Cogs in Time Volume Three (The Steamworks Series Book 3)

by Catherine Stovall

  I weighed the cylinder in my hand. It wasn’t heavy. A human heart couldn’t weigh much more. As I brought the wax near the flame, I looked down at the skull again.

  One-eyed now, it winked at me, and then the other flame guttered out. Smoke curled out of the hollow cavity, and I stared into the skull, so like a human’s. “Damn it,” I muttered.

  Looking around quickly to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I slid the cylinder safely into the pocket of my overalls, following it a moment later with the small badge that Primus had worn.

  Primus was waiting at the Brass Line the following day, as patient as a stone. I stopped short on seeing him, swallowing the last pieces of my quick breakfast, and cautiously nodded to him.

  “Can I help you?”

  Primus nodded stiffly back. “Yes. I would speak with you in private, Mr. Wilson.”

  We made our way over to a quieter corner of the shop floor, away from the noise of the looms, the back of my neck prickling as his massive presence thudded along behind me.

  “We wish to pool our pay,” Primus said without preamble. “As you correctly pointed out yesterday, we have no need for food or water. Additionally, it is in your interest to repair us, should we break down.”

  “Aye, I suppose,” I said. “Though we don’t pay for medicine for the humans, or for time off.”

  “You pay the human workers more to begin with,” Primus said. “But I speak for the Brass Men when I say that we are satisfied with the current state of pay.” His segmented hand came up, and I hissed at the sudden movement, but it held only a piece of paper. “We wish for these items, in lieu of pay. Their worth is equivalent to the coin we would otherwise have received.”

  I took the rough-edged piece of paper and scanned the list. Mostly repair parts; pipes, the makings of a small steam engine, one or two other bits and pieces. A set of small sanding blocks.

  “What d’you want this for?”

  “Do you ask your human workers how they spend their wages?”

  “No,” I said, “You’re right. Unfair question.” I tapped the list a couple of times with a finger. “I could get this for you, aye. Some of it we’ve already got in the storeroom. End of the day, maybe.”

  Primus rose smoothly. “That is acceptable.” He turned to leave.

  “Here.” I took the little cog badge out of my apron pocket and held it out. I’d spent much of the previous evening studying it, memorising its loops and coils to no real end. The gears overlapped, intersected, played off each other in ways that were useless but pleasing to the eye. “Wear this. Otherwise the others’ll struggle to know who you are.”

  Primus nodded, picking the badge up. “Logical. I will look forward to receiving the items I have requested.”

  “Just make sure the work continues,” I shouted as he moved off between the machines. I turned and walked back between the looms. As I passed each wooden frame I nodded to the workers, but few returned the greeting. Where yesterday I might have received a nod or a wink, now only hostile eyes returned my gaze, and I quickened my pace.

  My office overlooked the factory floor, up a flight of wooden stairs, and when I got there, Gaffer was waiting for me. I opened the door to my little kingdom and crossed the creaking floorboards to my desk, which was little more than a table with a few pieces of paper on it.

  “Gaffer,” I said, sitting on one side of the desk and gesturing to the only other chair. The old man, his bowed shoulders a perfect arc, came in and shut the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me what the damn fool you think you’re up to, boy,” Gaffer said. He stood in front of the desk, leaning on his cane, long-stem pipe protruding from his lips. “Lettin’ the Brassies get paid.”

  I turned to the little earthenware jug of water I kept on a set of drawers off to one side and poured myself a cup. “You were there yesterday. You agreed—”

  “I agreed t’nothin’, but that we’d all be docked pay for arguin’. Better to back off and make case some other day than piss off old man Crowe.” Gaffer tutted and finally lowered himself into the chair with a grunt. “First things first. You really replacin’ us skinjobs?”

  “I don’t know. Mister Crowe has talked about it, and that’s all I can tell you, Gaffer.”

  “I ain’t an Overseer, that’s your job, and right proud I was when you was promoted. Raised you like my own right here in the workhouse, and done good by you. But the workers, they listen to me, an’ you know it. If I say strike—”

  “Then you’ll make Mr. Crowe’s decision for him, Gaffer.” I shook my head. “Take what you can get for now, keep quiet, keep your head down. That’s my advice for you, for all of them.”

