Clockwork Universe

by Seanen McGuire

  Jacob sputtered as he pulled himself out of the river and onto the bank. “That’s the second time you’ve nearly drowned me in as many days,” Jacob growled, wringing the water from his sodden clothing.

  “We’re alive.”

  Jacob glared at him. “We lost the bikes.”

  Mitch shrugged. “Adam knew it was a risk when he gave them to us.” He grinned. “Come on. Let’s get back to the room. I think one of the trackers stuck.”

  “We just crashed a freight train into the Edgar Thomson Works,” Jacob pointed out, holding onto his anger because it was his last, slipping link to sanity. “They shoot saboteurs for less!”

  Mitch started walking. “Good thing, then, that we’re on the other side of the river, huh?”

  * * *

  Not enough remained of the wrecked train or the orb that collided with it to find any trace of the tracking device. Disguised in stolen police uniforms, Jacob and Mitch heard the railroad inspector exclaim over the unusually hot fire from the explosion, and had gotten close enough to the wreckage to assure that nothing of the orb had survived.

  Late the next night, Jacob watched from the ground as Mitch climbed to the top of the tallest brick smokestack towering over the Jones and Laughlin steel mill. They had left the car down the road, and Hans and the Werkman were taking opposite circuits, roaming the night to make sure they did not get disturbed.

  The guard at the gate had appreciated the beer Jacob had brought him, until his eyes had rolled back in his head and he had slumped to the floor of his gatehouse. Once he awoke, he’d have a nasty headache, but no memory of how he had gotten there and no lasting after-effects.

  The muted tapping of Morse Code sounded close to Jacob’s ear from the receiver on his coat collar. Mitch was in place. Jacob chewed his unlit cigar, wishing he was sitting in Mirko’s Bar, drinking beer and smoking his stogie down to the stub.

  Jacob maneuvered himself into position. He was next to the main power line coming into the plant, and he had tapped in with one of the Department’s gadgets so that he could watch any fluctuations in the electricity and send a warning to Mitch. Up on the tower, Mitch had a shotgun ready, loaded not with bullets, but with a gadget of his own making. The Very Pistol shot from the other night had hit but not stuck, leaving them with no tracking information to show for their trouble.

  The dial in Jacob’s hand spun wildly. This is it, Jacob thought, chomping down on his cigar. He tapped out “go” on his wrist piece, signaling Mitch to be ready to shoot. He looked up, but he couldn’t see Mitch against the darkness.

  Overhead, two orbs danced against the night sky as the mill’s lights dimmed until they were almost dark.

  Jacob heard the crack of the shotgun. A heartbeat later, an explosion rocked the ground. Fire blossomed where the orbs had been. Jacob thought he saw a shadow fall from the tower. The shockwave shattered windows in the mill, spraying the area with broken glass. The explosion rocked the ground and made the steel roof groan. Its force sent Jacob sprawling, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he saw the tall brick tower sway before the whole world went dark and silent. Slowly the sound returned. He heard alarm bells clamoring, and men shouting, whistles shrieking and footsteps pounding closer. The mill was dark but his eyes were now adjusting to the moonlight.

  If we get caught, they’ll assume we’re saboteurs and the Department will probably let us hang, Jacob thought.

  “You need to get out of here now, sir.” Hans had come up behind Jacob without a sound.

  “Not without Mitch,” Jacob said. “He was up on that tower, but I don’t know how he could have kept his hold with that blast.”

  “Werkman is retrieving him. I’ll keep watch.” Hans usually went to great lengths to hide his adaptations but now, his clockwork additions propelled him across the short distance to the tower faster than any Olympic sprinter. Jacob saw Hans connect with the Werkman as they circled the tower, then the Werkman went up the tower like a mechanical spider, scaling it without a living being’s regard for pain or fatigue. Jacob squinted, trying to follow his movement, but it was too dark. He had seen a shadowy figure fall when the explosion hit, and his gut clenched. The tower was far too high for anyone to survive a drop like that.

  “You there! Stop!” A guard shouted in heavily-accented English.

  “I just came out to take a piss,” Jacob said in Polish, before he clocked the guard with a roundhouse punch. “Sorry about that,” he added under his breath.

