by Gareth Ward
Wrench’s heart twisted, the pain of their loss no less than the day she’d woken in the hospital to be told of their deaths.
Her mother squeezed her hand gently, furrows forming on her brow. “This isn’t the way, sweetheart.”
“You must stop this now, Wren,” said her father, his face becoming stern.
Wrench jolted. He had never called her Wren. As far back as she could remember he’d always called her–
“WRENCH!” Bot’s desperate cry cut through the fog of her dream.
The bulbous beast oozed through the tower’s archway, crushing Bot beneath it. The horrific reality honed back into focus. Squeezing her fingers was not her mother’s hand but a metallic tentacle. And what she felt on her face was not the gentle caress of her father but hooked suckers attaching to her skin.
With an exhalation of breath Wrench let the magic free, purging the power from every cell of her body, sending it coursing forth in a crackling wave.
The beast reared, for a moment becoming more solid, as if it existed in many more dimensions than the world was designed for. Then with a tumultuous squelch, it exploded in a shower of metallic slime.
The capacitor’s cables fell away from Wrench’s body and she dropped to the floor, drained, powerless to move. Her gaze fixed on Bot, who lay motionless by the archway, his armour dented and crushed. “We did it, Bot,” she mumbled, but there was no response from the prostrate mechanoid.
Wrench fought the weariness that consumed her. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep forever, but she owed Bot a debt. She forced her little finger to move. Pins and needles pained it, spreading through her hand into her arm. Using the agony to drive her on, she dragged herself across the flags. Pain throbbed through her hands like they were in molten metal. She groaned, too tired to scream but kept on clawing her way towards Bot. She collapsed next to him and twined her fingers into his, her hand dwarfed by the massive metal digits.
“You called me Wrench,” she said. “At least I think you did. Things got a little bit weird for a moment.”
Bot didn’t respond, his lifeless metal hulk cold and still. Wrench let her mind drift down to her hand and into Bot. “But what you really need now is a Brasswitch.”
Despite the lethargy that consumed her, she pushed into Bot, searching for a spark of life. He was a machine, she was a Brasswitch, and she would fix him. She pushed further, deep within his chest, and there it was, a faint red glow like an ember in a fire. She took what little strength she had left and fed it into Bot, breathing her life into the spark. She felt it grow warmer and brighter. Her vision dulled, and her breathing slowed. “Live,” she mumbled, and her world darkened.
Wrench’s eyes flickered open. Overhead the Rupture churned, but not as brightly as before. How long had she been out? She had no idea. A dull throbbing filled her ears. She turned her head. Beside her, Bot’s armoured body trembled, and beyond that hummed the odic capacitor, unharmed, keeping the Rupture closed, keeping them safe.
“You knew my father,” said Wrench.
“I did,” answered Bot, his voice weak.
“He built the capacitor for you.”
“No.” Bot squeezed Wrench’s hand. “He built the capacitor for you. His sole payment was a promise that I would protect you from the regulators.”
Wrench coughed, and pain electrified her ribs. “How’s that working out?”
“Pretty good so far.” With the unhealthy sound of grinding gears Bot pushed himself up on one elbow. “However, all things considered, let’s never do that again.”
Every inch of Wrench’s body hurt like hell. “Agreed,” she rasped.
Above them, Flemington slunk into view, a snide smile on his face. “You won’t have to. You’ve resigned, remember?” He waved a wax-sealed envelope over their heads. “And things will be very different at Thirteen when I’m in charge.”
Flemington’s eyes glazed over and he toppled forward. Behind him stood Sergeant Wilhelm, his rifle butt raised where he’d struck the captain. The sergeant picked the letter from the floor and, sparking a match with his fingernail, set fire to the paper.
“Sergeant, did you just assault a superior officer?” said Bot.
“Nothing superior about him,” answered Wilhelm.
“True. But I gave him my word,” said Bot.
Wrench wheezed and spat blood onto the flagstones. “You gave your word that after Plum was safely rescued you’d offer your resignation.” She turned her head to the sergeant. “Did you find Plum?”
“No, Ma’am. No sign of him or Leech.”
His mangled armour grating, Bot sat upright. “Excellent. Back to Thirteen for tea and scones it is then.”
The sergeant reached down and offered Wrench his hand. “I mean no disrespect, ma’am, and I’m sure you’re more than capable of standing without my help, I merely offer my assistance should you choose to use it.”
Wrench took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. “Thank you, sergeant, but I’m not a ma’am. I’m a Brasswitch.”
Wrench hobbled into the briefing carriage to find the party in full swing. It was two weeks since the events at the Minster and her body still felt like she’d been thrown under a train. Her hair had turned from mousy brown to a metallic mauve, an after-effect of the magic that no one could explain. She pushed herself through the revelling regulators looking for Octavia.
At the front of the carriage sparkled Bot, his battered armour now completely replaced with carblingium. He raised a glass and flicked it with his finger, making a ting-ting sound. The room quietened.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are here today to celebrate the retirement of regulator Chattox. She served Thirteen without fear or favour and at the time of her retirement she did not falter. Please raise your glasses to regulator Chattox.”
“Regulator Chattox,” chorused the room.
“There is work to be done, but not now. Today we celebrate, tomorrow we recuperate, then we investigate,” said Bot, popping the cork from a bottle of champagne to a round of cheers.
In the aftermath of the Minster Schism, as the incident was being termed, the QRF and Flemington’s regulators had rounded up many of the remarkables involved, but Leech and Plum were still in the wind. Questions were being asked by the Grand Cabal and despite the destruction of his resignation letter, Bot’s future at Thirteen was in doubt.
