The Clockill and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  Leaning back out of the doorway, he whispered, “It’s not here.”

  Zonda emerged from the cabin opposite. “This one’s stripped bare, too.”

  Further along the corridor a crash of smashing furniture rang from a cabin doorway.

  “Careful, Velvet. We need to be quiet,” Sin said in a low voice.

  Velvet poked her head from a cabin behind them. “That wasn’t me.”

  A feeling of dread settled over Sin.

  From the cabin doorway emerged a man, or what had once been a man. The lower half of his right leg had been replaced by a giant spring and his left hand now consisted of a cylinder of gun barrels. An ironglass dome of clockwork shrouded one half of his head. From an otherwise empty eye socket shone a magenta beam. The coloured light swung about the corridor, coming to rest on Zonda. The Clockill raised its gun arm.

  “Run!” shouted Velvet. She leaned from the cabin. Steam exploded from her pistol and a volley of nails thudded into the Clockill.

  Unperturbed by the metal shards penetrating its shoulder, the Clockill’s head turned and the magenta beam flicked from Zonda to the pistol in Velvet’s hand. With a wicked whine, the cylinder of gun barrels that comprised the Clockill’s arm rapidly spun, and nails spurted from the ends of the tubes. Velvet’s pistol exploded under the onslaught and she screamed, her hand shredded by the weapon’s mangled metal.

  Sin darted back into his wrecked cabin. His gaze fell onto a door ripped from his locker and discarded on the deck. The flimsy litanium would be useless as a shield, however the full-length mirror bolted to the inside offered another possibility. Hefting the door in front of him, mirror towards the Clockill, he stepped into the corridor. “Go!” he shouted to Zonda and Velvet.

  Spent nails jangled beneath his feet. Behind him, he heard the sounds of more debris being kicked aside as his friends retreated. He backed away. The wicked whine of the Clockill’s weapon filled the corridor. So, they were smarter than the watchmek. Sin braced against the volley of nails thudding into the door. The sharp crack of the ironglass mirror shattering ricocheted off the walls around him.

  Sin hurled the mirror at the Clockill and ran. Driven on by terror, he sprinted for the bulkhead door. Behind him the weapon whined. He launched himself at the opening, tumbling into the corridor beyond. Zonda barged the door shut behind him, a cacophony of pings peppering the metal. She thrust her cutlass through the door wheel, jamming it in place. It wouldn’t hold for long.

  Blood streamed from Velvet’s mangled hand, which hung useless at her side. She panted rapidly and a clammy sheen of sweat moistened her ashen brow.

  “She’s in shock,” said Zonda. “We need to get her to the sick bay.”

  Sin lifted Velvet’s injured hand by the wrist and placed it across her shoulder. Taking her other hand, he guided it to hold her arm in place. He looked into Velvet’s eyes. Her pupils were unnaturally large. “You need to keep it there. It will slow the bleeding. Can you do that?”

  Velvet nodded slowly.

  “Excellent. We’re going to get you patched up. It looks worse than it is,” Sin lied.

  Several minutes later, they ducked into the sick bay. Like the rest of the ship, it was a mess, with bottles and bandages scattered everywhere. Sin sat Velvet on a bunk while Zonda foraged for supplies. He drew the canvas curtain across the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

  Velvet’s breathing was more even now, and some of the colour had returned to her face, which was taut with pain.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “I’ve accepted my hand’s ruined; just bandage it up so we can get on with the mission.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Sin squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “Madam Mékanique will be able to fix you up good and proper.”

  Velvet held Sin in her cool stare. “You lie like a cheap Chinasian watch. I’ll be lucky to keep any of my fingers.”

  She was right. The exploding steampistol had made a complete mess of her hand. Sin looked away, thankful for the distraction of Zonda, who dumped an armful of supplies on the bunk.

  “I’ve got to remove the metal splinters before I can clean the wound.” Zonda ripped a bandagesic from its waxed paper packaging then wrapped the painkilling bandage around Velvet’s wrist. “This will help, but it’s going to sting a taderooney.”

  Her teeth clenched, hissing at the pain, Velvet endured Zonda’s treatment. Sin kept guard, although he had no idea what he would do should they be discovered. The Clockill that Velvet shot hadn’t even noticed, and judging by the scenes of battle on the bridge, Eldritch’s pirates had also been unable to fight them off.

