Enter the Clockworld

by Jared Mandani

  So I walk underneath this big stone arch — another clock hanging from it! — and then click my wallet into a pay machine. I proceed down the moving stairs into the basement, which is a huge open-space thing, well aired but poorly lit, identical workstations spread across it like a cassette of gears. My gear is in the corner, luckily. I hate being watched from four directions at once.

  “Oi, Ben,” Tranh says as I kick my assembly and disassembly machines on. He’s my neighbor Apprentice, which meant we often helped each other or pried each other’s fingers free. “Letting in some outside splendor?”

  He refers to a puff of confetti and a gust of late autumn wind I brought in as I opened the final door. The place is already dressed for Christmas — the time of the year on the Web is always in sync with your outdoor season, and even the worlds of eternal summer have some New Year holiday, or even a week of them, with Tiki idols instead of Santa. This season is considered to be perfect for all kinds of romantic fairytale stories, so the seasonal parades and events in dream worlds are often explosive, featuring all the religions and myths intertwined. In military places, it normally boils down to confetti and Christmas lights — or, in quasi-electric worlds like Albion, street lamps burning gas of different color now and then.

  The time of day was all wrong though. I knew Tranh was Vietnamese. Or a Filipino. I’m not sure about the difference. Still, he was Asian, and he was supposed to have daytime now.

  “What are you, having an illegal session there in the Wake?” I asked him, revving up my working chair so it would assume a whole new shape.

  “I’m!” Tranh gave me a crooked smile, thin like a pencil line. “I’m working at a factory, friend. We have factories where they make you sleep as you work. I sleep for many days in a row before they need to wake me up.”

  “Huh.” I shuddered. I kept forgetting our planet remains a fragmented place, and the way we do things is not the way all the people do things. Some Asian countries even have money still, or food stamps, or Web stamps. Real Wakeworld crime is still present here and there, or at least you could be mugged or punched in some favela, for real. And there are places where people still believe in ancient religions, or are raving Faith fanatics, down to the last one.

  What I like about Clockworld, or maybe it’s Albion, is we look exactly the same here, despite our huge cultural differences. Even Tranh has to imitate a semblance of Cockney accent and tries to master the rhyming slang once in a while. They pay for it well, the authentic roleplay.

  So I play my role of a humble Apprentice Mechanic. First thing I do is call for the machine that brings me a new Knightwalker, either damaged or shiny and polished, or a million possible conditions in between. My new gig.

  The first order of business is to spring and remove all the traps someone has already installed before. No matter if they work or not, they all must either go to my trash or be salvaged for extra details and bonus earnings. In two weeks, which is about a couple months of the Clockwork’s day-and-night cycle, I learned to do my job like a pro.

  What I begin with is I grab a garden rake with long metal prongs, and I slap the Knightwalker around, the distance between the armor and me far enough so no trap could cause more damage than a couple metal bolts rolling underfoot.

  The unsprang traps still mounted at the armor’s sides and belly and back go off one after one — Clang! Clang! Clang! — biting and spitting metal on my broom’s scraping parts, and still, nothing beats the broom! As I pull it back, all traps identified and neutralized, its prongs are barely scratched at all. The strongest thing I’ve seen so far was a bear trap someone managed to sneak under a Knightwalker’s arm — after the bite of these two jaws of black steel, I did have to get the broom replaced. This happened only once though. All of the other stuff is normally weak enough to deal with it using the broom alone, zero material wasted on an entire array of complex tools meant for disarming traps. I know everything I need to manufacture the entire selection of them, and more. What I have in short supply is resources.

