Clockwork Looking Glass (Heart of Bronze Book 1)

by Michael Rigg

  I opened my mouth to ask a silent question, but could only shake my head before I turned to hunt down Savannah and retreat back to the house. I'd seen enough of the gardens.

  CHAPTER 20, “Keys”

  The Hall of the Thinking Machines in Baton Rouge stood as a testament to modern technology. Over 400 acres of foundation stretched across the land. The single, massive building squatted like an enormous slab, two stories tall. It was walled in with iron and six feet of cement, filled with tubes, gears, junctions, wires, and steam pipes all connected to the twin, centralized artificial brains and constructed by generations of scientists and engineers. Each new generation of great thinkers contributed to the growth of ADAM and EVE, the twins, the most advanced Thinking Machines of the age.

  Most of the twin Thinking Machines' components were located underground several hundred feet from the main building. It was ADAM's idea to move them. The primary machine calculated a 79 percent risk of attack by Imperial forces in 1984 and recommended that the Confederate government begin a project to secretly relocate both it and it's "sister." Though the attack never came, a small strike force was eliminated on the north side of Baton Rouge that year. No one thought to interrogate prisoners at the time, so it was just assumed ADAM's prediction was correct.

  Every advancement made by humanity—even those of the Empire, Europe and Russia—was conceived by ADAM or EVE. ADAM's calculations led to the advancement of air travel, perfected the Tesla technology and made arc weapons and tools possible. ADAM thwarted the invention of plastics and fuel oils, declaring them poisonous. EVE made the calculations that brought an end to Imperial-Confederate hostilities and reduced warfare to corporate advancement. Since the 1990s, battles have been decided with greed, territories decided with money. EVE declared that only those with corporate identities could carry weapons and anyone else would be summarily judged as a criminal. Since EVE's calculation, only small skirmishes fought between corporate boundaries have shown any indication of Civil warfare at all.

  As to the genetic manipulation of children to create witches and ghouls... only the few select members of the Thinking Machine Council know for sure, though some militant groups clung to the belief that an "error in programming" with either ADAM or EVE led to the disaster. Still others, who believed the ghouls to be a purposeful calculation by ADAM or EVE to thin the world's population, maintain that the Thinking Machines have been exercising their godlike abilities beyond their original programming.

  Naturally, such power in a machine can't exist unprotected by those who support and believe in it. An entire legion of the Confederate Armored Guard protect the facility, and the Confederate Air Force maintains a watchful eye from the skies around the clock. Representatives from the Imperial United States, the Soviet Trust and the United Kingdom maintain a voice for their nations on the Council, as part of a decidedly weak peace treaty formulated by EVE in 2000.

  Beyond that, only those with Corporate Ident may enter the facility, and only those on the Council may enter the Thinking Machines' deepest levels themselves.

  The upper level of each section of the Hall of Thinking Machines was divided into twenty access vestibules on each side, tall brass and crystal booths with red velvet curtains for privacy. From here, those with corporate authority could gain access to the machines, input questions and receive answers. Bryce Landry sat in one of these vestibules, his eyes bloodshot from staring at the flickering screens in front of him, his head throbbing from the cables and tubes attached to his forehead and temples.

  As the screens went dark one by one, Bryce leaned forward and pinched his eyes closed. He rubbed them with his hands before gently peeling off the suction cups of EVE's direct input.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and withdrew a small pad and the nub of a pencil. Before he forgot, he sketched out a symbol EVE planted in his mind and a statement. Then he slumped back in the chair and rubbed his forehead.

  Outside Bryce's vestibule, Jefferson Landry stood with his arms folded across his broad chest. An attendant to the Thinking Machines stood nearby, a mousy little man with thick spectacles and a white lab coat.

  "His time is almost up," the attendant warned, glancing at his heavy wristwatch.

  "My boy will take all the time he needs. This is far too important to be assessed lightly."

  The attendant glanced around the corridor nervously. Jefferson Landry was one of the more imposing corporate bosses, his voice sometimes echoing through the halls as he shouted demands of ADAM and EVE's human attendants and sent the copperhearts clanking away into dark corners.