  “That’s the best I can manage.” Zonda tied off the bandagesic, swaddling Velvet’s hand in the analgesic gauze.

  Velvet inspected the bandage. “It’s good work. I was right about having you along after all.”

  “Thanks. I think.” Zonda removed a crushed éclair from a napkin secreted in a pouch. “It’s my last one, but you deserve it. You saved me.”

  “You’d give me your last cake?” Tears welled in Velvet’s eyes. She nibbled the end and handed it back to Zonda. “Let’s share.”

  Zonda’s gaze flicked to Sin. The three of them passed the éclair around until all that was left was the memory of chocolate on their fingers.

  “So, what do we do now?” asked Sin.

  “I have an idea,” said Zonda. “We need to get to engineering.”

  They slunk back into the corridor and climbed a ladder that provided access to the upper levels of the engineering deck. Their progress was slow, hindered by Velvet’s bandaged hand. After ten tense minutes they came to a catwalk suspended high above the Swordfish’s boilers. Far below, the engine bay appeared deserted, the Clockill probably drawn away by the search of the crew’s quarters. Wary, Sin scanned the surroundings. The trick with the mirror hadn’t worked, and the Clockill lurking in the Captain’s cabin showed they still had cunning. They may no longer be human, but they certainly weren’t oblivious machines either.

  At the end of the catwalk they descended to the maintenance shed. Zonda tugged at the padlock securing the shed door closed. Scratches marred the metal shackle, which was twisted out of shape. She turned to Sin. “Do you think you’ll have more luck opening this than the Clockill?”

  Sin examined the lock’s markings. “It’s an Enoch Jones. They’re tricky little blighters, and bally well near indestructible. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of ticks.” He eased a pick into the keyhole. Several deft movements later, the two metal half-loops at the top of the lock sprung apart, releasing the door. “You still haven’t told us what we’re doing here.”

  “We’re going on the attack,” said Zonda with a gleam in her eyes.

  Inside the litanium-plated shed were shelves stacked with cans of oil, spare engine parts and all manner of materials required for repairs. Zonda closed the door. “You two scavenge for magnets while I search for the special ingredient.”

  “Where are we going to find magnets?” asked Sin.

  “Magna-lamps,” said Velvet, leading Sin to a stack of emergency equipment. Among the envelope patches and ratline splices rested a crate of magna-lamps. Designed to magnetically stick to the superstructure and provide illumination while carrying out repairs, they could easily be cannibalised for their magnets.

  “Bingoarooney,” said Zonda from an adjacent aisle.

  Lugging the crate of lamps, Sin and Velvet joined Zonda. She held a large bucket of thermoweld in each hand. “I’ve hit the motherload,” she announced.

  “I don’t get it,” Sin said. “What do we need thermoweld for?”

  “We’re going to make pipe bombs.”

  The audacity of Zonda’s plan began to dawn on Sin. When they’d repaired the gash caused by the lightning strike, the thermoweld had melted the litanium plates like butter on a hot crumpet. The Clockill may have cogs for a brain, but Sin doubted they would be indestructible or invincible if thermoweld bombs were involved.

  Velvet
laughed, delighted. “I saw pipe fittings and a tin of safety fuses by the pressure motors. I’ll go grab them.” She hurried back to the shelves.

  “Excellent,” said Zonda. “Then we only need one more thing.”

  Sin cast a wary glance at the thermoweld. “What’s that?”

  “A very steady hand.”

  The clockwork hand they’d found earlier skittered into the aft docking passage. It clawed along the deck, dragging itself with spider-like mechanical fingers. Magnetically clamped to the wrist was a pipe bomb, its flaming fuse growing ever shorter.

  Sin peeked into the corridor using his telescopic mirror. A Clockill patrolled the Deadnaught’s end of the walkway. The hand scuttled up to it and the Clockill stopped. Dropping to one knee, the mekanikal man picked up the hand and held it to its face. The pipe bomb’s sparkling fuse was reflected in thousands of tiny cogs beneath the glass skull. Sin withdrew the mirror and pressed his hands against his ears, muffling the boom of the explosion. Metal shrapnel pinged into the docking port and a wave of heat brushed his face. Pulling his hands from his head, he shouted, “Let’s go!”