  Here’s the full list of everything I remove from this armor:

  Self-wound Spring, Small, x26

  Self-wound Spring, Medium, x12

  Self-wound Spring, Heavy, x1

  Steel Spike, x128

  Copper Spike, Poisoned, x5

  Tin Membrane, x16

  Small Spring, x66

  Medium Spring, x86

  Assorted Metal Planks, x100

  The membranes are used as triggers: you hit the walker, you unleash a hail of steel shrapnel on yourself, which is very effective because all the packages are delivered at once, point-blank. Plus a complex system of self-wound springs double-fused with the suit’s motors, so it could move twice faster, theoretically, except no-one really does it — an overdriven Knightwalker is far too unruly. The craftsmanship was good, but the entire work was an illusion of true invention.

  This is because to learn true invention, you play at the Pit. Even though it’s illegal for us Fusiliers — or at least theoretically — the crime pays off so much no one really cares for it, and this is why.

  The Pit is where you bet on mechanical dogfights. As in, four rival mechanics each build one dog. They meet, and there’s a prize which is a bet percentage, which means it’s often huge. Especially when you bet against me, considering none of my dogs ever won as of yet.

  Still, I did learn some tricks.

  My resources for today include the following gimmicks, also presented as cards for my convenience, so I can move them around, play a game of solitaire, see what fits before trying to fit the actual parts in:

  Copper Wire, x3600 (well, this one is priceless, so I always keep a few spools)

  Steel Wire, x100

  Razor Blades, x18

  Copper Cup, x22

  Nuts & Bolts, x999

  Small Arithmometer, x16

  These last are a true gift. Looking like golden scarabs as big as a child’s fist, they’re terribly expensive on the black market, and yet we Royal Fusiliers get them ridiculously cheap. This is because Apprentices hardly know how to wire them up, or are far too lazy to even try, no matter how the Web encourages them to. And yet it’s not real hard; about as hard as tuning up a gearbox on a bike. And the stuff you can do with them!

  So the first thing I did was craft a few heat sensors which I then intended to make smart. It wasn’t my invention, I learned it in the Pit, and it’s a thingy called a “Dead Eye”. I crafted a bunch of them:

  Crafting . . . Dead Eye, x16

  Tin Membrane, x16

  Copper String, x32

  Small Spring, x4

  How you do it is you cross-weld two tiny copper strings across the membrane, and you attach their ends to four tiny springs. The output of springs, their vibrations, is to be picked up separately and processed by an arithmometer then, which will be able to triangulate the thing that made a membrane tremble — usually by stepping too close — and launch a single poison spike into each new target, separately (and not unleash their entire might at once at the first hit, which could be a ruse!) and then hope the pilot will risk his or her life and engage the extra springs added to the suit’s joints, just because you exposed them by firing away your entire arsenal.

  This is why I crafted something called a “Death Head” first, which involves two membranous eyes of tin and one tiny clicking copper brain.

  Crafting . . . Death Head, x8

  Dead Eye, x16

  Small Arithmometer, x8

  I assembled a simple automatic poison dart launcher afterwards. I tested it by shooting an imaginary rat scuttling by, pried it out of a floorboard, examined the stain of noxious oil left by poison, and then made seven more of these darts, with two kinds of ammo.

  Crafting . . . Spike Thrower, x8

  Steel Spike, x128

  Copper Spike, Poisoned, x4

  Assorted Metal Planks, x64

  Small Spring, x20

  Half of my throwers were repe
ater types — once they open fire, they’ll send one steel spike after another in short succession, down a couple metal guides and on to the target. The suit’s automatic oiling system will provide the perfect traction and, if I’m lucky, my repeater bolts will hit a second target or at least make sure the first one is one hundred percent dead.

  Another half of my throwers though, they were the ones I hid best, each one of them also guided by a couple tin eyes and a small arithmometer, these ones truly lethal. They weren’t blunt force, they were skillful murder, and I knew I would receive a reward because of it. This Clockworld place is so much about style!

  So I hide my Death Heads among the ornaments on the giant’s copper belly, and under his arms, and in the back of course — eyes in all four directions, the entire orchestra set up the way the Knightwalker will first try and scare off a wave of attackers by dropping a few individual targets. And then, if the assault is still launched, hold them back with guided automatic fire, giving the pilot the time to properly assess the situation.

