Clockwork Heart

by Dru Pagliassotti

  Lady, she thought, alarmed, if he loses control, I will, too, and we’ll both be sitting here crying like babies.

  But Cristof took a deep breath, slamming his glass down on the table with a bang.

  “My brother thought Caster was attacked because of the program he’d written?” he demanded.

  “He suggested it, but I don’t see why the Torn Cards would care about a program to predict happy marriages. The whole thing’s silly, don’t you think?”

  “It’s exactly the kind of program he would write. Alister wants everything to be just right, and he’ll do whatever—” Cristof stopped and looked away. When he continued, his voice was rough. “Alister was an idealist. Things either worked perfectly or they didn’t work at all.”

  “I thought you were the idealist.”

  “No.” He looked back at her. “I know the world isn’t perfect, and I don’t think it can be. But I try to repair the worst problems. Alister would rather scrap the whole program and write a new one from scratch.”

  “Did someone break his heart once? Is that why he wrote the program?”

  Cristof studied her, then dropped his gaze to his ale. “Alister would never risk a broken heart. He preferred perfect flirtations to imperfect love. He wrote that program for our parents.”

  “But they—” she stopped, suddenly putting the pieces together. Cristof shrugged, his narrow shoulders slicing the air.

  “We could talk to his programming team,” he said, changing the subject. “Maybe one of them leaked information to the Torn Cards. I agree that it seems like a stretch. But they’re probably the only suspects who are still available. Alister always stays up late at the University when he’s working on a program.”

  A beat of silence followed his words. Taya looked down at her hands. Cristof pushed his ale away.

  “You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to,” he said abruptly, standing.

  “I’ll come.” She got to her feet. People cleared a path as she led the way out, her wings scraping the ceiling once more.

  Night had fallen. Taya fastened the neck of her flight suit, grateful for its padded lining. Cristof buttoned up his coat and pulled up its collar. The winds had died down, but the night air had a bite. We’ll get snow in a few more weeks, Taya guessed, looking up at the stars.

  “You shouldn’t walk around with your armature undone,” Cristof said, breaking the silence. “It isn’t safe.”

  “I thought we might go someplace where I’d want to take it off.” She looked at the unfastened straps. “I guess not.” She tugged them free and ran them through the buckles on her suit.

  They stood in silence as she worked. Then Cristof shifted, his shoe scraping on the cobbled street.

  “I apologize for shaking you,” he said, his manner stiff.

  “It’s all right. You were mad. So was I.”

  “Even so.” He turned, his sharp profile gleaming in the gaslight. “I never thought I’d raise a hand to a woman. I lost control.”

  “You were under a lot of stress.” She tugged a shoulder buckle tight, feeling a twinge of remorse. “I’m sorry I hit you, too. I mean, I wouldn’t have been sorry if you’d been the one who’d set the bomb, but since you’re not….”

  He nodded once, falling silent again. Taya had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t satisfied, but she didn’t know what else to say. Instead, she finished fastening the armature. Cristof began walking, and she fell into step beside him.

  People bustled through the streets of Secundus on their way home from work, their coats wrapped around them and their bundles under their arms. Gas lamps and lit storefronts kept the streets bright. The lights of Primus rose overhead until they melded with the stars, and the lights of Tertius swept out below, vanishing in the furnace-red glow of the smelting factory chimneys.

  Taya glanced at Cristof. He looked unhappy, huddled in his greatcoat as they walked.

  “What will the lictors do if they find out you’re investigating your brother’s death?” she asked, to distract him.

  Cristof shrugged again.

  “Threaten me. Throw me in prison for a few days. Fire me, if they get really upset.”

  “You don’t sound too worried about it.”

  “I don’t need the job. I have plenty of money from my inheritance, and the repair business is good.”

  “Why didn’t you give up your inheritance when you turned your back on your caste?”

  “It’s my money,” Cristof snapped. “My parents died long before I decided I’d had enough of Primus.”

  “So all you really did was take off your mask and change your clothes,” she shot back, irritated. “You still have your money and your title, and you’re still part of the government.”

  “So?”

  “So, it wasn’t exactly a heroic rebellion.”

  Cristof’s laugh was short and bitter.

  “You’ve got me confused with somebody else. I’m not a hero or a rebel.”

  “Then why are you doing this to yourself?” She gestured to his short hair and mercantile clothing.

  “Alister never understood, either.”

  Taya took a deep breath, reminding herself that Cristof was grieving, too. Diplomacy. She moderated her tone.

  “Then maybe you need to explain it better.”

  They walked another block before he started to speak, pausing often, as if choosing his words with care.

  “There are lower-castes who think exalteds aren’t human. They think we’re hiding some kind of grotesque deformity behind our masks and our robes, or that we’re really spirits or demons. But the only thing exalteds are hiding is that they are human.”

  They turned down the broad, tree-lined street that led to the University’s towering iron gates. Dry red and gold leaves rustled around them, casting ghostly shadows in the light of the street lamps.