  Velvet, Zonda and Sin sprinted along the smoke-filled passageway. Broken gears and ironglass crunched underfoot but, thankfully, the lingering smoke from the burnt thermoweld obscured the worst detail of the Clockill’s destruction.

  Exiting the docking arm, they emerged into a cavernous bay stacked with piles of wooden crates and exotic steamer trunks. The trunks towered overhead, lashed to rings in the floor to keep the high columns upright. Block stencil writing on the rough wood boards of many of the packing cases announced the ships they’d been plundered from. The Moritania, SS Summersong and The Idle Majesty were just a few Sin had heard of, but there were over two dozen more, many in languages he didn’t recognise.

  Creeping between the rows of packing cases, they headed for the aft-most of the three cargo bay doors. The engine deck would be towards the rear of the Deadnaught, and close by would be the boiler room. Alongside the gangway, a collection of new-looking pine crates were chained, not roped, to the floor. Stencilled on their sides in thick black writing was the name HMS Pegasus.

  Sin’s right thigh twitched, then pain like a million burning needles shot through his leg. He collapsed onto the deck and grasped the muscle, fighting back a scream.

  Zonda kneeled beside him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Blue blood,” he said through gritted teeth. He thumped his knuckles into his leg and shook his foot. “It’ll pass soon.” The pins and needles were the most intense he’d experienced, and without the injections the attacks were only going to become more severe. He thumped his leg again and flexed his thigh.

  “Someone’s coming,” whispered Velvet.

  The cargo bay door slammed open and the sound of footsteps marched nearer, each footfall timed with mekanikal precision.

  Zonda grabbed Sin beneath the arms and with Velvet’s help they hauled him behind the crates.

  Sin shoved his fist in his mouth, biting down on his knuckles as a distraction from the agony in his leg.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The sinister sound of clockwork drew closer.

  The Clockill marched into view, their terrifying profiles framed between the gaps in the packing crates. Each had a sword in place of their left hand and a metal collar around their throat. One sideways glance and the three friends would be done for. Sin’s leg convulsed. He bit harder on his hand, drawing blood. Unaware, the Clockill stalked past, the metronome-like beat of their footsteps receding.

  The pain diminished, and Sin’s muscles stopped twitching. With Zonda and Velvet’s help he eased himself to his feet and stretched his leg. “You two should stay here. I’m dead already. This time it was my leg – next time it might be my heart. Don’t matter if I don’t come back.”

  “It matters to me,” said Velvet. “Thick or thin, we’re doing this together.”

  “I ain’t thick,” said Sino.

  “And I’m not thin,” said Zonda.

  Velvet frowned. “So perhaps not the most appropriate of idioms. The point is we’re a team and nobody gets left behind.”

  Unlike the Aether-Mare, where style played as much a part in the design as functionality, the Deadnaught was crude and utilitarian. The walls were rough and bubbled. Constructed from a metal Sin didn’t recognise, they appeared to be a rudimentary implementation of the Litanium Lattice Aerogel that Nimrod had demonstrated. Overhead, chemtubes provided stark illumination. The only adornments to the passageways were the industrial steam pipes and service ducts that crisscrossed the bulkheads and ceilings.

  “Which way now?” asked Sin.

  Zonda placed her hands on several of the pipes, feeling their temperatures. Sin didn’t understand how the confusion of engineering helped them navigate, but Zonda was certain they were approaching the boiler room.

  A gong sounded and a Chinasian voice spoke over the vocifertrump. Sharp and succinct, the stream of staccato words held definite menace. The chemtubes swirled from white to red and the gong sounded again. This time the words were in near-perfect English; only a hint of a Chinasian accent could be detected. “Welcome aboard the Deadnaught. I am Doctor Yan Shi. Surrender to my crew and I will guarantee your safe escort to the bridge.”

  “Yan Shi?” said Velvet. “Didn’t he . . .”

  “Save my father’s life, yes,” said Zonda.

  Velvet picked at her bandaged hand. “Do you think he’d help us?”

  “Yeah, help us become Clockill,” said Sin. “We need to get to the boiler room quick-sharp. Which way?”