Wrench weaved through the drunken crowd to find Octavia huddled in a corner.
“You don’t like parties either?” said Wrench.
“Far too much uninhibited emotion sloshing about the room for me. I find it most exhausting.”
“Let’s go somewhere quiet. I want to ask you something,” said Wrench.
Octavia pushed the door to her rooms closed and the sounds of the party vanished. Wrench sensed something unusual about the room that she’d not picked up on before and she wondered if it had been designed to be equally effective at blocking out emotional noise.
Octavia took a seat and motioned to the chaise longue for Wrench.
“I wondered when we’d be having this chat,” said Octavia.
“You know what I want?”
“At the Minster, I helped you remember your previous visit. You want to know if I can help you remember the crash of the Drake.”
“Can you?”
“I can.” A tentacle curled into a question mark. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Wrench had given the issue much thought over her two-week convalescence. Was it better to live with the hope that she wasn’t responsible than to possibly know for certain that she was? She had gone back and forth on the issue so many times she’d lost count but had finally decided that she needed the truth. It wasn’t something she was prepared to leave any longer. The party along the corridor was evidence enough of the dangers they faced and although Octavia was not at the sharp end of Thirteen there was no guarantee that she would always be available another time.
“I’m sure,” said Wrench.
; “Lay back. This will be traumatic,” said Octavia.
Wrench lifted her legs onto the chaise longue and positioned her head on the velvet-cushioned support.
Octavia lowered her tentacles onto Wrench’s temples, encircling her forehead.
“Close your eyes and relax,” said Octavia.
Wrench was on the footplate of the Drake with her parents. The countryside rushed by, the wind tearing at her clothes. Her father laughed happily, clutching her mother’s hand as he encouraged the driver to go faster. A burning knot of fear tightened in Wrench’s chest. An oily feeling enveloped Wrench and the brakes on the engine locked on. The air filled with the scream of metal on metal. Her mother wrapped her arms around Wrench, shielding her. The carriage’s momentum flung the Drake from the rails and the steam engine twisted, hurtling towards the embankment. Behind it a coach slewed sideways. A woman smashed headfirst through the coach’s window and the oily feeling vanished. The Drake’s massive wheels ripped into the embankment and the bramble-covered grass rushed towards Wrench. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.
Octavia pulled her tentacles away. “You don’t need to remember the next bit,” she said.
Wrench’s heart hammered in her chest, her breathing sharp and shallow.
Octavia stroked Wrench’s hair with one tentacle. “It’s done now. You can be calm and relax.”
“It wasn’t me,” said Wrench. She gulped down a huge breath and clutched her arms across herself, trying to slow her breathing. “There was another Brasswitch on the train.”
“Flemington’s fiancée,” said Octavia.
“But why did she do it?”
“I’ll help you find out, I promise.” Octavia took Wrench’s hands. “For now, it’s enough that you know it wasn’t your fault. You can forgive yourself.”
And she could. Nothing would bring her parents back; she’d accepted that. Just like she’d accepted she was a Brasswitch. However, she was not the Brasswitch responsible for the crash of the Drake, that burden belonged to another, and with Octavia and Bot’s help she’d find out who. Of that she was certain.
The Rise of the Remarkables: Brasswitch and Bot has had many supporters along the way whom I would like to thank.
A big HUZZAH to Linsay Knight and the team at Walker Books Australia for turning my manuscript into this wonderful book. Thanks for your continued support.
Thanks to my agent Josephine Hayes at the Blair Partnership for her advice and for championing Brasswitch and Bot.
Thanks to the NZSA for support via their mentorship program and to my mentor Barbara Else who helped me beat my ideas into shape.
Thanks to Adele Broadbent and Jackie Rutherford for feedback on my early drafts and to Brandi Dixon from Charcoal and Brass for feedback on my later drafts.
Thanks again to Storylines and Tessa Duder for all their help on this journey.
Thanks to all the reviewers, booksellers, book reps, librarians, school librarians and customers who have supported me by reviewing, recommending and buying my books.
Thanks to Bex at Little Red Robot for drawing the awesome cover and for the graphics on my website www.garethwardauthor.com.
Thanks to Adam and Lynda for pinball, pandemic and helping me when I lost the plot.
Thanks to our dog Tonks for inspiring me with her love for life.
And special thanks to Alex, Max and Louise; I am so very proud of you all.
Gareth Ward (aka. The Great Wardini) is a magician, hypnotist, storyteller and bookseller. He has worked as a Royal Marine Commando, Police Officer, Evil Magician and Zombie. He basically likes jobs where you get to wear really cool hats. Born near Oxford in the UK, he went to University in York and currently lives in Hawke’s Bay, New Zealand where he runs two independent bookshops with his wife Louise.
His first novel, The Traitor and the Thief, a rip-roaring young adult Steampunk adventure, won the 2016 Storylines Tessa Duder Award, the 2018 Sir Julius Vogel Award for Best Youth Novel, a 2018 Storylines Notable Book Award and was a finalist in two categories at The New Zealand Book Awards for Children and Young Adults. His sequel, The Clockill and the Thief, is also jolly good. You can learn more about the fantabulous world of Gareth Ward at www.garethwardauthor.com
First published in 2020
by Walker Books Australia Pty Ltd
Locked Bag 22, Newtown
NSW 2042 Australia
www.walkerbooks.com.au
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
Text © 2020 Gareth Ward
Cover Illustration © 2020 Bex Bloomfield
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by
any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The illustrations for this book were created digitally