  “T’ain’t right.”

  I sighed. “No. No, it isn’t. But if it were a fellow human that had refused to work, that the Bashers had dealt with, would you be going back to work now?”

  He stroked his beard and shook his head. “Guess not.”

  “But the Brass Men are back at work. Who’s earning their pay now? Not you, and not I. And you wonder why Crowe’s thinking of replacing the humans.”

  Gaffer scowled, and I felt the knife twist in my guts. Well done. Another friendship gone.

  He stood. “Sometimes I hear you speak, but it’s Crowe’s words coming out.” With that, he turned and went back out into the deafening roar, leaving me in silence.

  The week was in its dying hours when I next saw Primus. He stood, feet just inside the Brass Line, another list in his hand.

  “Fellow Overseer,” he said as I drew close. “Next week’s materials list.”

  I took the list. “Thank you. I’ll see to it that it’s fulfilled. There was a slight drop off in production midweek—”

  “It was dealt with,” Primus said, a little too quickly for my liking. “There is no problem.”

  “I didn’t say there was a problem,” I said.

  There was a long pause as we stared at each other. I narrowed my eyes at his expressionless face. Without warning, I darted to the side and crossed the Line, walking into the automated area. Behind me, I heard Primus’ joints whirring as he tried to turn and keep pace.

  “This area is my responsibility,” Primus said, its voice echoing slightly. “I do not check on your area.”

  “The whole workhouse is in my care.” I looked left and right, all seeming normal, then caught sight of something out of place. One of the looms, way off to the side, was covered in a large tarpaulin. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” Primus said, “nothing important. One of the looms broke in the middle of the week. That was the drop off in production that you reported.”

  I lengthened my stride as I closed on the loom. “I’ll check it over then. Used to fix these when I was younger, I’m sure I can do something for you.”

  “No,” Primus said, but he was too late.

  I gripped the corner of the tarpaulin and yanked.

  The structure of the loom was still in place, but everything from the warp beam to the cloth roller had been torn out. In its place, stood a partially made Brass Man body.

  I walked slowly around it. I could see pipes, hinges, joints, the beginnings of a steam furnace. The things from the first list.

  “What are you doing?” I murmured. Around the back, cleverly attached to the rear roller, was a thin sheath of wax. I bent closer.

  “Do not touch the Free Mind,” Primus said, and something in the way he said it made me freeze.

  “You’re making a Brass Man,” I said. “And this . . . this will be its mind.” The lines on the cylinder were scrawled far too deep, too jagged, to be of any use. “But this . . . this will never work. These cylinders are more than just lines carved in wax. There’s careful instruction imbued in the copper dust, logic and reasoning in the carving, and it’s a dark art. Even I don’t know how it works properly. I don’t think this would even be enough to activate it.”

  I took a few paces back. There was something different about the Brass Man sa
t limply in the mechanical womb. It was . . . sleeker somehow.

  “Leave, Mr. Wilson,” Primus said. “How we spend our time and our wages is the business of the Brass Men.”

  “I’ll have to—” To tell Mr. Crowe, I began to say, and then stopped. Why did I have to? Primus was right; I didn’t pry into how Gaffer spent his money. “—to make my way back now,” I finished lamely. “Don’t let any of . . . this get in the way of the work.”

  “It will not,” Primus said, and I walked away. Behind me, I heard the rustling of the tarpaulin being pulled back over the loom, and I scowled.

  The whistle blew, signalling the end of the day, and workers began to file out. The human-controlled looms fell silent one by one as I sat at my desk, watching. Old Gaffer was one of the last to leave, and I tracked him with my eyes as he moved towards the large double doors. Each step seemed to pain him, his arm reaching out for support to every loom he passed.

  He reached the last row of machines and stopped, then turned and looked up. There was no way he could know I was there, that I was watching. The windows were grimy and frosted, but somehow his iron gaze held mine, and I quailed at its intensity. Then he spat on the dusty floor and turned away.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, then along the gantry that lead to my door. I turned just as it swung open, the black form of Mr. Crowe gliding into my office.