  “Run!” Hans yelled. “We’ve got him.” Jacob glimpsed that the Werkman carried a body in his arms and his throat tightened.

  “Get Mitch to the carriage,” Jacob ordered. “We’ve got to see what kind of debris that thing left behind. I’ve got false papers, just in case. I’ll be fine. Go!”

  Hans and the Werkman melted into the darkness with the faint hum and click of gears. Jacob dragged the unfortunate guard into the shadows, and lit his cigar.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” The speaker wore a guard’s uniform, but the voice sounded like it had barely reached puberty.

  “Will you now, lad?” Jacob replied, his voice heavy with an Irish brogue. “Don’t make more trouble for yourself than you’re already in with the Inspector.” At that, Jacob flashed the badge in his pocket.

  “Pinkertons, Special Agent Cavanaugh,” he snapped. “And put that damn gun down, boy, before I shoot it out of your hand.”

  “There was an explosion … Anarchists …” The young guard was pale with fright and the gun in his grip trembled so hard Jacob feared he might get shot by accident.

  “The gun,” Jacob ordered. “Put it down, lad. I’m on your side, and I’m here to help.”

  The guard lowered the gun but seemed rooted to his spot. “Come with me,” Jacob said, puffing on his cigar and striding toward the darkened mill. In the moonlight, he could see the millworkers standing in small groups, talking in hushed voices in a babble of languages from across Europe’s poorer nations.

  “What did you see?” Jacob asked briskly. Between the guard’s fright over the explosion and his terror of being in trouble with the Inspector, the young man nearly fell over himself to clear the way for Jacob and maneuver them through the onlookers with official prerogative.

  “I was walking my rounds, sir, and I saw those damned orbs in the sky, the ones that show up before the lights dim,” the guard replied, his voice reedy and tremulous.

  “And then?” Jacob snapped, knowing that the more he kept the guard off-balance, the less likely it was for the man to question his authority.

  “I thought I heard a shot, and then the sky lit up and I got knocked flat on my ass,” the guard replied. “Sir.”

  “You heard a shot?” Jacob countered. “Are you sure? Could it have been a weather balloon popping?”

  The guard looked doubtful and scared. “Maybe. I guess so, sir.”

  Jacob nodded. “I thought so,” he said, and let out a string of curses. “Damned government Weather Service. Send those flimsy balloons up to look for storms and they drift loose and something like this happens.” He gestured with his cigar. “Your boss should send in a bill to the government for all the lost production time, that’s what he ought to do,” he grumbled.

  “What are we looking for, sir?” the guard asked as Jacob began to stride up and down along the side of the building nearest the blast. He could see where a section of the sheet metal in the roof had bowed with the force, and several of the air vents on the roof peak canted to the side. Shards of glass littered the ground.

  “Bits of weather balloon, strange pieces of metal, anything that doesn’t belong,” Jacob replied tersely. “Find some, and you’ll be a hero for your boss. I imagine with proof like that—after the Pinkertons validate it, of course—he wouldn’t have any trouble at all getting damages back from the government.”

  Jacob tried to hold off the thoughts that crowded into his mind. Mitch wasn’t moving. He must have fallen. Dammit! He’s dead and the least I can do is g
et the goods on whatever it was that put off that blast. Damn.

  Near the base of the brick tower, Jacob spotted a spent shotgun shell and pocketed it before his helper could see. But nowhere were other debris in evidence, other than the obvious damage to the steel mill. No canvas skin for an airship or a weather balloon, no bits of metal from the engine or frame, nothing that seemed odd, out of place or even slightly alien in any sense of the word.

  “How could they just vanish like that without leaving debris?” the young guard wondered aloud.

  Jacob puffed on his cigar. “That’s the thing with these weather balloons nowadays, built so flimsy that it probably burned up completely in that fireball.” He gave the boy a look. “Be glad it wasn’t one of those big airships raining fiery bits down on everyone.”

