Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Walking across the Guild Square, the Legate noticed a group of tramps crowding around a large poster with a phrase daubed in red paint: JOBB, FOOD, JUSTISS. The tramps did not give him the impression of people who knew their spelling. They eyed the man in blue uniform but did not dare to approach him.

  Having arrived at the Tower, Sidabras ran up the stairs. Steam hissed and the door opened by itself.

  “Welcome to the Guild of Mechanics, Legate of Vilnius,” a metallic voice greeted the man as he stepped inside.

  An automaton the size of a human, dressed in a spotless Guild member’s uniform, bowed and waved his hand, showing Sidabras inside. Sidabras felt baffled – he did not know how to take this new prank from the deranged gang of Mechanics. But the automaton marked only the first in a line of surprises that had been prepared for the guest. The main hall had been turned into a museum, with the latest inventions occupying its most prestigious spots, with clearly displayed functional as well as proof-of-principle prototypes: tiny wind-up hearing aids made to be inserted in the ear (looking so much better than the old large trumpets), electrotherapy machines and the latest generation of wireless devices.

  A few Oriental-looking men in crisp white kimonos were in the middle of a close inspection of one of the wireless devices. They looked like early guests of the Summit. They strained their ears to catch the words of a man of imposing proportions, with a black moustache and dressed in a bronze vest and an elongated jacket, and a top hat of the same colour adorned with tiny pinions. They were nodding their heads eagerly. This was Petras Vileisis – Steam Councillor of Vilnius and head of the Guild of Mechanics. Completely engrossed in his own story, he was gesticulating wildly with his hands. Only a very close inspection of his right arm revealed it to be artificial – a metal prosthesis attached to his shoulder, its elbow and fingers moved by special pistons (another outstanding creation of Vilnius Mechanics). Vileisis lost his arm in an accident fourteen years ago, during the construction of a railway bridge near Kraków.

  “Welcome to the Guild of Mechanics,” the automaton greeted another guest behind Sidabras’ back. Not having a photographic image of the new guest, he had to limit himself to a generic greeting.

  Having spotted the Legate, Vileisis apologised to his guests and gesticulated with his metal arm for him to come closer, while also taking a few steps in Sidabras’ direction.

  “These are the Japanese from Yokohama,” he whispered to Sidabras. “They have a keen interest in everything and wish to see the exhibition, but will not be staying for the Summit. You know, being at war with the Russians, and all. So we are doing our best to give them the red carpet treatment. I will shortly send them to the baths, so you go upstairs,” he urged the Legate. “You know your way.”

  “So this was why Vileisis had offered to meet at the Guild,” the Legate thought to himself. The usual place for their meetings was a plain little room in his workshop. He paused to have a better look at the Japanese, who by now were completely entranced by Vileisis’ vest, chuckled quietly, and took the lift to the penultimate floor of the Tower and the Steam Councillor’s office. The next floor up was home to the gigantic clock and an observatory housing a very substantial telescope (its twin brother occupied a space in the observatory of the University Dominium).

  In the redwood-clad reception room outside Vileisis’ office, the Legate was met by the Councillor’s assistant who quickly jumped out of his seat to extend respectful greetings to Sidabras. Sidabras waved for him to sit down and made his way into Vileisis’ office. After a brief inspection of the room, he walked over to the antique secretaire, which, as far as he remembered, contained a secret alcohol depository. He opened the door and took out a bottle and two balloon glasses, which he swiftly filled with a quality French cognac. Leaving one glass on the table and carrying the other in his hand, he walked over to the window and took in the view of the city.

  Even on an overcast day the views of Vilnius were intoxicating. Only thin remnants of Steam City’s smog reached as high as the observatory and were too weak to spoil the view. On the contrary, the veil of pale greyish fog made the panorama look vibrant, as if created by the brush of an impressionist. Steam City resembled an ant’s nest.

