Tin Fingers: Book 2 in the Arachnodactyl Series

by Danny Knestaut

  “No,” Ikey said. “I do.” He looked back at Cross. The lantern had sunk, and the blurry glow of it obscured Cross’s features so that Ikey spoke with an orb of fuzzy orange light. “I want to go more than anything. I’m just surprised. I hate to ask, but the money?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head. We’ll make it right once we get you squared away.”

  Ikey took a deep breath and pushed himself up to standing. “Thank you.”

  “You’re good for it.”

  Ikey approached Cross until he had to move the lantern aside and take a step back. Ikey moved closer, peering up at the beige blur that was Cross’s face.

  “What are you—” Cross asked, but Ikey cut him off when he flung his arm up over Cross’s shoulder and pulled him down. Ikey rested his chin on Cross’s other shoulder. He squeezed, then added a pat to Cross’s back.

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, a hug from a one-armed man. If that doesn’t make it worth it…” Cross said as he pushed Ikey away, his hand on the younger man’s ribs.

  “You don’t know how much this means to me.” Ikey swallowed hard. “I…”

  “Don’t worry about it. Don’t mention it at all. I can’t take you moping around the house any more. And if you’re going to be around, I might as well get you fixed up to the point where I can use you. Need your help in—”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “There’s a train departing at ten. We need to be on it.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Seven.”

  Ikey nodded. He turned around and stared at the darkness encompassed by the room. Vague shapes swam in the dark, but the lantern light didn’t give them enough definition to be distinguished.

  Ikey turned back around. “I’m ready to go.”

  Cross snorted. “How about you get dressed first? And I’ll bring a valise up here for you to pack. Bring a change of clothes, maybe? Then come downstairs and get a bite to eat.”

  “Right,” Ikey said. He turned around again and wanted to laugh, to toss his head back and howl with laughter. He wanted to laugh until his breath ran dry and he fell to his knees, clutching at the stitches in his abdomen, tears rolling from the ruins of his one eye. He wanted to slump to the floor and giggle, the ceiling spinning topsy-turvy above him.

  Instead, he bit down on his smile and felt around the foot of the bed for the clothes he had taken off before donning an old nightshirt.

  As Ikey exited the water closet, he caught the scent of eggs and sausage cooking. Rose didn’t rise until late morning or early afternoon, and Cross never cooked, so breakfast was usually tea and a slice of bread and lard. As he crept down the stairs, however, his approach to the table slowed like a man who wasn’t sure whether or not he was being presented his last meal.

  As he rounded the newel post, he opened his eye. The orb of Cross’s lantern glowed on the table. A collection of dark planes and angles near the glow appeared to be Cross’s paper held out before him. He scanned the room and saw no sign of Rose.

  “Did she cook breakfast?” Ikey asked.

  “I wanted you to go off on a full stomach,” Rose said from the corner where the sideboard sat.

  “You’re not going, are you?” Ikey asked.

  “No. Just you and Cross.”

  Ikey pulled his chair away from the table and sat. “How long do you think we’ll be gone?” Ikey asked.

  Cross rattled his paper, then folded it up and dropped it to the table. “I don’t know. The chaps I spoke with said it wouldn’t take more than a few days.”

  “A few days? How is that possible?” Ikey asked.

  “How is anything possible?”

  “But if they cut you open, how can you not be laid up for a few weeks?”

  “It’s not me they’re cutting open. Or anyone, as I understand it. The wires are inserted in you. Threaded through your muscles, somehow. I bet it hurts like hell. Sounds like it does.”

  Ikey thought of the flames rolling across the ceiling of the hall outside the Kittiwake’s engine room. He recalled the flames dancing along the hydrogen hoses. Without his proper eyesight, the images seemed clearer, sharper in his mind. His scalp tingled and he recalled the searing flames across his skin.

  “How much does it cost?” Ikey asked.

  “Depends. They have to take a look at you first.”

  “Do you have any idea?”

  “Eat your breakfast.”

  “How much?”

  “More if I have to break your leg to get you to eat.”