  “Believers say the Lady permits us an eternity of rebirth to refine our base souls, and being born as exalteds proves that we’re close to the final forging. But exalteds are as imperfect as anyone else and just as liable to shatter under pressure.

  “My father beat my mother to death and killed himself. The caste covered it up. It wouldn’t be in our best interest to admit that exalteds can go mad. The lower castes might lose faith in our ability to rule the city.” Cristof’s voice dripped venom. “So we lie to them.”

  “Nobody would want to publicize something that terrible,” Taya murmured. “It wouldn’t matter what caste it had happened in.”

  “If you never talk about a problem, how can you prevent it?” Cristof stopped at the University gates and pointed to the motto inscribed in iron over the arch. Knowledge is Power. “Exalteds worship knowledge. We feed every scrap of data we can collect into the Great Engine— unless it’s about ourselves. We don’t want to know the truth about ourselves. My father’s friends should have realized something was wrong. They should have stopped him long before he got around to killing my mother. But everybody turned a blind eye to what was happening. They didn’t want to see his wife’s bruises or listen to his sons’ pleas for help, because if they did, they’d have to admit their caste wasn’t perfect.”

  “So you left Primus because you were angry,” Taya summarized. “Why don’t you just say so?”

  Cristof tightened his lips, drawing away.

  “You think it’s trivial.”

  “I didn’t say that. I was heartbroken when my mother died. She got the coughing sickness and the doctors couldn’t do anything about it. I know a parent’s death isn’t trivial.”

  “It isn’t about my parents.” Cristof jerked around and began walking again, leading the way through the university commons. “I minded my caste for eight years after they died, finishing school and taking care of Alister. But I saw it happening, over and o
ver again. Lies and cover-ups and pretense. Exalteds will do anything to keep from admitting they’re as flawed as the lower castes. Finally I decided I’d be more useful repairing clocks than pretending to be perfect. Alister was already here at the University with a shining future ahead of him, so I left.”

  “Was your brother angry when you went?”

  “Of course he was.” Cristof’s expression was blank. “I wasn’t his ideal older brother anymore. But he got over it. Maybe he managed to reclassify me as the ideal outcaste. I don’t know. But he started talking to me again, and he listened when I told him what was wrong with Ondinium. When he was named decatur last year, he told me he was going to make a difference.” He raked his hand through his short black hair. “A marriage program. Some difference.”

  “He meant well,” Taya said, hurrying to catch up with Cristof’s long strides. “You dealt with your parents’ deaths by running away. Alister dealt with them by writing a program to keep it from happening again. I think a lot of people would say his solution was more useful than yours.”

  “I wouldn’t.” Cristof climbed up the broad marble steps of one of the buildings. “A clockwork heart can’t replace the real thing.” He pushed open the giant wooden doors and walked inside.

  Taya had to duck through the doorway to enter, but the vaulted ceilings inside the building were high enough to accommodate her wings and two span more. She’d visited the Science and Technology building before, receiving and delivering messages, but never at night. Now the halls were dark, the industrially themed frescos on the ceiling hidden in shadow. A low, steady chuffing and rattling from the bank of steam engines in the subbasement level echoed through the corridors.

  Her courier duties usually took her upstairs to the offices, but Cristof headed down a short flight of steps to the basement labs. The sound of the engines grew louder, but not loud enough to drown out the argument in the first lab they approached.

  Three men and two women sat in the cluttered room, ale flagons and beer jugs scattered about. A board of bread and sausage shared table space with a variety of mechanical devices and tools, and a huge analytical engine spanned the wall behind them, clicking and chattering. One of the women was feeding it a set of cards with one hand and holding a tankard in the other. All of the programmers bore the spiral castemark of a dedicate over their right cheekbones.

  “—we won’t know until we get a Cabisi programmer in here to try it out,” one of the young men was saying with finality. The others raised their voices in disagreement.

  Cristof cleared his throat.

  “If you break that engine while you’re … celebrating … you’ll be blinded and sent into exile,” he said in a cold tone.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” the woman at the table replied, turning. “We’re too—” She stopped. “Oh, scrap.”

  The others turned, then scrambled to their feet, making awkward bows. Taya expected Cristof to shout at them the way he’d shouted at her, but instead he stalked forward, his lip curled with disgust.

  “I assume you have some excuse for this mess?”

  “I-It’s a wake, Exalted,” one of the men stammered. Cristof froze.

  “It’s for Exalted Forlore,” another added.

  “You must be his brother,” said the third man, looking up. “He told us about you. There can’t be more than one exalted who goes uncovered in public.”

  “This is Exalted Cristof Forlore,” Taya hurried to say, before Cristof could respond with something unpleasant. “And I’m Taya Icarus. We’re investigating Alister Forlore’s death, and we need your help. There are things about his programming work that we don’t understand, and we hoped you might be able to explain it to us.”

  The five programmers relaxed.

  “You think his work has something to do with the accident?” one asked.

  “Maybe.” Taya left the answer hanging.

  “Well, we can try,” another man said, with an air of condescension. “What do you want to know?”