  The boring part is installing every part of the system, hiding them skillfully, and priming every spring afterwards. I virtual-test them with all main springs off — the darts merely pop up and stop. Everything works fine. I prime every confounded thing again.

  Then I pocket some wire, a Death Head, a heavy-duty self-wound spring, metal planks, and one poison dart. In Clockworld, a mechanic could pocket quite a lot. Still makes it a burden though. Not as bulky, but as heavy on you as the real thing would be.

  I have to work with this load for the entire remainder of the day, because then the next shift comes, and if those mechanics spill to someone which parts I nicked from the workshop, my luck in the Pit will definitely go wrong. I learned this the very first time, two weeks ago, after I built my first dog.

  “So,” I finally tell Tranh, the interesting part of the day done with. “What’s on the news?”

  I know he has a self-wound radio-receiving device hidden in the brooch on his top hat. He keeps listening to the Web news all the time; I feel it’s an Asian thing. Me, I’d have to buy a newspaper, and even though you could make some money by reading the newspaper, solving its crossword puzzle, or posing with it at specific locations, and so on — roleplay mostly — it wasn’t really my way of earning here. It’s always cheaper and faster to just ask Tranh.

  “Well, there’s this first Dead Creep who’s, you know, is no more.”

  “Don’t call them like that,” I told him. “My girlfriend is a DC.”

  “Oh,” Tranh said. “Man, where I come from, they are considered demons. Not real people, just imitations, a trick computer plays on you to control you.”

  “Well, my friend, then I’m in love with a demon,” I said. “A succubus, most likely. Some kind of vampire.”

  This piece of trivia alone must have earned me a shilling or two, but I was missing Daphne so bad I hardly noticed it. After Tranh said another thing though, I forgot all about her.

  “People of the Church say they did it,” he said. “Except no-one knows how, but they say they killed the demon, and they will hunt down every Cree… every Digital Citizen on the Web.”

  “Wait, that’s impossible,” I said. “Except… was there an Assassin?”

  Are you an Assassin, by any chance? I also wanted to ask him, but I didn’t.

  The Assassins were initially just a clan of cybersportsmen, professional hunters and killers, who formed a faction to push their cybersports agenda and score co-op frags. Many of them were Korean or Vietnamese to begin with. They built their sandstone citadel in the wastes just outside the Crescent, the virtual domain of the Sultanate. Soon, they had recruits from the Crescent’s elite warriors and buccaneers, including an entire Janissary unit, something very fearsome both as a whole and when broken down into crazed individuals.

  The Sultanate is a specific place, of many contrasts. Many of their citizens are people of Faith, or at least supporters of it, especially their poor people. Many of them do it because their Web access is limited, so they hardly know what the Dreamweb is about. When they do enter the Web, some of them become cybersportsmen, say, Assassins or Janissary or Dune Pirates — and, still being people of Faith, actively seek to destroy the Web they now inhabit. One may never understand this logic, and yet it’s pretty common.

  So the Church does have strong virtual presence in Clockworld, and the Baron was also from here, from Albion. Does it mean Assassins somehow infiltrated the place and followed the Baron to New York through whatever Narnia door he used? Everything was possible. Including the fact people of Faith might have found a way to permanently erase Digital Citizens. And…

  “There will be a raid,” Tranh said.

  “What?”

  “They’ll send some walkers to hit their citadel, which, technically, is protected by the Crescent,” he said. “This is why the Pit won’t be open today.”

  “Wait, but what will the Crescent say?” I asked. “The situation with them isn’t good to begin with, is it?”

  “Yep,” Tranh said. “Last time, they attacked, then we hit them hard. If we attack now, and we’re seen, this will be a declaration of war.”

  “Hmm.” I rubbed my chin. “So why are they doing it? This is crazy.”

  “The hope is, no-one comes out alive,” Tranh said. “Then, after they respawn tomorrow, who knows? It’s a whole day to patch things up, message sent.”

