by Jared Millet
“But what’s the point?” says the atheist.
“Haven’t you been paying attention? What’s the point of any joke? To alleviate pain. I mean, why do you think people would rather blow each other up? Dying’s easy. To relieve human suffering, even for a moment, that’s hard.”
The atheist eyes the bartender and the pale horse in the corner as if trying to decide whether they’re pulling his leg.
“And this is where all that comes from?”
The bartender nods.
“Okay, then,” says the atheist. “Let me try this again from the top:
“A priest, a rabbi, and an atheist die in a car bomb, but instead of the pearly gates, they end up in a bar. The priest orders a beer and says ‘This beer is so good I must be in heaven.’ And poof! He goes to heaven. The rabbi asks for wine and likes it so much he says ‘Hey, I must be in heaven too!’ And poof, there he goes.
“The bartender asks the atheist what he wants, and the atheist just asks for water.”
“Water?” says the bartender.
“Yeah,” says the atheist. “I don’t believe in spirits.”
Dead Man's Hand
The Dogsbody Program: 1
August 25, 1888
To Whom It May Concern,
I, Daniel Cotton, of Capek & Lang Automatonics, do hereby attest that I am of sound mind in offering this deposition. To any authorities reading this document, I apologize for the mess I have dropped in your lap. Because the details of my account may otherwise seem incredible, I hope that the means by which I’ve chosen to convey my story will lend it plausibility.
The automated humaniform simulacrum, or “dogsbody,” in which I have recorded this message is a Capek & Lang Model Nine, manufactured in Prague and assembled at our company’s workshop in New Orleans. Obviously, since you are reading this, you followed the instructions I scratched on the dogsbody’s housing and provided it with pen and ink. You will note that the Model Nine’s ambulatory system allows a degree of articulation in the fingers, arms and legs to rival that of a living man.
If everything has gone according to plan, then you found this automaton on the grounds of Knockwood Plantation – the estate of my client, Mr. Jean-Baptiste Perrilloux.
I have never met Mr. Perrilloux in person, though he once did considerable business with my predecessor in the hope that our machines could be made to work his plantation in place of human labor. Alas, the application of clockwork automata in such uneven terrain as a cane field is an ambition that remains unrealized.
Nevertheless, Mr. Perrilloux maintained a number of mechanical servants in his household and on occasion would wire us an order for parts or the latest model, which we would ship upriver to his estate. I did not visit Knockwood in person until the evening of Monday, July 2, in response to a telegram requesting the aid of a technician.
Since the request was nonspecific, I came with a full maintenance kit and enough spare parts to construct a dogsbody from scratch should the need arise. However, I underestimated the effects of recent rains on the roads in this part of the state, and the weight of my equipment was too much for the wagon I had hired to transport me.
When my driver at last deposited me at the plantation, I was covered in mud from the many ruts in which we’d been mired. I dreaded the thought of greeting my client in such a condition, but the hour was nearing sunset. With no other accommodations available, I saw no choice but to proceed.
Hat in hand, I left my sodden luggage by the road and walked the dry path to the house itself. It was unnaturally quiet, and from what I could tell no lamps had been lit. Though the estate was shaded by giant oaks, light still shone on the fields beyond. The sugar cane, not yet tall as a man, looked wild and untended even to my untrained eye.
The Perrilloux mansion stood four feet off the ground on stout cypress piers. I could still see marks where the spring floods had washed beneath the building. A porch adorned the front of the house with a matching balcony above. Columns supported the overhanging roof, and though there were many windows, the interior was black as pitch. Fearing that my client had vacated the premises and left me in the lurch, I mounted the steps and knocked on the door.
There was no reply.
Nor was there any traffic on the road that might take me, bedraggled as I was, to better lodgings. Once I satisfied myself that no one was home, I retrieved my luggage and prepared for a miserable night out of doors. I did not wish to sleep in the abandoned, insect-ridden servant quarters, nor did I wish to soil the house’s porch any more than I already had. I elected to remain on the steps until dawn and then make my way to the nearest village.