  As far as the eye could see, the entire Vilkmerge Highway swarmed with travellers, the docks welcomed and moored barges after their long journeys along the Neris, the fish and firewood markets added clamour to the river banks as far as Green Bridge and Snipiskes, while in the distance, enormous mechanical moles, like mythological ocean monsters, cleaned the river bed of silt with their shiny metal snouts.

  The other side of the river shone with its University Dominium towers, owls and goblins perched on their spires. Huge crowds of people swarmed along Didzioji Street up to the Town Hall and back again. The Legate even thought that he saw two of the Legion’s duty officers patrolling outside the Town Hall. Over the horizon, in the Blots or maybe New World, black smoke rose into the air, and answering the call was a steam-powered fire engine, already speeding along Coin Street, its siren piercing the air. With a knowing smile, the Legate glanced over to the right, reddish brown roofs clambering over one another in the Troubles – a frequent hide out for arsonists. Antokolis and Zverynas were the only ones to have kept their calm identity in this teeming heap; composed and proudly indifferent they had buried themselves in layers of greenery. Antanas Sidabras took a sip of cognac and pressed his head against the glass.

  “Playing host, are we?” someone laughed behind him.

  “Arigato gozaimasu.”[27] Sidabras turned back with his palms together in front of his chest, executing a ceremonious bow.

  “Have you also travelled there?” Petras Vileisis tossed his expensive helmet in the corner and slumped down in the armchair, picking up the balloon of cognac with his good hand.

  The Legate shrugged his shoulders, neither confirming not denying it, and sat down opposite the leader of Vilnius’ Mechanics.

  For a while, they chatted about Japanese industries and opportunities in technology, about the ongoing war with Russia and about what the Japanese were looking for at the fair in Vilnius, which would be set up in a pavilion in Lukiskes Square for the Summit. Then Vileisis topped up their glasses with another splash of cognac and both men became serious.

  “In the square opposite I noticed some characters loitering about, the type preoccupied with the search for the truth. Do you get many of those here?” enquired Sidabras.

  “Quite a few,” replied Vileisis. “But this is to be expected. My people in Steam City cause me no trouble. They are well paid and work appropriate hours. We have even challenged the son-of-a-bitch Rakovickis brothers by telling them to stop employing children or slither off to Novovileysk together with all of their cigarette machines. We have also tried to observe the rules and officially employ all the newcomers, but it is like shouting against the wind.

  In no time at all five new relatives or friends follow them from the Russian Empire. They keep flocking and flocking here until we no longer have any space left.” Vileisis shrugged his shoulders. “But there is always a job waiting for you in the other office by the river. In Steam City, the Blots, New World, Paplauja or some other place.

  Of course, the job will be illegal, you will be paid peanuts, the working hours will be unlimited, and no job security will be offered, but many people will be happy to take it on anyway. Because you see, the job is in Vilnius – the city of their dreams. And in a situation like this the likes of Rakovickis start thinking: why hire people officially when we can have them without any papers, and pay them from inside our jackets. As a result the locals are fired, their places taken over by someone from the expanses of the Russian Empire. And they are all easily replaced – just like a pair of old gloves.

  And can you believe it – the people moan that it’s the machines of the Mechanics that are taking the last morsel of food away from their mouths.” In the heat of the moment, he struck the back of the chair with his mechanical hand, nea
rly causing it to split. “It is not our machines but the greed of the bloody businessmen that is to be blamed. You can argue the toss but you won’t get the beggars to believe you. Tonight,” he gesticulated towards the window, “it is the workers’ meeting in the square, and tomorrow they are planning a strike. While the Summit is imminent and Vilnius Council is putting a lot of pressure on us.” He looked Sidabras in the eye. “But what should we do?”

  The Legate rubbed his nose.

  “Should I send some of my men to the square?”

  “No, don’t bother,” Vileisis dismissively waved his good hand. “A few wretched souls will gather together, make a racket and will eventually go home. But if they so much as catch a glimpse of your uniformed men, we would be in for real trouble. I think we will manage on our own.