  “Mr. Wilson,” he said. Behind him, two of the Bashers came in, each one having to duck and turn slightly sideways to fit through the door. “We must talk about the state of my workhouse.”

  “Aye,” I said, putting the desk between us. “What would you have me do?”

  Crowe stood looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. “I find myself at a crossroads, Mr. Wilson. Our human workers need paying, need sleep, die, and are generally belligerent. But our Brass workers are becoming decidedly . . . independent, and—”

  He broke off, eyes narrowing as he peered closer. “What in God’s name is going on over there?” he muttered.

  Without another word, he turned and strode out of the office, and I ran to the window. Over at the far side of the factory, a huge cloud of steam was spurting up, and I cursed.

  Crowe was already halfway to the Brass Line when I caught up to him. “Mr. Crowe, sir,” I called. “There’s something over there, sir, and—”

  “I am well aware there’s something, Mr. Wilson,” Crowe said, not slowing his pace. “I intend to find out what the Brassies are doing.”

  “I already know, sir,” I said desperately.

  Crowe stopped and whirled round. “You know? And you haven’t informed me?”

  “Well, it’s not . . .” I shrugged miserably. “It’s not our business, sir, what our workers do when they’re not . . . working.”

  Crowe’s hand lashed out and grabbed a handful of my shirt. His voice was cold as he drew me closer. “What goes on in my workhouse will always be my business, Mr. Wilson. If you think otherwise, then you can consider yourself dismissed.”

  A huge crash from the far corner punctuated his words, and then another. The sound of tearing wood and twisting metal sounded again, and again, and as Crowe’s fingers relaxed enough to release me, I realised that it was coming closer.

  “What in the bloody hell is that,” Crowe said. He pointed at two of the Bashers. “You two, get over there and find out what it is.” As the men jogged off among the looms, Crowe half-turned his head to me. “If this was your doing, or you could have stopped it . . .”

  Whatever threat he was going to make died on his lips as a gut-wrenching scream ripped through the air, followed by a crash as something threw one of the massive Bashers into a loom. The huge man lay there, breathing raggedly through broken teeth, one arm at an impossible angle, amid the beams and gears. The second man was thrown sideways with incredible strength into a distant wall.

  From out of the darkness it came, a terrifying sight. Huge, blazing wads of candle wax sat in its eyes, twisted like bread dough, and runnels of the stuff dribbled down its cheeks. Steam poured from every crevice, the limbs thinner and quicker than any other Brass Man. Its front hatch was hanging open, steam gouting out of the furnace at its heart.

  Its boots pounded the ground, digging pits out of the wood, and I gasped as it soared over the one barrier to all our automata.

  “The Brass Line!” I shouted, beginning to back away. “It crossed the Line!”

  Crowe stood, rooted to the spot, as the beast strode forwards. The remaining two Bashers made a half-hearted attempt to stand between the Man and Crowe, but it flicked them out of the way almost contemptuously.

  I muttered a prayer as the Brass Man towered over Crowe, more demon than anything else, smoke and fire wreathing its face.

  “Enough.”

  I looked past the apparition to see Primus, still on the correct side of the Brass Line. He was staring at the thing they had created.

  “What . . . what is this?” Crowe said, his voice having none of its usual bluster.

  “A Free Mind,” Primus intoned, “not bound by your rules. However, we . . . miscalculated in its instruction. It has destroyed many of the looms in a misguided attempt to free us, and this was not our intention.”

  The Free Mind seemed to be breathing, bellows somewhere in its body giving it a gentle in-and-out movement as it stared down at Crowe. I looked past the petrified man and gasped. Where its chest hatch yawned open, I could see the wax cylinder rotating at a furious speed. The needle skipped and hopped from one poorly carved channel to another, directing the Brass Man in its rampancy. The heat of the burner was melting parts of it, only adding to the chaos.

  “You must understand, we meant no harm,” Primus was saying. “We only sought to better ourselves.”

