Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  Todkin clapped his hands together in delight. “Magic. Science. They’re just words. Young Plum will try and tell you different but in the end it’s what we do with it that counts.”

  “What I want you to do with it,” said Bot, “is to give my Brasswitch a way to defend herself.”

  “And by defend herself you mean cause heinous injury to someone else,” said Todkin.

  “Defend. Heinous injury. It’s just words. It’s keeping her alive that counts.”

  “Touché!” said Todkin. “Is there a specific threat?”

  “We’re not certain. A possible NIA turned my last Brasswitch into a sooty smudge.” The corners of Bot’s mechanical mouth turned down. “We think there’s a human element involved too.”

  Todkin looked crestfallen, and his lower lip trembled. “Pippa is gone?”

  “She retired a few days ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. I know you –”

  Bot slapped a hand onto the workbench, making the tools jump. “We’re not here to talk about the past. Can you help or not?”

  Todkin sniffed, wiping his eyes. “I always do.” He donned a pair of ocular analysers and squinted at Wrench. Flicking levers on the side of the brass arms, he aligned lenses of differing shapes and materials over the eyepieces. A dazzling red light at the top of the frames glowed to life. Rotated by miniature gears, the light played across Wrench. “Hmm, you have a natural feel for electricity, yes?”

  Wrench nodded.

  “Good. I think the ‘Bracers of Zeus’ would be most effective.” He depressed a button on the side of the glasses and the lenses flipped upwards. “They didn’t really belong to Zeus, but it sounds a whole lot more fun than ‘the wrist-mounted Wimshurst air discharge device’.”

  Todkin threw open the doors of a glass-fronted cabinet and took out a pair of tan leather armguards. On each were fitted two counter-rotating ceramic discs decorated with copper plates that connected to a pair of spherical brass electrodes. “I built these as an experiment, only I’ve needed a Brasswitch to test them. It’s basically a modified Wimshurst machine where your body acts as a Leyden Jar to store the charge.”

  Wrench frowned. They’d used massive Wimshurst machines to generate electricity for arc-welding at the engineering works. It had been the job of the apprentices to hand-crank the giant discs, a thankless and back-breaking chore. She inspected the bracers, which appeared to have no means for turning the discs. “So how do they work?”

  “Well, the counter-rotating discs build up opposing charges –”

  “No. I understand the science of a Wimshurst machine. I mean what powers the discs?”

  “You do, my dear. You are a Brasswitch.” Todkin passed the bracers to Wrench. “Here, put them on and give it a spin.”

  Wrench strapped on the bracers, tightening the brass buckles so the leather snugly gripped her muscled forearms. Her mind merged with the machine and the discs turned. She pushed them faster until they vibrated, and the discs emitted a low hum. The air became dry and she sensed the electrical charge building.

  “Bring your wrists together,” said Todkin, a look of excited anticipation on his face.

  Wrench moved her forearms inwards and a crackling flash of electricity jumped between the spherical brass electrodes. Instinctively, she pushed the bolt away from her. It shot across the room, seeming to grow in magnitude, and thumped into a wooden chest. Electricity arced over the metal hinges and the chest shattered in a shower of splinters, scattering tools across the workshop.

  “Chuffing heck,” said Wrench, panting. She pulled her arms apart and the discs slowed. The remnants of the chest toppled forward, molten metal dripping from between the charred boards.

  Todkin clapped his hands together delightedly. “Fan-bally-tastic,” he said, his singsong voice even higher than normal.

  “Sorry about your tools,” said Wrench. “It just sort of happened.”

  “No matter. No matter.” Todkin turned to Bot. “Suitably heinous?”

  Bot’s eyes changed shape, so he appeared to be frowning. “So long as she can aim it. I don’t want to end up like that tool chest.”

  Todkin stroked his beard. “I’m sure she’ll be fine with a little practice.”

  “She needs to be a damn sight better than fine. She needs to be able to hit a snipe at fifty yards if she’s firing them anywhere near me.”