  He made a show of scribbling in an otherwise empty notebook, then snapped the pad shut and slipped it into his pocket. “Looks like we’re done here. I’ll file a report and make sure I put in a good word for you,” he said. “You’ve been a good lad, maybe there’s a promotion in it for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Kind of you, sir. Is there anything else I can do to help, sir?” the young guard asked, looking like a hungry puppy, eager to please.

  Jacob gave a curt shake of his head. “No, I think I’ve got everything I need. If they find something, make sure your boss knows to send it in for a claim to the government. You deserve to be compensated.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  As they had talked, Jacob had maneuvered them back along the building until they were near the fence. “That’s it then.” He paused. “You’d better go see what’s going on,” he said, pointing along the back of the mill, far removed from where the rest of the action was. “I just saw a man in a supervisor’s hat waving to you.”

  The young guard peered into the shadows, but saw nothing. “Go on,” Jacob urged. “You don’t want to keep him waiting. I can find my way out.” He waited until the guard had turned the corner before he headed off at a brisk walk for the hole in the fence they had used to enter. There was enough commotion near the front of the plant that Jacob’s exit went unnoticed, and he soon made his way back to where Hans and the Werkman had hidden the carriage.

  “I was about to come looking for you, sir,” Hans informed him.

  “I’m here,” Jacob said. His mood had soured considerably on the walk, now that the reality of what happened had sunk in. Falken will have my head, and I don’t care. I lost a good partner. Those are hard to come by. What a stupid way to die.

  “Tell him to get his dupa in the carriage so we can get going.” Mitch’s voice was strained but there was no mistaking the speaker.

  Jacob climbed in, utterly bewildered. Mitch sat on the other side of the compartment, stiffly positioned against the cushions. One eye was well on its way to swelling closed and his shoulder looked oddly askew. Mitch’s clothes were torn and from his shallow breathing, Jacob guessed he had cracked a couple of ribs. “What the hell?” Jacob said as Hans got the carriage in motion.

  Mitch’s eyes widened in pain as the carriage bumped down the rutted access road, and he went pale. “You don’t happen to have a flask on you, do you?” he asked, his voice thin.

  Jacob chuckled and pulled one from his boot. He cranked off the cap and handed it across. Mitch took a hearty swig. “I saw you fall,” Jacob said, still reeling from the turn of events.

  Mitch let out a ragged breath. “I did. But I’d used a safety cable—my father built some bridges in his time and it was something he always did in high places. I figured the recoil might put me off balance—never figured on blowing the damn thing up.” He gave a chuckle that sounded as if it hurt.

  “The Werkman found me dangling and unconscious. I swung when I fell and hit the side of the tower hard enough to knock me out and break a few bones. He and Hans got me down.”

  “Damn, you gave me a scare,” Jacob admitted.

  “Me, too,” Mitch replied. “Did you find anything?”

  Jacob shook his head. “Just your shell casing, which I’ve got. No other debris, which there should have been if it had been an airship.”

  “Check the instruments, sir,” Hans said. Mitch pointed to a bulky receiver on the seat next to Jacob

  “What do you—” Mitch started to say, but gasped in pain at the effort and fell back, looking as if he were going to pass out.

  “I’ll have a look.” Jacob waved Mitch silent and took over. It was a rare turn of events, and usually happened only when Mitch was bleeding.

  “The tracker appears to have connected with its target,” Jacob mused. “And it’s headed East, toward the ocean.”

  “Told you!” Mitch’s exultation was dimmed considerably by his broken ribs.

  “But this can’t be right. It’s moving too fast—and rising quickly.” Jacob shook his head, staring at the rapidly fluctuating dial. “I don’t know of any experimental craft that can go that fast or that high—wait!” He gently jiggled the indicator, and then looked up, mystified. “It’s gone. The dials are all at zero.”

  “So what was it?” Mitch asked between gritted teeth. “European spies? Or Farber’s ‘visitors?’”

  Jacob was still staring at the indicators as if they might suddenly reveal the answer, but they remained lifeless. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  He opened his flask, took a swig, and passed it to Mitch. “Let’s get you to a doctor,” Jacob added, leaning forward to give instructions to Hans. He settled into his seat. “We need to get you patched up. Because I bet they’ll be back. Especially now that you’ve shot down two of them.”