  Before the attendant could open his mouth to gently protest the overuse of EVE's time, Bryce's curtain parted and he stepped out, his ascot pulled loose, his eyes glazed over and his expression numb.

  Jefferson turned to the attendant and said, "We'll be leaving now."

  The attendant bowed and recited, "May your toils bring you profits and your thoughts bring you peace." Then he slid his hands into his lab coat pockets, smiled crookedly and walked away.

  Jefferson smiled to his youngest son and looped an arm around his shoulders. "You see now, boy, how vital Atlantis is to Landry Holdings?"

  Still numb, his hand clutching the pad and pencil as his father led him toward the door, Bryce nodded slightly.

  His father continued. Though he rattled off words of frustration, his voice was calm and even-tempered, matching Bryce's dazed expression to better get through to him. "Of course, now that your error in judgment has gifted Atlantis to Thorne & Wolfe—and the Empire—we'll have to prepare for Corporate Seizure Warfare. ADAM's granted me the power... There's no way around it, Bryce. We'll have to mobilize the Confederation's naval forces, alert Colonel Monterro and the boys of the C.A.F...."

  Bryce stopped walking. His eyes found his father's. "Can't we re-negotiate?"

  Jefferson took his son by the arm and pulled him toward the exit. "It's too late for that. Your default gave the property to Thorne & Wolfe. There's only one way to get it back."

  Regaining some of his strength, Bryce pulled out of his father's grasp and strengthened his stride. "It may not come to war if we can find the key."

  Jefferson raised an eyebrow, his voice deepened. "Key? Did EVE tell you something, boy?"

  Bryce nodded, glanced at the time and winced. "We've been here for hours. I need to get back home."

  His father stopped, reached out and grabbed Bryce's arm. "Hold it."

  Bryce stopped and turned, a new resolve coloring his features as he met his father's eyes. This Atlantis nonsense wouldn't have come to this if his father had been upfront with him from the start. He knew deep down that the appearance of a naked woman in the tower would not have distracted him in the slightest if he had an inkling of the depth of the contract signing, if he knew this Atlantis business could end all war and threat.

  But no, Jefferson Landry's deep-as-the-ocean selfishness withheld that from his youngest son. Or, Bryce admitted to himself, he didn't want his youngest son to tip their hand. He was kept in the dark so his features would be stalwart and stoney across from the twitching conniving mustache of Bradford Thorne. His father wasn't ignorant when it came to matters like this. If he had a reason to keep Bryce in the dark, it was forged from necessity.

  Jefferson said, "What did it tell you?"

  Bryce offered a serious smile. He considered withholding information from his father—give him a taste of his own medicine, but that wasn't within Bryce's upbringing, and they were beyond such deception now that the total truth was known. "The doors to Atlantis are locked to anyone who doesn't have a key." He started to back away from his father with a slight jerk of his head to indicate they should talk on their way to the aerocar. "Bradford Thorne isn't getting into Atlantis without it, but if we get it first we'll have a new bargaining chip."

  Jefferson's lip twitched and an eyebrow followed suit. "I never saw a key."

  Bryce turned and slapped the pad against his father's chest before turni
ng and hurrying to the door. Jefferson stopped and looked at the pad. On it was a sketch of three circles in a horizontal row joined by a line. Beneath it was scrawled, THE KEY TO ATLANTIS!!!

  Jefferson huffed and moved to catch up to his son. "Bryce, do you know what these symbols are?"

  Bryce stopped in the outer foyer and waited for his father. The foyer was lined with bronze plaques of the Hall of Thinking Machine's builders. He took back the pad as his father reached him. "I don't, Daddy, but there's someone I left back in Philly who might."

  His father blushed with pride and clapped his son on the shoulder. "I'm glad to see you've come 'round and are ready to take back what's ours."

  “Not ours, Daddy, the world's.”

  Jefferson scowled as he followed Bryce out into the blazing sunlight. “Ours by right!”

  “You can't claim everything, Lord Landry. I'm afraid this—” he pointed to the sketch pad, “—is bigger than both of us, and by us I mean Landry Holdings and Thorne & Wolfe.”

