palace and shouted.

  “The Queen! The Queen!”

  The crew knelt, heads bowed.

  Her Highness stood on the balcony that overlooked the park, a royal aide pleading beside her, gesturing back inside. But she ignored him, standing statuesque in all black, still mourning her late husband some thirteen years gone. The gaze she laid upon the Morgan and the man at its helm held emotions so tightly balled together that they formed an even, impenetrable sphere.

  Von Trite’s engine faltered then hissed in recovery as he saw her. He stood for a moment, simply looking at her. Though saddened by years of loneliness, with her hair pulled back in a severe bun, she was still the woman he had cast eyes upon forty years ago and instantly loved. Her power radiated from her even more now, stately and stoic. No hint remained of the smile she had discreetly covered with a fan when he had asked for a ship to spread the glory of the empire to the southern seas. But he still loved her, and the imagined life they could have had exploring the world together lingered in his still-keen mind. He hefted the steering levers about and made straight for her.

  The Morgan huffed and chugged to a stop broadside to the balcony and even with its height. Von Trite stepped over to the railing.

  “Your Majesty.” He bowed low, removing his hat with smooth grace.

  “Admiral von Trite,” she said curtly, her mouth severe. “You have bested the enemy?”

  “I have broken their forces here, Your Highness. Many more remain in the city.”

  The Queen looked past him at the numerous tethers that still hung from the clouds. They wove among the streets, no longer pausing to inspect or investigate, but instead marching steadfastly towards the very place where she stood.

  “Can you defeat so many?”

  Von Trite straightened and gave a roguish smile. “Have I ever failed you before?”

  The Queen’s steady gaze fell full upon him. He did not flinch, only raised one bushy eyebrow in challenge. His pistons chugged along, each hiss and gush a reminder of his devotion to her, of the sacrifices he had made for her. The Queen’s lips pressed tighter.

  “No.”

  Von Trite smiled broadly, pleased. He settled his hat back upon his head. “Then with Your Highness’s permission, I would like to take the fight to the enemy.”

  The Queen paused, seeming unable to speak. Her eyes lost focus, gazing beyond him. Von Trite could see the turmoil within them, the push and pull of her desire to keep him from harm versus the desperate needs of the Empire. And for the briefest moment he wondered if her love for him would trump reason even in this darkest of hours. But when she finally looked at him again, with eyes at once pained and resolute, he knew he had won.

  “Admiral von Trite, you are granted free rein to drive the invaders from the city. All of the assets of the Empire are at your disposal. Spare nothing to protect it.”

  Admiral von Trite bowed his head to hide his broad smile. “As The Queen wishes.” He turned and looked at the determined, soot-smeared faces of his men. His pistons lugged under the weight of pride and camaraderie he felt for them. None better had ever lived and none better would ever live again.

  “Mr. Martin!” he shouted. “Release the globe sails and fire them full. If the enemy wishes a fight then a fight they shall have!”

  “Hoo-rah!” the crew roared. Coal-grimed hands gripped massive levers, cranking them down, setting the teeth of a dozen cogs in motion. The cogs wound great flat springs that pushed against the outer plates of the Morgan’s hull, straining the bolts that held the iron plates fast. The great ship creaked and moaned as vo
n Trite steered it towards the closest approaching orb, his eyes on the tether that attached to it and disappeared up into the clouds. Then, with a bang that drove shockwaves up his shins, the entire hull blew away, littering the ground with massive slabs of four inch thick wrought iron, leaving nothing but exposed decks jutting from the massive central keel.

  “Sir!” Dr. Jenson’s voice warbled from the trumpet-flared end of a tube that curved up out of the steam control panel. “I am performing delicate investigations! Did you have to remove the hull?”

  Von Trite gave a knowing half smile, imagining his friend hunched over his desk in his cluttered stateroom which now lacked an outer wall. “Yes, Titus. I felt the Morgan should stretch her wings.”

  A pop and hiss sounded. Burgeoning bladders of brown stitched canvas rolled from the exposed under-decks, flopping out then floating up as they filled with red hot air shunted from the Morgan’s furiously stoked fireboxes. As the ropes that held the dirigible balloons fast to the Morgan tightened von Trite unlatched a bright red lever and hauled it flat against the deck, pinning it with his foot.

  With a clank, the exposed decks of the Morgan lifted from the paddle wheel chassis. The Morgan rose into the air, a skeleton of a ship, buoyed by sixteen massive balloons. Steam jetted from a dozen aft nozzles, shoving the Morgan along while periodic puffs on either side of her prow adjusted her course.

  “Admiral!” Dr. Jenson’s voice bellowed from the tube in excitement. “There are no fasteners to hold the invader’s pieces together. They appear to be held together by some invisible force. A Gaussian field? Perhaps that is why they fall apart when their gyroscopic heart is removed.”