  Wrench smiled and patted Bot on his thick bulbous arm. “Have a little faith. It’s not like I’m going to be reckless. In fact, I’ll show all the restraint that you did at the monks’ priory.”

  Electricity leapt along the length of the weapons range illuminating the windowless walls. Double rows of interlocked sandbags lined the train carriage to head height, above which protruded steel-plated reinforcement. The crackling bolt struck one of two wooden targets. The figure-shaped board split in two and burst into flames.

  “Chuff it.” Wrench stamped her foot.

  Plum made a gesture with his hands and water condensed in the air over the target, extinguishing the fire. “What’s wrong? That was a direct hit.”

  “I was aiming for the other one.” The discs on her bracers stopped spinning and the spark pulsing between the two electrodes died.

  Wrench dropped onto a low sandbag wall, designed as a firing point for more traditional weapons. The indoor range was about sixty feet long, the length of the carriage, and housed two shooting lanes with a gangway between them. She picked at the sandbag’s faded hessian and tried to slow her racing heart.

  Controlling the electricity wasn’t like controlling machines; it was wilder and reflected its excitable nature back on her. She’d been overconfident when she’d told Bot to have faith. Unlike Plum, who had Master Tranter to train him, she had no one. Without any guidance, she was making it up as she went along. Over the years, as her powers had developed, that approach hadn’t been a problem. She’d been careful to ensure no one was watching when she’d tried her skills on machines. There had been no consequence of failure or pressure to succeed. With the regulators, it was different. Bot wanted to see that she could use the bracers properly before she took them on missions. More importantly, she wanted to be able to use them properly. Her life might depend on it.

  Plum dropped onto the sandbags and looked up at her. His irises were a pale violet colour. Over the days they’d been practising he’d explained that the purple faded from them as he used magic, like some sort of indicator of charge. She pushed the premonition of them, tortured, grey and pleading, from her mind.

  “Taking a break. Good idea. Putting out all those fires is draining me,” said Plum.

  Wrench suspected that wasn’t the reason. She’d only hit the target a handful of times and she was certain that Plum could manipulate water with the most limited of effort. Octavia had told her that Plum was entering a new phase of training and Master Tranter was pushing him hard in the manipulation of air. She wondered how many years it would be before she could progress to the other elements. Despite her best efforts she’d failed to freeze the water again. In fact, as far as she could tell she’d failed to have any effect on it at all.

  Plum’s fingers twitched. “Octavia said you had visions of the future after the machine exploded at the priory. What did you see?”

  The memory of her dreams still haunted her. She’d hoped Plum wouldn’t raise the subject, not knowing what she should tell him. A picture of the boy beside her, chained in a cell, his body burned and branded filled her mind. The skin on her arms rose into goose bumps and her throat went dry. She pushed away the image. “It was hard to be sure. There was so much going on, I couldn’t make much of it out.”

  “Did you see me? In the future, I mean?”

  “No. It was mostly Bot,” lied Wrench.

  Plum nodded, making a deep in thought hmming sound. Wrench wondered if she should have simply told him the truth. Would her falsehood make Plum believe he’d soon be dead and not part of the future? Or worse still, would her lies lead to the thaumagic
ian being captured and undergoing the very events she’d seen? It was so hard to know what to do, but she simply couldn’t bear to relay the account of her vision to Plum.

  The vocal annunciator in the ceiling buzzed and then Bot’s voice blared from the trumpets in the ceiling. “Plum and Brasswitch, to the DC. QRF to REDCON-1. This is an ACS. Message ends.”

  Plum clenched his fists, and his face drained of colour. He pushed himself from the sandbags, his legs trembling.

  “Well, that was clear as engine oil,” said Wrench, standing. She still didn’t understand most of the acronyms used by the regulators.

  “Come on.” Plum hurried towards a steel-plated door protected by a wall of sandbags. “The QRF is the Quick Reaction Force. ACS is an Aberration Containment Situation. Something must have gone badly wrong on a regulator mission and we’re the cavalry.”