  Bryce's thoughts flew to Alice as he turned, and he felt a pang in his chest as he remembered glancing at her from the porch, the expression of hurt and shock on her face. He found himself missing her smile, her frown, the needful yearning in her lost green eyes.

  The Landrys left the Hall of Thinking Machines, rushing past the old tarnished plaque of the Hall's founder, a black man with an intense look to his eyes even in bronze. The name under the plaque: DR. RAYMOND SIMCOE - Founder, 1863.

  ~~~~~~~

  Bradford Thorne was a ruined man.

  He sat slumped and defeated in one of the ornately-carved conference table chairs, his weary eyes watching as Emergency Services eased his partner's corpse onto a gurney and covered it with a sheet. Thorne's eyes remained on the red fan of sticky blood on the back of Nigel Wolfe's corporate seat.

  "I assume you have an Ident, Mr. Thorne."

  Thorne barely acknowledged the investigator and tugged up the sleeve of his shirt to show the man his tattoo. Nearby, another agent in a black suit pawed through the contents of Thorne's suit jacket before sloppily tossing it over the back of another chair. He then moved to look through the pockets of the other corpse sprawled out to the left of Thorne while two women from Emergency Services stood by waiting to load Perek Grubbs onto a gurney.

  The air in the room was stale and lit by lanterns and the periodic crack-flash of cameras since the investigators closed the blinds. The now dark conference center of Thorne & Wolfe smelled of released body contents, lamp oil and the leather of police gun belts.

  The investigator standing before Thorne was a barrel-chested New Yorker with a thick bushy mustache and a soul patch under his puffy lips. The name on the tag below his badge read HAYDEN. The badge was hung from a silver chain around the man's neck and flashed from the front of his black suit. Hayden's dark eyes continually swept Thorne as if looking for clues or evidence in every fold of the man's expensive suit.

  Hayden turned and pointed with the eraser of his pencil toward the corpse on the floor. "You say that man worked for you previously?"

  Thorne nodded slowly.

  "I can't hear you sir."

  "Yes."

  Hayden scribbled on his investigator's pad. "His name?"

  Thorne turned and stared at the unmoving body, expecting—no, willing—him to sit up and speak for himself as Thorne knew he could. His brain was still in shock, but he knew that some form of witchcraft had been involved here today, some simple plan had been enacted to bring one of the largest corporations in the Empire to ruin.

  "Mr. Thorne, his name?"

  Bradford Thorne glanced at the plain clothes cop before re-focusing on his own trembling hands. "Grubbs, inspector. Perek Grubbs."

  "Spell that."

  "T-H-A-T," Thorne glared.

  The inspector simply glared in return, shook his head, and scribbled Grubbs' name phonetically on his pad.

  "Now, you say..." Hayden stopped and pointed to Grubbs' body again with the pencil before pointing back to Thorne. "You say that man died, then rose again like Lazarus, and shot Mr. Wolfe?"

  Thorne knew how ridiculous it sounded, but clinging to the truth might at least buy him a plea of insanity. Any investigation worth the money that financed it would see that Bradford and Nigel never had public differences and that Thorne had nothing to gain by murdering his partner. Sure, no one would believe his reanimated corpse story, except for a few, maybe, but there would be no other answer.

  Thorne nodded slightly. His handlebar mustache puckered as he met Hayden's eyes and repeated, "I shot Mr. Grubbs in the neck. He then stood, took my gun from the table, and shot Mr. Wolfe."

  "Then he simply fell down dead?" Hayden smirked, “The second time you killed him.”

  “I only killed him once, inspector,” Thorne smirked back. “Haven't you heard there are witches about?”

  “Thanks to corporations like yours,” the inspector shot back. Thorne's lips formed a tight line. There was no way he'd find a defense in the bed of his own nation's guilt.

  Thorne nodded and pointed with a shaky finger. "Right where he is. Dead as dead anyway."

  Hayden nodded to the body. "Was he already wearing the leather gloves, or did you put those on him to cover up the fingerprint story?"

  "Fingerprint—?"

  "I'm sure we'll only find your prints on your weapon, Mr. Thorne. Rather convenient that a man in a black velvet suit would be wearing leather gloves, and rise from the dead to kill your partner."

  There was nothing Thorne could say. He simply stared at the inspector and blinked. He could feel his already pasty skin grow more pale as fury and fear battled it out for the supremacy of his beating heart.