  “I think we have to go down a level,” said Zonda.

  Sin grabbed the side rails of a ladder leading to the deck below and, placing his feet outside of the rungs, he slid down.

  The steam pipes in the lower passageway were much thicker than the ones above. Steam meant a boiler, and with the addition of the bombs, a boiler meant a big boom. They followed the pipe to where it disappeared through a bulkhead adjacent to an oil-smeared door.

  Sin grabbed the door’s handle, the metal pleasantly warm against his skin. He cracked the door open and peered through. Beyond, partly shrouded in a fog of steam and smoke, were industrial towers of regulators, distributors and condensers, all interconnected by a maze of pipes.

  “We’re here,” whispered Sin.

  From behind a multi-dialled control panel emerged a Clockill. It trudged towards the door, writing on the clipboard in its clawed metal hand.

  “Clockill. We need to hide,” said Sin, backing away.

  Velvet hurried along the passageway to a storage locker and heaved the door open. “In here.”

  The locker was not much bigger than their cabins aboard the Swordfish, and most of the space was taken up with cans of oil, cleaning rags and drums of engine degreaser. There was nowhere to conceal themselves. If the Clockill needed a resupply of these products, they’d be undone.

  Sin pulled a pipe bomb from his bandolier and drew out a ZAPO lighter.

  Zonda placed a hand over his and took the lighter from him. She nodded towards a shelf and whispered, “That engine degreaser is jolly flammable stuff. You don’t want to be producing any naked flames in here.”

  Sin eyed the metal barrels and sniffed. The tang of solvents lay heavy in the air.

  The Clockill’s footsteps marched past the door and Zonda relaxed her hand.

  “Come on,” said Velvet. “Let’s get this done.”

  Stepping into the boiler room was like walking into the palace’s junglearium; hot, humid and oppressive. Pipes radiated across the ceiling like an industrial spider’s web, at the centre of which towered a trio of giant riveted cylinders. Each was five times the size of a steam locomotive and mounted above a raging furnace into which Clockill mekanikally shovelled coal. The heat from the fires burned and blackened their skin, but the human-machine hybrids seemed indifferent to the damage.

  “I’ll cover you.” Zonda slid her pistol from its holster.r />
  The nearest boiler was thirty yards away, easy enough to hit with a pipe bomb. Sin pulled one of the metal tubes from the bandolier on his chest and angled it towards Velvet. “Light me up.”

  With the click of clockwork, a flame sprang from the ZAPO. Velvet held it below the Bickford safety fuse and with a spluttering spark it ignited.

  Sin crept closer. Seeking a position of cover from which to throw, he ducked into the shadow of a pressure regulator. Pins and needles prickled his arms. Not now. All he needed was a few more seconds. Fighting the pain, he drew his arm back and took aim. From behind the tower of machinery marched a Clockill. Its head turned towards Sin, and beneath the glass skull, cogs spun. Quicker than humanly possible, the Clockill’s mekanikal hand shot out, grasping.

  Time slowed. With a magnetic clunk, Sin attached the sparkling bomb to the Clockill’s outstretched arm. Metal fingers raked Sin’s chest. He twisted away from the claw-like grip and sprang towards Velvet and Zonda. Time snapped back. The bomb bandolier pulled taut across Sin’s chest and his head jerked upwards. The Clockill had a hold of the leather strap where it crossed Sin’s back.

  “Gap it!” shouted Sin, his fingers fumbling at the bandolier’s buckle. With a mekanikal whirr, the Clockill hauled him backwards.

  Zonda brought her pistol on aim and the weapon screamed. The nail thudded into the Clockill’s chest. It didn’t notice, intent on heaving Sin closer.

  The steampistol screamed again and again, each nail striking home, each nail ignored. Velvet rushed to Sin’s side and punched the Clockill with her uninjured hand. The blow had no greater effect than the nails.

  The fizz of the shortening fuse played loud in Sin’s ears. He pulled the leather tongue free from the bandolier’s buckle and the clasp flipped open. Springing away, again he was brought up short, the Clockill’s fingers locked onto the D-ring on the back of his flight suit. The Clockill tossed the bandolier away into a mass of pipes above the pressure regulator, then reached for Velvet.