  The protesters don’t have a lot of support, especially now before the Summit, with plenty of jobs available for everyone. All right then...” Vileisis made himself comfortable in his chair, before changing the subject. “I am intrigued by these drawings of which you spoke. Show them to me, I beg you.”

  Sidabras pulled the papers from under his jacket, unfolded them and placed them on the little table. The mechanic placed a large gold-plated monocle in the socket of his left eye and started poring over the pages. The Legate’s eyes locked on to the changing expressions on Vileisis’ face. When he eventually leaned back, he also undid the top button of his shirt and rubbed his chin with his palm. The mechanic’s demeanour conveyed great distress.

  “Had I not heard your story, I would call it a forgery or lunacy and would push it out of my mind before too long but now...” Vileisis paused, lost in thought.

  “So what are these drawings?” Legate asked at the end of his patience.

  “A bionic creature,” said Vileisis thoughtfully, and then added. “It is something like an automaton or a golem. However, the automatons that the Mechanics create are only capable of one action, or several actions at best. The activity of golems is also rather limited. A golem can guard, carry loads or kill, if that is the order he had been given. But bionics are a completely different story. They can do almost anything.”

  “Are you trying to say that this thing...” Sidabras pointed his finger at the drawings. “... That this thing can think?”

  The leader of the Mechanics shook his head.

  “No, no. It’s not possible,” he mumbled, his good hand scratching the forehead. “This is mad.” He looked the Legate in the face. “You see, automatons cannot think. It’s a fact. But bionics... bionics – they are different. They are a kind of union between a machine and a living organism. They are something like extraordinary automatons, not only controlled by people but also able to behave like them. But they are much more powerful and able to do the same job better and faster than a man. For over a decade now bionics have been the subject of heated discussions among scientists, but nothing has evolved out of them yet.”

  “Why is that?” Sidabras wondered.

  Vileisis shrugged.

  “No one has yet come up with a solution for how to control a bionic. How to make him do everything that his owner can. It is not a singing bird who only needs his mainspring to be wound up... We are talking about the limits of our powers here...” he lifted his right hand, metal fingers bending one by one.

  Consequently his hand formed a fist, leaving the index finger pointing, which he then used to tap the papers. “I have seen dozens of these drawings,” Vileisis admitted. “But I have never seen...” he shook his head. “... a functional prototype. Nor have I heard of anyone having the ingenious idea of how to make one.”

  “Nevertheless, someone has found these drawings to be particularly interesting, if they decided to copy and steal them. And then they somehow found their way into the hands of a mysteriously murdered metalworker,” the Legate thought to himself, but aloud said the following.

  “And if... Let’s fantasize. If someone had the chance to create a bionic... as you call him... who would that be?”

  “Not the Mechanics. That’s for certain,” Vileisis’ voice sounded confident. “We can create a brilliant machine. An automaton. But no more than that.”

  “Who then?”

  Having removed his monocle from the eye socket, Vileisis gently blew on it and shone it with a handkerchief, before putting it away in his jacket pocket.

  “Your question is poorly phrased, Legate,” he replied. “Who could create him? I have told you already – no one. Who could dare attempt to create him? You know the answer yourself. The degenerates from Prague!”

  “Vitamancers.” Sidabras’ voice sounded more assertive than inquiring.

  “In spite of the Vilnius Vitamancer Lodge being rather weak, I would wager these drawings have been done by no one else but them.”

  Sidabras got up, shoved the folded drawings under the front of his jacket and, declining the offer of another cognac, walked to the door. Remembering something in the doorway, he looked back at Vileisis.

  “Petras, what do you think? What could be the possible use of the object depicted in the drawings?” he asked.

  A second’s deliberation was all the leader of Mechanics and Vilnius Councillor of Steam needed.

  “The drawings only show the main parts and the working principle. Only the author of the drawing can fully understand it all,” he remarked. “But in my opinion, it is a golem and he has been designed to kill. Look at his excessively sharp metal fingers.”

  The Legate nodded and left the office.