  Ikey turned his attention to the table. A greasy glint of light sat before him. He reached for it and found a fork underneath his touch. The plate was easier to find, as it cast a slight shadow on the table cloth that broke up the plainness. Ikey shoveled his fork across the plate. The scents of potatoes, butter, sausage, and eggs wafted up as he brought the fork to his face.

  He shoved the forkful into his mouth and chewed. It tasted better than anything he had eaten since the stew Rose fed him on his first night back in the house.

  “Thank you,” Ikey said, then swallowed his mouthful of breakfast. “Rose. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Rose replied.

  Chapter Five

  As Ikey stepped off the train in Kerryford, an acrid stench kicked him in his lungs. The air itself tasted thick and sulfurous, like a nappy rag soaked in some bitter substance. Each breath tickled. He coughed into his fist, and as he inhaled again, he got a whiff of air that burned. Cross coughed, and Ikey knew it wasn’t him alone.

  Coughing rang out across the platform. Men and women and children coughed in different registers, times, pitches, and severities. It formed a cacophony of wild, throaty song sung over a hail of percussion that tumbled from all around.

  Ikey peered into the thick, dirty cotton-like light that surrounded them. The source of the percussive sound eluded him. Shapes moved and shifted, all in shades of gray with occasional muted splashes of color. It was people milling about on a railway platform.

  Then he realized he was hearing mechanical instruments at work. The ticking of escapements flitting over cogs. Thuds of iron struck wood. Small hinges squealed in need of oil. A bad ball bearing somewhere scraped against a metal plate. A grinding. Clicks. Ticking. The lot of it magnified by dozens. A hundred. It was a blunt, gross song like that of the music boxes, but more primitive.

  Cross cleared his throat. His hand grasped Ikey’s shoulder. “You should see this. You really should. I swear to God nearly every man, woman, and child here has some sort of prosthetic. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “How is that possible?” Ikey asked.

  “Well, I can see why the person we need to see is here. It looks like he’s had a great deal of practice on a variety of clientèle. Stick close. I don’t like this place.”

  “I can see why.”

  Cross pushed Ikey forward and steered him around by the shoulder.

  Ahead of Cross, Ikey couldn’t see where he was going. He stubbed his toe against the heel of another pedestrian who barked at him until Cross told the person to piss off. At that point, Ikey fell in behind Cross and followed him to the street.

  Outside, the air pressed against them thicker yet. A fine particulate permeated it; a bitter dust that came with each breath and tickled the nose and burnt the back of the throat.

  Cross stopped and hacked into his fist. “What the hell’s on fire, you suppose? Come on. Let’s go find someplace to wash this air out of our throats.”

  Ikey followed close behind. Outside of the train station, the mechanical percussion became more layered and pronounced. Iron struck stone and scraped as it was pulled away. Clicks and ticks and clacks of various pitches and volumes and rhythms fell from the sky like rain. The whole city rang like a great machine itself, and he and Cross were but two tiny insects crawling through the clockwork.

  “Are there automatons?” Ikey called out.

  Cross stopped. A shift of the light near his h
ead showed that he looked back over his shoulder. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Automatons,” Ikey repeated. “Do you see any?”

  The blurry light of Cross’s pale face waned and waxed as he scanned the street.

  “Maybe. Almost? I don’t know. There are some out here who are close enough to count, I guess.”

  Ikey straightened his back and took in his surroundings with renewed interest. Though Rose had turned out not to be mechanical in nature, Ikey still dreamed of automatons, of building one for himself, or a whole army of them to assist with whatever needed to be done. If he could get a chance to study one… His breath caught thick and lumpy in his throat as he peered into the muted mass of shades and blurs. He’d never get a chance to study a proper automaton, or anything at all, if the man they were in Kerryford to see couldn’t fix his eyes.

  “Keep close,” Cross admonished again, then plunged into the sway of pedestrians.