  The carriage jolted, and the train began to move away from the siding that acted as its home in the station. Wrench grabbed onto the sandbag wall, steadying herself. The DC was the drop carriage. Darcey had given Wrench a special tour of the carriage because of its unique mechanical design. About half the length of the other carriages and only single storey, it could disconnect from its chassis when the train neared their destination and walk the rest of the way.

  “Do you think they’ve found the NIA from the Minster?” asked Wrench.

  Plum swallowed, the bulbous Adam’s apple in his scrawny neck quivering. “I really hope not.”

  The only two carriages after the weapons range were the QRF’s quarters and then the drop carriage. Wrench followed Plum through a heavily armoured door into the equally well-protected drop carriage. A team of six rugged-looking regulators dressed in chunky red battle armour occupied most of a bench that ran alongside one side of the carriage. On their knees rested a variety of bizarre, oversized guns. Beyond them a pilot strapped himself into a complex articulated chair. Distorted by the thick glass cockpit surrounding the pilot, the city of York was rapidly disappearing into the distance.

  Plum stood awkwardly in the carriage’s corner, as far away from the surly-faced regulators as possible.

  “Aren’t we going to sit down?” said Wrench, gesturing to the bench.

  Plum fiddled nervously with the tassel on his fez. “There’s not enough room and they don’t play nicely with others, especially not aberrations.”

  “I hate that word,” said Wrench. “Different shouldn’t necessarily mean wrong. We’re not aberrations, we’re . . . remarkable.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you call yourself. They’re still not going to want to sit with you.”

  “Then they’re going to have to learn. I’ve had enough of being treated as a second-class citizen. I am the blue train.” Wrench ignored Plum’s look of confusion and strode over to a regulator who had three gold chevrons on his shoulder armour and appeared to be in charge. “Budge over please, Sergeant. Plum and I need to sit down.”

  The sergeant raised his head, hostility in his dark eyes. “This is the QRF bench.”

  “We’re part of the Quick Reaction Force and we need to sit down.”

  “You’re not QRF; you’re ab –”

  The magazine dropped from the sergeant’s massive steam rifle, cutting his sentence short, then the weapon’s trigger mechanism disassembled itself, shooting a hefty recoil spring across the carriage.

  “I really hope you were going to say you’re not QRF; you’re absolutely too remarkable for that.” Wrench made a sweeping movement with her arm and the Bloody Big Guns belonging to the remaining QRF disassembled themselves. “Because it would be terribly unfortunate for your weapons to fail in battle.”

  His fingers balling into an armour-gloved fist, the sergeant raised a hand. Wrench’s heart skipped. Unflinching, she stood her ground, daring him to strike her. Bot clanked into the carriage. The sergeant leapt to attention. The QRF followed suit, scattering more rogue weapon parts onto the floor.

  “Sergeant, get those weapons squared away. Now’s not the time for field stripping,” commanded Bot.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The QRF scrabbled on the floor, retrieving fallen weapon components. Bot winked at Wrench. “Brasswitch. Take a seat.”

  Wrench dropped onto the bench and beckoned to Plum. He slid next to her, ensuring she was between him and the QRF. “You don’t want to make enemies of these people,” whispered Plum.

  “I’m not. I’m making friends.” Wrench tapped the sergeant on his armoured shoulder pad. He turned to her, on his face a look of contempt.

  “I’m no expert with weapons but the fourth bullet in your magazine is significantly different to the others. I can’t tell what effect that will have but I’d seriously consider removing it.”

  The sergeant stared at her, scrutinising her face, then slid the magazine from the weapon. He pushed the first three rounds free with his thumb and examined the round that now rested at the top. The brass case appeared tarnished and the percussion cap on the cylinder’s base was warped. He prised the round free and pocketed it.

  “You’re welcome,” said Wrench as the sergeant reloaded the top three rounds and clicked the magazine back into place.

  The train slowed and Wrench sensed something happening in the mechanics of the carriage. Heavy cogs turned, unfurling six massive legs. The carriage shuddered to a halt, the musty rubber smell of overheating brakes filling the air. Steam hissed from pistons and the legs fully extended, lifting the carriage clear of the chassis-cradle. The pilot feathered the drive-sticks and, with a lumbering gait, the drop carriage walked away from the train.