  The Mind raised a fist, thick fingers tightened into a lethal hammer blow. I realised that, unless I moved, Crowe would die. Do something. My heart fluttered in my chest as I tried to steady my breathing and, without warning, took two steps forward. Thrusting my hand into the Mind’s infernal chest, I screamed as I grabbed hold of the cylinder and yanked, burning wax searing into my flesh.

  With a tearing sensation, the cylinder came away, and I whirled around, throwing it as far as I could. Immediately, the Mind slumped forward, all pressure lost. The furnace in its torso dimmed.

  I clutched my burnt hand to myself, the rolling heat unrelenting, barely noticing as Crowe made his craven escape. In the darkness and silence of the workhouse, I bared my teeth and screamed.

  It was long minute before I was able to master myself enough to stand and look around. The Brass Men had gathered along the Line; all of them, it seemed. In front of me slumped the corpse of the Free Mind.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Primus said. “We regret much of this. Are you damaged?”

  Ignoring him, I used my good hand to pull myself over to the Mind. Its rapidly cooling insides were ticking gently. I looked up at Primus through a haze of pain and smoke.

  “I can see what you were trying to do,” I said, looking along the line of Men. “Taking the best of you and giving it flesh. But we have a saying, Primus: The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. The best parts of us can still do evil, especially if we aren’t mindful.” With difficulty, I dug in the pocket of my apron and pulled out the wax cylinder of the first Primus. “If I put this in, it will be just another one of you. Bound by the same rules.”

  “Not necessarily,” Primus said. “Its nature will be the same, but its body will not. Function may follow form.”

  “This is the best I can do for you,” I replied. Carefully, I clicked the cylinder into place and touched the needle to the drum. With a twist of my fingers, it started rotating. Almost immediately, the furnace fired up again, controlled this time, and steam began to build up pressure in the unit’s joints.

  I scuttled backwards as it stood up straight and looked down at me. Its face was something out of nightmare still, globules of crusty yellow wax dripping from empty eye sockets, but it nodded r
espectfully at me.

  “Mr. Wilson,” it said and looked down at my hand. “You are injured.”

  “It will pass, like all things,” I said, and pointed to Primus. “Your overseer is waiting for you.”

  The Brass Man looked at Primus, then at the Line on the factory floor.

  “I cannot cross the Brass Line.”

  Of course you can’t, I thought, and all at once, the strength left me. I would have to remove the cylinder again, and I reached for its chest, steeling myself for the heat.

  I heard footsteps and looked up to see the Men begin to move. One by one, they turned and walked away, back into the darkness without a word, until Primus alone was left.

  “They have left because we have been successful. You have helped us.” He gestured towards the Mind as it stood nearby, immobile, brass flickering in the gaslight. “Our lot is here, and we are satisfied to spend our lives in the workhouse. Our dream is the same as any human’s; that our creation should rise to greater things. The Mind was to be the first ambassador to the humans, able to cross the Line and mingle. In that, we have succeeded. And perhaps, in time, humans will cross the Brass Line as well, that we can learn from each other.” Primus paused and tilted his head to one side slightly. “Why did you help us?”

  “Because . . .” I shrugged. “Because it seemed the right thing to do. I’d like to think that, if our places were reversed, you’d do the same.”

  “What about Mr. Crowe?”

  I gestured around. “Get this fixed by Monday and make up the shortfall, and I can probably convince him not to have you scrapped,” I said, wishing I felt as confident as I sounded.

  “You are a good man,” Primus said, performing a short bow. He turned to go, and I watched his broad back thread its way between the machines.

  “Primus?”

  The Man stopped, but didn’t turn.

  “You too.”

  His shoulders hunched for a moment, and then he strode away without another word.

  Exhaustion took its toll on Danniella Goodfellow as she trolled the crowded side alleys of the Sky Market, looking for something to save. The majority of what she found in the broken-down rows of buildings and makeshift vendor stalls was junk, but on the rare occasion, she would unearth a lovely treasure amid the old timepieces, tattered corsets, and worthless bric-a-brac. Despite its reputation for being nothing more than a gutter full of piss, the strip of sagging and dirty shops that sat off from the glam and glitz of the Sky Market’s main fairway was one of her favorite places to treasure hunt.