  “How about your names?” Taya asked, forcing herself to give him a friendly smile despite the emotional turmoil she was feeling. “You were … you were Alister’s friends, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re his programming team.” The man who’d recognized Cristof held out a hand to her. He was handsome in a conventional way, with brown hair and blue eyes. “I’m Kyle. The big guy over there is Lars, the one with the scary beard is Victor, the skinny one is Emelie, and the tall one is Isobel.”

  Taya greeted them all, shaking hands. Standing to one side, his hands in his pockets, Cristof seemed disinclined to speak. She was glad of it. She needed to do something useful to keep her mind off everything that had happened.

  “I’m glad to meet you. I understand you’ve just finished an important program for the Council?”

  “Yeah, although now that Alister’s gone, who knows if it’ll ever get run through the mill?” Victor grumbled, dropping back into his chair. He was pale and thin, with a bushy black beard and moustache that did, indeed, make him look a bit scary. “That’s why we’re running it here tonight.”

  Taya thought about Victor’s use of Alister’s first name. It would have been impossible for the exalted to work with a team while he was wearing a mask and robes. He must have trusted them with his first name and bare face.

  Good. That would make this easier.

  “It’s sort of a commemorative voyage. We wanted to run it through once, in case the Council rejects it,” Isobel added, turning back to the machine. She was still holding a box of punch cards. Her height and blond hair suggested Demican blood, although her dedicate castemark meant she was at least second-generation.

  “Is it his romance program?” Taya asked. “Are you running any names through it?”

  “All of ours.” Isobel flashed her a quick smile. “We wanted to see if any of us are romantically compatible.”

  “What happens if the program says you are?”

  “The couple goes on a date, and we test the program’s validity,” Lars said. He turned to the table. “Can I get you anything, Exalted? Icarus?”

  “I’ll have some of that beer,” Taya said, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat. “Since this is a wake.”

  “Refills all around,” Kyle commanded. Cups were thrust forward. Taya was surprised when Cristof stepped up, his eyes hooded, and took a tankard.

  “Will you make the toast, Exalted?” Isobel asked, turning to him.

  Cristof hesitated, then nodded and lifted the tankard.

  “To my brother, whose work I’ll do my best to see preserved.”

  With a murmur of thanks, the group touched cups and flagons and drank.

  “Can you do that?” Kyle asked, looking at Cristof with new interest. “Your brother told us you’d rejected your caste.”

  “I can try.”

  “Well, it’d be great not to lose a whole year of programming.” Kyle tipped his cup toward the clicking analytical engine. “Clockwork Heart was Alister’s obsession. Even when the rest of us went home, he stayed be here running tests and trying new approaches. He pretty much lived in this room for several months.”

  “He was the best of us,” Victor said heavily, pouring himself more ale. Before Taya could protest, he’d refilled her mug, sloshing some over her hand. “No one’ll ever punch code the way he did.”

  “On the Clockwork Heart program?” Taya asked.

  “On any of ’em. Lady knows what’ll happen if something he wrote ever needs to be modified. It’ll take the whole team to figure out what he did.”

  “What other programs did he work on?” Cristof inquired.

  “Lots of things.”

  “Top-secret things.”

  “I heard he was fourth programmer on Labyrinth,” Emelie said.

  “Labyrinth
was before his time,” Lars objected.

  “No, they brought him in for it,” Victor asserted.

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’m telling you, he worked on it.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Cristof refilled everyone’s drink as the argument continued. Taya was surprised until she observed that he didn’t refill his own flagon.

  He wanted them drunk.

  “Didn’t he work on Refinery, too?” Isobel asked, giving Cristof a distracted nod as the exalted topped off her tankard.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kyle said. “He was second programmer on that one.”

  “And he got the job because of his work on Labyrinth Code,” Victor insisted.

  “What’s—” Taya started, then caught Cristof’s warning look and let the question die on her lips. The programmers didn’t notice, caught up in their argument. Then the analytical engine began to click, and Isobel flinched and began feeding it cards again.

  “How much longer is that going to take?” Lars complained. “We’ve been running it all day.”

  “Not much longer. We’re almost down to the bottom,” Isobel said, hoisting the box as evidence.

  “Good. Here’s to us, beautiful.” Lars lifted his glass and winked. She snorted, unimpressed, and went back to work.

  “Why did the Council permit Alister to work on something as ridiculous as Clockwork Heart after he’d spent so much time on important programs?” Cristof asked.

  “It’s not ridiculous,” Isobel objected.

  “Oh, they kept him working on their projects, too, but Heart was always part of the deal,” Kyle explained. “Alister agreed to work on the Council’s programs as long as he was given equal time to work on his own. Tells you something about how much they needed him that they let him cut the deal.”

  “He charmed them, just like he charmed everyone,” Emelie said with irritation. “Alister always got what he wanted.”

  “Hey, don’t complain,” Lars protested. “We’re lucky he wanted us, or we’d still be punching accounting programs for the slagging Bank of Ondinium.”