  Ikey hustled after him. The clicks and squeals and ticks and screeches crawled with new possibility. He might find anything in Kerryford. Anything might be walking alongside him. And though he knew Kerryford to be a place of industry, the place where Smith had obtained his augmentation, how could Ikey never have heard about this place, so different from the bucolic dales and moors of North Yorkshire?

  He swung his face to the right to study a lurking form and discern what level of augmentation it sported. When he snapped his head forward again, Cross was gone.

  Ikey sighed and plunged forward. He didn’t want Cross to have to double back and find him again. His face bounced off a piece of metal.

  Ikey staggered back and looked up. A large form stood like a wall before him.

  “Watch where the hell you’re going,” the form said.

  “Sorry,” Ikey mumbled. He moved to navigate around the form. Shadows and patches of light shifted and flowed around him. The air crackled with iron and steel clicking, shifting, leather creaking, stone being struck.

  Ikey shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. He closed his eye and took a deep breath. A coughing fit took him again. He hacked into his fist, spat at his feet. Sharp, wheezing breaths rattled his lungs. His heart raced. What might Rose do in this situation?

  She wouldn’t leave the house.

  Ikey shook his head. What a fool. He couldn’t hear Cross over the racket around him. A steam engine thundered past in close proximity. The noise jostled Ikey, threatened to push him into the swirling crowd. There would be no relying on his ears, his nose to help him find Cross. He needed eyes.

  He opened his right eye and peered around him. The shapes came at him, parted, flowed around and closed again, passing inches from him.

  “Cross?” Ikey called out.

  No response.

  Ikey took a deeper breath and fought the urge to cough.

  “Cross!” he called out again, then doubled over in a coughing fit.

  A hand patted Ikey on the back. He stood up and coughed into his fist. The hand was too small to be Cross’s.

  “Now is not a good time to cross,” a voice said. It was slurred, the words sloppy, like the man spoke through a mouth full of marbles.

  Ikey drew in several ragged breaths. His heart pounded in his ears. Heat rolled off his face. “I’m looking for my friend. Tall. His name is Cross.”

  “Are you supposed to meet him here?”

  Ikey turned to the man. Most faces were a pool of beige to Ikey. This one was darker, copper-colored under his rounded hat. The man stood equal to Ikey’s own height, or maybe he was a smidge shorter.

  “We were looking for a pub,” Ikey said. “To sit down. To get out of this air. I can’t bloody well see. I lost him.”

  “Which pub?” The man asked.

  “Any. The nearest.”

  “There’s one down the street. A block away. Would you like me to help you to it?”

  Ikey shook his head. He gulped down the air. “Not necessary. But thank you.” He coughed again. The air felt like steel wool inside his lungs. “I’ll find my way.”

  “I must escort you. This city isn’t safe. Especially for new arrivals.”

  “I haven’t got any money.”

  “It’s not money that the blackguards are after around here,” the man said as he placed his hand on Ikey’s shoulder. “Come along. Let’s get you out of the street. My name is Percy, by the way.”

  “Ikey. Ikey Berliss.”

  “Good to meet you, Ikey Berliss. I believe if we move now, we can safely pass through the traffic.”

  As Ikey turned around, guided by Percy’s hand, he heard his name shouted out. It was Cross’s voice.

  He turned his head toward the sound. “Cross!”

  “Ikey!” Cross called back, closer. “Stay right there. I see you.”

  Within a minute, the tall, thin shadow of Cross stepped up to Ikey. “Good Lord, man. I’m going to have to find a length of twine the first chance I get.”

  “Do not be too harsh on him,” Percy said. “Kerryford is a disorienting place.”

  “I’ll say,” Cross said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. I been to London a number of times, the East End, even. It was never anything like this. All the…” The blur of Cross shifted, shimmered as he waved his hand at the people around him. “It’s like a bloody walking junkyard.”

  “Kerryford is a unique place,” Percy said. “May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?”

  Cross didn’t say, didn’t speak up, so Ikey cleared his throat. “I’m here for augmentation. I want the set-up for my arm, the wires and such. Maybe even new eyes. I can’t see a blasted thing.”