It was a moonless evening. Nights are quiet in the country, once one grows accustomed to the ubiquitous symphony of crickets. Wait long enough and every sound becomes magnified. After sunset I heard a dog in the distance, and later a steamboat paddling the Mississippi. I considered running to the levee and waving them ashore, but they wouldn’t have seen me in the darkness. I heard laughter and music coming from the steamship and felt like Crusoe on his island.
Later, though I thought it my imagination at the time, I heard a woman sing. Her voice was faint but angelic. The melody was that of a Negro spiritual whose title I couldn’t recall.
I must have slept, because eventually I woke. It was not yet dawn. The quarter moon had risen and the estate was bathed in that cold blue radiance that makes even a rational man believe in ghosts.
But it was a noise that woke me.
It came again: a footstep and the creak of a board. Then a rattling whir. Then another step. And another, each with a tell-tale rattle.
There was a dogsbody moving in the house. Its footfalls grew louder as it descended the stairs inside. When it reached the bottom, it trod toward the door.
I held my breath, feeling exposed in the light of the moon. It was foolish, I know. Automatons can no more see than they can hear, and are no more conscious of their actions than a clock knows the time. Therefore I cannot explain the chill that gripped me as those deliberate, mechanical footfalls approached the door and stopped.
Was it a scarecrow? I had myself encoded such behaviors into other clients’ dogsbodies to frighten prowlers and the like. But why had it come forth now? Had I, in my sleep, triggered some tripwire that activated the house’s sentinel? It occurred to me then that an automaton protecting a residence so far out in the country might be coded to employ a deadlier response than mere intimidation. Carefully I backed down the stairs.
After a moment, the dogsbody’s footfalls resumed and it retraced its steps. I sat in the grass while my pulse subsided.
It was then that I noticed a different sound, so faint that the earlier susurrus of insects had drowned it out. I recognized it immediately and circled the building to find its source.
The cable was hard to see in the darkness, hidden as it was by overhanging branches. Snaking through the trees and approaching the house from the rear, it hung from a pole and slipped like a thief into an eave of the attic. In the stillness of the night, the cable hummed with power.
~
Dawn came. With my belongings stowed out of sight, I walked down the road in what I hoped was the direction of civilization. I had not gone far when I was hailed by a well-dressed young Creole on horseback who informed me that if I meant to head into town, I was going the wrong way.
I introduced myself and explained my business. He told me his name was Marcus Despre and that he’d ridden to Knockwood that morning to find me. He too was employed by Mr. Perrilloux, and the telegram that should have informed him of my arrival had been delayed by a downed cable. He offered to take me to his family’s house where I might refresh myself, and I gladly accepted.
Though small, my rescuer’s home was an oasis. I greeted Mr. Despre’s wife and young children, changed into less sodden attire, and ate a breakfast of fresh cornbread while Marcus explained why I’d been summoned.
“Mr. Perrilloux’s been overseas on business since last Dece
mber. I keep a watch on the house and look out for any carpetbaggers that might have an eye on the property, you know. The place pretty much takes care of itself. With the dogsbodies, I mean. If there’s ever a problem they can’t handle, that engine in the attic just wires Mr. P. and lets him know.”
I almost choked.
“A difference engine? In the attic?”
Marcus nodded. “He set it up when he had the house electrified.” With that, he passed me a slip of paper from the local telegraph office.
LIVERPOOL ENGLAND
30 JUNE 1888
MARCUS DESPRE
SOTILE LOUISIANA
HOUSE REPORTS MODEL 8 FAILURE NORTH HALLWAY SECOND FLOOR STOP MEET TECHNICIAN FROM CAPEK LANG JULY 2 STOP ASSIST AS NEEDED STOP SMML
JB PERRILLOUX
I queried as to the meaning of the last four letters.