  Hayden sighed. He tucked the pad and pencil into a pocket and reached for the clanking bracelets on a belt loop. "Bradford Albert Thorne, you have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, I have the right to declare you for non-trial and render judgment. Should you wish to be represented in a Court of Imperial Affairs, but cannot—"

  A loud thumping crash made Thorne start and gasp. His eyes darted to the Emergency Services team carrying the stretcher with Wolfe's body. They dropped the heavy cargo and both the body and gurney had crashed to the floor. "My God!" Thorne jumped to his feet. "Give the man resp—"

  He couldn't finish the outburst because the entire room died. Thorne, now standing before Hayden, panned the room with wide eyes. Wolfe's E.S. team was standing, facing the door, their faces frozen with the effort they had been exerting to lift the dead weight of Nigel Wolfe. The uniformed cop by the conference table stood frozen with the camel-hair brush poised over the fingerprint powder sprinkled on the handle of Thorne's revolver. The inspector who had been checking Grubbs' pockets was frozen in a half-crouch, locked in place half-way between a crouch and a stand. The Emergency Services team standing by Grubbs were also frozen in place, one of the women leaning toward her partner, her mouth frozen open, her finger pointing at Grubbs, a statue of one whispering to the other. Then Thorne's eyes fell on Hayden. The inspector wasn't looking at him. His eyes were focused on where Bradford Thorne was, the chair, his hands hovering in front of him with the handcuffs pulled open. It was so quiet his ears were ringing.

  It's as though the entire conference room had been captured in a living sculpture, all stopped and locked in time leaving Thorne behind.

  His attention was drawn to the wide double-doors as they creaked and opened silently on their own.

  Simultaneously, and in perfect synchronization, every living person in the room stood and turned toward the door. The police, the E.S. teams, Hayden and his partner. All without saying a word, they turned toward the doors and casually walked out.

  The only sound was a dry laugh coming from Perek Grubbs' now breathing corpse.

  Wide-eyed, Thorne screamed and backed against the sideboard between two of the mural-shaded windows. His high-pitched scream caused Grubbs to laugh even harder where he lay.

  Once the room was clear
ed of the living, a man stepped through the doors and entered the room.

  He wore a black velvet suit similar to the one Grubbs wore, but with more silver adornments. A silver watch chain, ascot and light gray gloves. A black velvet top hat sat on his head with a curtained veil drawn over his face. Stitched into the thick velvet face curtain were two round black lenses, rimmed with silver. The only part of the man Thorne could see was the long black hair beneath the top hat that tangled down to the black cape draped over the man's shoulders. He walked with a shining black walking stick with a silver dragon's head for its top.

  Thorne's screams stopped in his throat as he watched the man slowly enter the room, the doors slowly draw closed behind him as if by—

  "M-Magic," Thorne stammered.

  Grubbs continued to lay on the floor laughing at the ceiling.

  The black velvet man stepped around the end of the table and approached Thorne, stopping when he came to Perek Grubbs.

  "You know," came a deep voice behind the velvet veil, hissing despite its depth, like warm cream about to turn, "The reanimated can be so entertaining... so useful..."

  As Thorne watched, the stranger held up his cane and thumbed a hidden switch. A six-inch blade of crystal, like the glass tip of a spear, projected from the end of the cane with a SHICK! Thorne jumped at the unexpected appearance of the weapon.

  "The only problem," the man continued over Grubbs' laughter, "Is they can only be dispatched from service with the application of glass to the brain."

  Perek Grubbs stopped laughing. His face slackened and he looked up at the blade poised over him, "My lord?"

  The man balanced the crystal point on Grubbs' forehead and leaned on the cane.

  Thorne gasped, his hand covered his mouth and he looked away as his legs trembled and gave out from beneath him. He stumbled back along the sideboard and crumbled to the floor, groaning to cancel out the crackling sound of the glass spike penetrating Perek Grubbs' skull. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, muttering, "No... No, the frustration builds. No... This is not possible."