  “Aren’t the Crescent allies with La Republique?” I asked, thinking about Daphne again. If my girl is even alive by now, this is the place where she’ll wake up whenever she dies… unless these crazy Faith people do something to her to permanently erase her code. What if it already happened? I have no way of knowing, so my mind scuttled inside this vicious parade of thought like it was some hamster wheel, all the while I cleaned, then rigged another Knightwalker, and then another. Then the shift was over. Another fellow mechanic approached us, this one from a higher caste of Assistant Mechanics, working on bigger things a floor above.

  “Hey, noobs,” he greeted us. “Sadly, my pooch cannot tear you all apart at the Pit today. It’s closed. I suggest we still drink a couple mugs of ale together, like team, after this day of hard dedicated work.”

  “What happened to the Pit?” Tranh said with an innocent smile.

  “We’ll hear by the morning,” the response was. “Something’s brewing, this is what I know. Ale? I pay.”

  The local virtual ale is quite tasty, especially given the fact it’s my only way to spend the rest of the night relaxing and not overthinking. Also, something about this lad’s tone suggested their team wouldn’t be too happy with the members of our team who refused this show of camaraderie. So we went.

  To get to the Pit, one must take a long path snaking between dusty factory walls, then fishy courtyards full of junk and offal, then walk waist-deep in the nettles until you step out into a clearing with large barn doors bashed together out of assorted planks in front of you. You’re supposed to knock on the Pit’s gates three times, and they ask you a password, and so on. This was our everyday ritual for a week now.

  We went another way this time, a very short way. We merely crossed the cobblestoned street, and the Assistant Mechanic ushered us into a pub. This was pretty much an honestly normal pub, very dusty and smoky, most of its clientele Royal Fusiliers like us, half of them mechanics. Here, they poured each one of us a mug of free ale, sort of herded us together and let us socialize. The word was mostly about the Baron being killed in a terror attack by the Sultanate, carried out by the Crescent. Pretty much everyone was sure Americans are involved. No-one seemed to know how exactly.

  While we talked, a trio of black-hooded figures sifted through the crowd, isolating each one of us and giving us brief instructions.

  “Apprentice Mechanic RF-10012,” one of these figures told me when our paths crossed in the crowd. “You are expected to be a part of a raid tomorrow. You’ve been assigned the usual set of Knightwalke
rs. Please arrive at H minus two tomorrow and make sure your units are war-ready.”

  “War?” I said. “And what the hell is H minus two?”

  And then I woke up, and it was just another morning in the Wakeworld.

  ***

  “This is why you don’t want to play these videogames at night, son,” Ben’s father said, attacking his greasy omelet — neither father nor son were remotely decent at cooking. The old Harry pointed at Ben with his pseudoplastic fork and went on: “No matter how rich you may be, how well you are connected, if these religious freaks catch a whiff of you, they’ll get you anywhere. While you’re inside this thing, you’re helpless.”

  “Dad,” Ben said. “I entered you into the program this morning. Digitization. They’re supposed to call me and tell me the date sometime around today.”

  Ben’s father clasped the side of their kitchenette table like something was stuck in his chest. He held for a while, then let go, his knuckles still white.

  “I’m glad, son,” he said. “You’re absolutely right, my knowledge must be saved anyway. And my mind is sharp enough, so I’ll make a good robot, eh?”

  Ben flashed him an uneasy smile. “Sure, Dad. Thanks for this; I know it’s not easy for a person your age.”

  “Just promise this one thing,” Ben’s father said, his pale eyes staring wild.

  “Yes?”

  “Promise to keep me… this copy of me, on a hard drive,” he said, looking around like he lost something. “Don’t let it into this Web thing. Not before it’s safe.”

  “Dad!”

  “Not before these Faith idiots are gone, not before someone stops them from erasing people like me—”

  “Dad, nothing will—”

  “Keep me on a hard drive!”