“Send Miri My Love,” Marcus answered. “That’s his daughter, Miss Mirielle, still lives there. I’m bringin’ her dinner when we go back.”
I was shocked, to say the least.
“Do you mean someone’s living in that house and they let me spend the night on the steps?”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Mr. Cotton sir, I wouldn’t have let you into my house looking the way you did. But Miss Miri’s kind of funny. She’s always been shy. Now she hardly ever comes down from her room. We bring her something to eat every day, but I don’t hardly see her. Those dogsbodies take the food I bring and that’s that.”
“Do you suppose there’s something wrong with her?” I asked.
“Can’t speak to that,” said Marcus, then he continued with a sly grin. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, bein’ touched in the head is a luxury only white folk can afford.”
~
We returned to Knockwood later that morning. Marcus unlocked the door and a pair of Model Eights greeted us. According to my records, Mr. Perrilloux owned three Eights and an assortment of Sixes and Sevens. The two Eights in the foyer had been dressed in the attire of household servants, with black coats, white wigs, and blank faces. Painted faces are unnerving to some, so we leave that detail to our customers’ preference.
Marcus pressed two buttons on a panel next to the door. One was labeled with his name, the other with the word “guest.” Other buttons bore the names of Mr. Perrilloux, his daughter, and gentlemen whom I presumed were business associates.
“Do this when you come in or out,” said Marcus, “to let the dogsbodies know who you are.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, sir. When Mr. Perrilloux comes back, I’ll tell him to make a button just for you.”
I shook my head. Dogsbodies can’t know anything; they simply move through series of prescribed actions enscripted by a technician or, if he is mechanically inclined, the owner. But then I remembered the computing engine in the attic and began to work through the possibilities.
Marcus went to the dogsbody on the left and pressed one of the buttons on its chest. This, of course, is the usual method for triggering a preset behavior. The dogsbody lifted its arms and Marcus handed it a covered basket that smelled of roasted vegetables. He pressed another button and it walked up the stairs with its burden.
“Miss Miri?” Marcus called. “I’m here with the man from the dogsbody company. He’s gonna fix the one that broke down in the hall up there. Is there anything else I can get you?”
There was silence, then a voice like an angel’s.
“No, Mr. Despre. I’m quite all right. Please tell your wife that the mushroom sauce she sent yesterday was heavenly.”
“I will, ma’am. Thank you. We’ll have some ham to bring you tomorrow.”
There was no answer. Marcus shrugged.
“Just head up and make a right. I got to check a few things around the property. Holler if you need anything.”
I thanked him and took the stairs to the second floor. The other Model Eight followed, mimicking my footsteps. I felt the same disquiet that I had the night before. I conjectured that pressure plates under the floor might signal my movements to the difference engine. But how did it tell the dogsbody what to do?
At the head of the staircase, a hall turned left and right. Light poured through windows at either end. The hall was decorated with faded pastoral paintings and sickly yellow wallpaper that may have once been green. Electric lights hung from the ceiling, but none were lit. I would have expected a carpet runner down the hall, but there was none. At the end to my right, an inoperative dogsbody lay crumpled on the floor exactly like a discarded marionette.
I immediately diagnosed the problem. The automaton’s knee had seized and sprung out of place. There were gouges in the floor where the machine had tried to go about its business until its motive power exhausted itself.
Older models ran on tightly wound springs, but Sevens, Eights, and Nines have the capacity (for an additional fee) to operate on a chemical battery. Since I had a hard time imagining the reclusive Mirielle winding up her mechanical retinue every day, I presumed these dogsbodies ran on the house’s electrical power.
I rolled the machine over and inspected the faulty knee. Dogsbody legs are as problematic as those of humans, since the joints must be flexible as well as load-bearing. To repair this one I would have to replace the entire spring assembly. I’d brought my toolkit upstairs but would have to return to my luggage for the parts.