  Chapter XX

  Vilnius, afternoon

  24 04 1905

  In a little while, the carriage of the Legionnaires’ commander was on its way from Steam City. They were in for a long journey – in order to get to their destination they had to drive across the whole city, keeping their course to the southeast, where the Kaukysa River flowed into the Vilnia.

  “Any news?” asked Sidabras, with a glance at the wet hair of the lance corporal in charge of the carriage. “Did you go to the baths? Anything interesting there?”

  “Not much,” reported the Legionnaire, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Everyone is talking about the new machines the Mechanics are about to complete, which will apparently cause hundreds of people to lose their jobs. The workers are determined not to give up and are threatening strikes.”

  “So I see...” muttered Legate, his thoughts going back to the destination of his journey.

  Compared to Prague, where the Vitamancer Lodge occupied the magnificent Schwarzenberg Palace, the manor of Vilnius Vitamancers in Markuciai was a modest little place: a two-storey wooden building, divided into three parts, with several auxiliary outbuildings.

  It did have an exceptionally attractive feature though – a grand and beautiful oak tree park with a pond. The whole estate was enclosed by a four-meter tall brick wall. Yet no one was surprised by such humility by the local Vitamancers – if in Prague they ruled the city, in Alchemist-dominated Vilnius, they had hardly any voice at all. In the complex game of the Alliance’s intrigues, the Vitamancers were at the opposite side of the board compared to the Mechanics and Alchemists.

  A hefty metal gate served as the entrance to the Vitamancers’ quarters. The top of the gate was decorated with the Vitamancers’ symbol – a phoenix rising from the flames with a letter V coiling above its head – V for Vitae, the universal symbol of life.

  Beside the gate was a tiny window for people who wished to get rid of their unwanted babies. Quite a few poor souls would come here cradling a live bundle in their arms, then push it through the window before scurrying away. The reason people brought newborns here instead of giving them to the Sisters of Charity was because no celebrations or parades would pass without the Vitamancers proudly showing off their foster children – always clean, well-nourished and dressed in dainty jackets with a phoenix on the chest. Despite the hushed rumours that circulated the town about the Vitamancers experimenting on the children in their cellars, the number of orphans always remain
ed about the same.

  With his carriage left in an alleyway next to Subacius Street, the Legate lightly exercised his legs before heading to the metal gate, carefully examining the Vitamancers’ estate wall as he walked. He was disappointed – the wall was in perfect shape, possibly only recently re-plastered, so its smooth surface did not contain a single scratch or crack that would come in handy if someone decided to climb over it.

  A brass bell hung by the gate. A few minutes after the Legate had rung it, someone cracked opened a small barred window in the gate.

  “You… you have… meeting? Arranged?” asked a strange hissing voice.

  “No,” Sidabras decided to be truthful and was about to introduce himself but the voice cut him short.

  “Elder not meet no one, no.” And the window closed with a bang.

  The Legate took a deep breath and reached in his pocket for a metal object, known among the hooligans in the Troubles by the awe-inspiring name of ‘mug buster’. With the weapon covering his knuckles and his fingers on both hands interlaced, he stretched back his arms and let fly a punch against the bars on the window with his protected hand as hard as he could. Once, twice... The bars began to lose their shape. This brought about a mad barking behind the wall. The Legate pulled back his arm ready for a third punch but the window opened up again.

  “Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras,” the words poured out of his mouth. “Are you letting me in or shall I come back with my men?” he added sourly.

  The man behind the window said nothing, but there was the clanking sound of the bolts being pushed open. The gate opened a crack, letting Sidabras through.

  He was met by two tall men in identical grey suits and with empty eyes. They were straining to hold back four barking mastiffs. They were insanely massive: Sidabras had never seen anything like them in Vilnius before. There also stood another man – considerably shorter than the first two, and wearing the Vitamancers’ usual orange and black outfit, his long hair tied into a single plait. At the neck of each man there was a brooch depicting a rising phoenix.