  “And how do we write up this one for the Department?” Mitch wheezed.

  “Like always. Supernatural phenomenon, source unknown …”

  Steamsuit

  David J. Fortier

  “E.J. Barlowe, Inventor Extraordinaire?” The man’s voice was rich and deep.

  Emily spun around and nearly answered before remembering her façade. Her heart raced from her near mistake. No proper woman in London would be, or could be, an inventor. As far as everyone knew, the actor she’d hired to make public presentations was E.J. Barlowe, and she was simply his assistant.

  The man standing in front of her wore an expensive black suit and glistening top hat, but his plain metal pocket watch avoided ostentatiousness. The unconventional cane handle, shaped like a bird beak, provided a touch of unique style to the conservative attire. Not a lord, though certainly a man of importance.

  A second man in black with no hat or cane hovered outside the back stairs of her long workshop wagon. Through the flickering gap in the curtain a third man, broad shouldered with thick mustache, stood watch on stage near her latest invention—the steamsuit. Who were these men and what was going on?

  Emily drew on the dim-witted voice she used to play the assistant, and let her nervousness affect her tone, “Mr. Barlowe is not here right now, sir. Would you like to leave a card?”

  “I’m not here to see Mr. Driscol, your actor,” the gentleman said with no hint of amusement. “I’m here to see you Miss Barlowe. But where are my manners? Mr. Richard Smythe.” He removed his hat and bowed low, as if addressing a lady from lesser nobility.

  If he knew who she was and knew where she came from …

  Emily hesitated, her fingers covered in grease. She would have wiped them on her smudged gray overalls or the stained green apron, but there was no clean place left to wipe. Reluctantly, she extended her hand. He gently held her fingers, and she tensed, still uncertain as to his motives. His lips didn’t touch her skin, appropriate given their unfamiliarity. When he released her hand, she breathed a little easier and assumed a tone her mother would have approved of: “And where do you come calling from, Mr. Smythe?”

  “I am not permitted to say, exactly.” He casually wiped the grease on a pocket handkerchief as if nothing had happened. “Though, I am in Her Majesty’s service.”

  What did a secret branch of the government
want? Emily’s throat tightened.

  For a moment, she considered bolting, but realized they were probably not here to apprehend her. They wouldn’t care about the overdue bills for her mother’s sick care, and hiring an actor to play E. J. Barlowe while posing as his assistant might be worth a constable, but not three of Her Majesty’s finest.

  “No doubt, you are aware of the large obstruction hovering over the Thames west of London, beyond the town of Reading.”

  “I am, Mr. Smythe, when I first heard of it, I freed myself of previous engagements and travelled with haste to investigate. By the time I arrived, Reading had been evacuated and all paths forward were blocked by soldiers. My time, wasted. And for what? To observe this ‘obstruction’ from so far away that I could only learn it looks like a thick-seated bar stool with four legs. The soldiers called it a water treatment device.” She scoffed. “If you wanted to clean up the Thames, you would place it near London. I don’t buy it, and I don’t think anybody else does either.”

  “Indeed,” Smythe replied. “That’s been our cover story from day one for lack of better ideas. It’s an alien craft that arrived from the northwest two weeks ago. Initially, we sent out some of our finest translators and communicators in an attempt to contact the craft. They failed. Her Majesty’s navy has tried to board the vessel, and were attacked by four appendages, much like giant octopus tentacles. Guns and mortars couldn’t damage the craft and several sailors died in that confrontation.” Mr. Smythe’s voice choked up, but he quickly regained his composure. “Our divers learned that two legs are sucking clean water in upstream, while two other legs are pumping out some kind of dark-blue sludge downstream. They collected a sample and it’s highly toxic. Within days, the divers suffered convulsions and strange growths before going into a coma.”

  “What do you need of me, Mr. Smythe?”

  “One of our airships has seen the top of the alien craft. There are hatches that open up at regular intervals, emitting a mist of some kind. We believe your knowledge of steam power and pumps would help us gain access and stop the pollution before it reaches London. I can’t provide details now. We’ve been instructed to bring you and your possessions to a secret location to discuss the particulars.”