My dogsbody chaperone followed me to the door. When I returned, I slipped around it. The instant that I did, three more automatons stepped out and surrounded me.
I froze, more from shock than fear. These were Model Sevens, and their age showed. They were gray instead of black and were painted in the semblance of Confederate soldiers. One approached from the parlor to the right, one from a darkened room to the left, and the third from an alcove behind the stairs.
I took another step, and the three advanced again. When I retreated, however, they did not respond. The Model Eight remained rooted in place, but turned to face me. I stepped back again and all four tracked my movement, as if they could see with eyes they didn’t have.
Realizing my mistake, I went to the panel by the door and pressed the guest button. The soldiers didn’t retreat, but neither did they hinder me. I hastily returned to my work with only my original “butler” automaton for company.
The repair took an hour. I spread canvas under the injured leg to prevent oil from staining the floor. It took much longer to remove the damaged joint than to install the new one. I also noted that the damaged knee had gouged the rod that served as the leg’s femur.
My repair would hold for a while, but it would be vulnerable to similar breakdowns. Finishing my work, I resolved to recommend that Mr. Perrilloux replace it with a Model Nine.
I rolled the dogsbody over to inspect it from a different angle. Doing so, I noticed something that wasn’t part of our standard design. On the undamaged leg, running up from the heel like a hamstring, was a copper wire that led into the service panel on the dogsbody’s back.
My curiosity piqued, I removed the dogsbody’s coat and opened the panel to investigate. What I found astonished me. Modern dogsbodies employ grooved wax cylinders to record behavior patterns, replacing the rigid clockwork of earlier models.
This machine had neither. Instead, its memory cylinder was metal. How that should work was beyond my immediate comprehension. I presumed that it did work, for there was nothing else within the dogsbody’s frame to encode the machine’s behaviors.
Whoever designed this, whether another engineer or Mr. Perrilloux himself, was an inventor of the highest caliber. I wondered if he had yet applied for a patent, and I could not help but consider removing the apparatus and doing so myself.
I closed the panel, locked the dogsbody’s legs, and hoisted it onto its feet. I straightened its coat and wondered about that mysterious copper wire on its leg. Leaving the automaton in place, I knelt and inspected the floor.
There, between the boards, was another copper wire. Of course! No
t only could the house’s difference engine monitor its dogsbodies’ comings and goings, but it could command them via electrical impulses. Ingenious! Now all I had to do was figure out how that metal cylinder worked and I would be set for life.
I banished the thought and packed my tools. In the field of modern invention, stealing another man’s design is the basest form of thievery.
When I activated the dogsbody it did nothing. Its battery was clearly dead, and I had yet to determine where the dogsbodies recharged themselves. Marcus would know, but before seeking him out I followed a hunch. I lifted the dogsbody and shifted it until its heel connected with the wire in the floor.
The thing jerked to life. I sprang back so as not to injure myself, should the machine be trapped in performing some previous task. I needn’t have worried. It backed toward the window at the end of the hall where, no doubt, it would rest until its battery was electrified. I smiled at my handiwork and at the ingenuity of the machine’s modifications, then frowned at the grease that blackened my hands. I looked at the other dogsbody that stood sentinel over me.
“I don’t suppose you could point me toward a washroom?”
It didn’t answer. I would have been appalled if it had. Given the layout of the house, I guessed that the washroom was directly across from the stairs, and twice in as many minutes my hunch proved correct.
To my relief, the house had running water. I had seen no cistern, but since Mr. Perrilloux was an avid technologist I suspected that water was supplied from a nearby well by an electric pump. While I scrubbed the grime off my hands, Marcus called my name.
I stepped into the hall to answer and beheld a vision in white. Her hair had an almost golden sheen and her skin was like the petals of an orchid. She seemed even more surprised than I. My mouth stumbled over the words to excuse myself, but before I could do so she screamed and ran.