  Bot stationed himself across the aisle from the QRF and rapped his fingers against his head. “Eyes and ears on me.” After a brief pause to ensure he had everyone’s attention he continued. “Mission information is sparse. A regulator arrest squad attended St Andrew’s Church in Bishopthorpe this morning to apprehend an aberration. They were met with resistance and casualties have been reported.”

  The QRF sergeant raised his hand. Bot nodded at him and he spoke. “Civilian or regulator casualties?”

  “Both,” answered Bot.

  There was a murmuring among the QRF then another member of the team, who had something that looked like a giant rocket strapped to his back, asked, “Who’s heading the arrest team?”

  Bot’s head didn’t move but Wrench was sure that he glanced at her before answering. “Captain Flemington.”

  “Was he the casualty?” asked the same member of the QRF, an almost hopeful tone in his voice.

  “No. Regulator Thurston was.” Bot cut short the further murmurings of the QRF. “Thurston was a good woman and a capable regulator so we know this isn’t going to be a cakewalk. When we touch down the QRF will reinforce the internal perimeter while I liaise with Captain Flemington. Brasswitch, Plum, you will assist me. Any questions?”

  “Do we want the aberration alive?” asked the QRF sergeant.

  “That is not a priority.”

  “Do we want Flemington alive?” piped up another of the QRF who had a gun the size of a small artillery cannon resting across his knees.

  “Hudson, lock it down,” snapped the sergeant.

  Steam hissed from Bot’s joints and his metal torso grew by several inches. “Captain Flemington may have botched the original operation, but we need to be professional. It’s going to be dangerous and I don’t want any more regulators retired today. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir,” barked the QRF in unison.

  “We have been through many tough situations together and you guys are the best. I love you guys.” Bot paused, letting his words sink in. “But I can replace any one of you with a single telegram to the Grand Cabal.” He rested his right hand on Plum’s head and his left on Wrench’s. “These two are special. They are unique. I cannot replace them. There are dark times ahead and I feel it in my pistons that they will be of the utmost significance in the days to come. Whatever happens out there, you will protect them with your lives.”

&
nbsp; Bot withdrew his hands and, making a fist, slammed it against his chest. “Ready for anything,” he shouted.

  The QRF repeated the gesture. “Yield to none,” they chorused.

  The carriage jolted. “Ninety seconds to touchdown,” shouted the pilot.

  Wrench gripped the edge of the seat, her bracers of Zeus pulling tight against her forearms. When the time came, would she be able to use them? It was all well and good blasting lightning at wooden targets but to use them against an actual living person? She wasn’t sure that she could. She guessed most of the regulators didn’t see remarkables as people and perhaps that made it easier for them to justify their actions. And if the person in the church had killed one of their colleagues they were unlikely to show much compassion. But having witnessed Flemington’s cruelty firsthand, who was to say the regulator hadn’t deserved whatever happened? Who was to say the person in the church wasn’t a victim rather than a villain?

  With a bump, the carriage came to a halt straddling a hedgerow that surrounded the St Andrew’s Church graveyard. It settled on its haunches, snapping branches and crushing bushes, the natural barrier no match for the drop carriage’s mechanical might. Steam pistons lowered a ramp and double doors in the carriage side slid open. Clanking noisily, their armoured suits venting steam, the QRF stormed down the ramp and onto the fresh mown grass that separated the graves. Neatly tended headstones extended in rows towards the church. The QRF picked their way between them, using the granite monuments as cover.

  “Stick with me, Brasswitch.” Bot strode after his squad, scanning the graveyard for danger.

  Obviously, she was going to stick with him. Flemington had tried to kill her, and just the thought of seeing him again made her nauseous. While she was with Bot she’d be safe, from Flemington at least. She tried to bury the thought of what might happen if the mechanoid didn’t survive the encounter. There was little doubt that given the order the QRF would turn on her in an instant, and with the best will in the world she could hardly count on Plum to have her back. If she wanted to live she had to make sure Bot survived the mission too.