  “And where is it you hail from?” Percy asked. “Yorkshire? Is that the accent I hear?”

  Ikey nodded.

  Cross’s hand landed on Ikey’s shoulder. “Let’s get moving. I’ll hold your bloody hand if that’s what it takes. Or I’ll toss you over my shoulder.”

  “Ikey was telling me that the two of you were on your way to a pub. I’d be happy to assist you down the street, bring up the rear, so to speak.”

  “We can manage,” Cross said, his tone low.

  “Please,” Percy said. “I insist. I’d like to buy you each a drink.”

  “Do you know of any surgeons?” Ikey asked. “Surgeons who deal in augmentations?”

  Percy didn’t respond right away. Finally, the copper pool of his face dipped. “I do,” he said. “I’ve had dealings with a few.”

  “Come on, then,” Ikey said. “You can give us some recommendations.” He turned toward Cross and the streaming flow of colors and blots that jostled up and down the street. The movements appeared fluid and regular through the distorted, fuzzy lens of his eye. Given the clacks and scrapes and clicks and squeals around him, he expected more jerky movement, a suggestion of machines having difficulty.

  “All right then. But I’ll bring up the rear. You lead the way. By the way, name’s Cross,” he said as he extended his hand to the stranger.

  “Percy. And I’ll be glad to lead the way. The nearest pub is a mere block that way.”

  Cross stepped aside, and Percy moved on, melting into the crowd.

  “I’m not taking my hand off you until we get to this pub,” Cross grumbled as he clamped a hand on Ikey’s shoulder.

  “Is he an automaton?” Ikey asked.

  “Who? That man?”

  Ikey nodded.

  “Not that I can tell. He has a mask on. I think something’s wrong with his face, the way he talks and all. Sounds like he’s got a mouthful of marbles, he does.”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  Cross shoved at Ikey’s shoulder. “Aye, and you’re not lame, either. So get your arse moving.”

  Chapter Six

  Cross’s hand didn’t leave Ikey’s shoulder until they entered a dark room. A bustle of conversation throbbed around them. Bottles clinked. Someone chuckled. Another person howled with laughter and slapped a palm to a table. It sounded a great deal more lively than Turk’s Head.
/>
  “Gin?” Percy asked.

  “Scotch,” Cross said, then added, “for me. Something Irish for the lad here.”

  “Scotch,” Ikey said.

  “That ain’t Irish,” Cross said.

  “I’m not Irish,” Ikey said. “I was born in The Dales. I’m English. English as you.”

  “If you was English, you’d be drinking gin, you sot,” Cross spat.

  “Scotch,” Ikey affirmed.

  “Two scotches, then.”

  Cross steered Ikey to a table and sat him in a chair.

  “You should see this place,” Cross said. “Real atmosphere. Makes the Turk’s Head look like the bottom of a used stable stall.”

  Ikey wasn’t sure if he heard sarcasm in Cross’s voice. The pub was far more crowded than Turk’s Head ever was, and the rough nature of the noises, the raw laughter, the occasional thud of something heavy on a table, glasses rocking, metal scraping against metal—all of it sounded less refined. Ikey craned his head around. Shapes shifted and fluttered along shadowy walls, and little was discernible except the even placement of yellow-orange auras that signified gas fixtures turned low.

  Percy placed three glasses on the table, then took a seat.

  “Thanks,” Ikey said as he took one of the darker-colored glasses. “For the drink, and for helping me out back there.”

  “You can’t see well, can you?” Percy asked.

  Ikey shook his head.

  “If you could, you’d see that almost every man, woman, and child in this city has some sort of augmentation.”

  “I can see, and I certainly noticed,” Cross said. “It’s unreal. I heard that there was a lot of augmentation work done down here, but I had no clue to the extent.”

  “Kerryford is a city of industry,” Percy said. “It is the heart of British industry. More manufactured goods come out of Kerryford than all the other cities combined.”

  “And these people, then—”

  “Are unfortunate victims of industrial accidents of one sort or another,” Percy said.

  Cross whistled low. “And so you’re —”