by Anthology
I walk toward them, passing in front of my uncle. There is a loud sharp sound from far away, and it all stops.
Clockwork, Patchwork and Ravens
Peter M. Ball
Jackson said she'd been hanging with the Corvidae before he found her, that she was one of those girls that bounced between gangers named Jackdaw6 or Raven8. They'd pumped her full of genemorphs laced with avian DNA, hoping she'd be lucky and avoid the bad reaction. It had already affected her teeth, turning the molars into rotting shards. Her lips were growing hard, thickening into dark cartilage, and I could see the shadow of her organs beneath the bleached skin stretched across her ribcage. Jackson said he found her wandering in the alley behind the crow boy's nest, trying to staunch the fluid seeping from her fresh-plucked eye-socket. He brought her home, patched her up, and turned her over to me for safe-keeping while he went downstairs to work. I stood over her and watched her, letting the hours tick by, and eventually I kissed her.
My kiss didn't wake her, though she stirred a little at my touch. Downside is not a place where fairytales happen, and no-one would mistake me for a handsome prince. It was a clumsy kiss, as you'd expect, but a kiss. A kiss!
When she did not wake I stood, resuming my vigil. I could feel myself blushing, my right cheek warm. I turned my other cheek toward her, hiding behind the copper mask.
Even now, looking back, I'm still not sure why I did it. It's not as if she was a pretty thing, with her bruises and her missing eye, but there was still some remnant of beauty beneath the blue stitches of Jackson's repair. She was a creature of the Downside streets, all feral promise and rough allure. I didn't love her---that would be unseemly for a half-man like me---but I envied her, desperately, for the blue stitching that held her together and the heart that still beat in her chest. I wished, for just a moment, that Jackson had done the same for me. I could feel the steady flick of that pulse when our lips touched. It was alive; faint, but eager to exist. My own heart ticked on, steady and regular, the soft tick-tock marking a regular beat as it pulped blood through those veins I still possessed.
* * * *
Jackson wanted to be a hero, I knew that without asking. When I was little, just after he took me in, Jackson used to tell me stories about heroes, about knights and princes and ducks that turned into swans. I would listen to his stories, curled up in bed, crying as the pain of a new graft wracked my chest and shoulder. I had to ignore the sound of the gangs and the crowds that filled the Downside streets, the occasional brawl or gunshot cutting through the din. Jackson would fill my head with heroes, with worlds where heroes still existed. I never believed in his stories, but I always believed in Jackson. It was easier, cleaner, but it was just as dangerous in the end.
* * * *
The girl slept for three days, sedated and monitored. I spent my nights watching her fight against the painkillers, twisting against the thin sheets in Jackson's cot. I was afraid to move, afraid the grinding cogs in my arms would disturb her bad dreams. I dreamt of kissing her again, dreamt of her waking up and looking on my copper mask and grafted limbs without the inevitable shudder. It was not to be. She woke in the dim light of the third morning, jettisoned from her nightmares with a gurgling scream. She cast about the room with her good eye, looking for something familiar, but all she got was me, and the mangled nubbin of flesh that had been her tongue started making strangled sounds that could have been words. I knelt beside her, putting my good hand on hers, making sure there was contact between her flesh and mine.
"It's okay," I said. "You're safe here."
She struggled and I held her down, the steady tick-tock of my heart frightening her more than the cold grip of my hand. She had a coppery, nervous scent and I saw blood stains on her bandages. Her good eye stared at my face as I leaned in to check the stitches. She waited, trembling and sluggish, still woozy from the barbiturates. I pulled back and limped away. She was scared of me, so scared her fear emerged through the painkiller haze, and I couldn't calm her down.
"You've pulled your stitches," I told her. I couldn't make my voice sound soothing, no matter how hard I tried. "You're bleeding. Wait here, I'll go get Jackson." And I ran, fleeing the bedroom, as she let loose an angry gurgle that should have been a scream.
* * * *
There was comfort in the clutter of Jackson's workshop downstairs; the overburdened workbenches piled high with bits of clockwork and old tech and equipment we scavenged from the burnt-out hospital on the river. I followed the sound of Jackson's snoring through the cramped maze of junk and spare parts, found him in the overstuffed chair he left by the boiler, soaking up warmth as he slept. He looked old, even for Jackson, the wrinkled features like the grooves of a thumbprint, the wisps of hair hanging limp around his face. I leant over and shook him, letting the metal fingers close over his shoulder. "Jackson," I said. "Jackson, the girl's awake."
He slept, stubbornly, until I placed a cold right hand against his bare forehead. Jackson had built me that arm from scratch, and the one I'd worn before it, and the one before that. Its touch woke him faster than any jostling or loud noise ever could. "Randal?" he said, blinking. His eyes were never good, especially in the dark. I lifted the notebook off his lap and helped him to his feet, setting his journal on a nearby bench while he straightened himself up.
"It's morning, Jackson," I told him. The left side of my mouth twisted into a wry smile. "She's awake and she's pulled some stitches. I think I might have frightened her."
"She'll calm down," he said. "And pulling the stitches won't harm her anymore than she's been harmed." Jackson rubbed his eyes with one hand and smiled his forlorn smile. "How is she?"
"Struggling to speak." I clenched my fist, metal straining against metal. "They took her tongue, Jackson. The crow boys, they cut it right out." It was a mistake to mention the tongue. Jackson nodded, eyes growing distant, and I knew that I'd lost him, that his mind had the association it needed to turn toward to his beloved work. Jackson picked up his notebook, finger tracing the anatomical sketches and blueprints. He was making plans, figuring out a way to replace what was lost. I touched his arm again.
"We should run," I said. "We can. She's awake now. We should run before they come for her."
Jackson looked up and shook his head. "It would kill her," he said. "To move her now, so soon, so soon after..." He shook his head again and sighed. "We need a week. Maybe two. Enough time for her to heal. Then we can leave. Then we can run." His eyes dropped to the notebook as he said it, the blue-and-black plans and the detailed annotations. There was a thump upstairs as she fell out of bed. A loud moan of pain filtering down through the floorboards. I thought of the mangled face, the blue stitching and the scars. Beaten by the Corvidae, Jackson had said. We both knew what would happen when they realised the girl had lived.
"They'll find us before then," I told him.
"I know." My heart beat, tick-tock, tick-tock, as I watched Jackson blink back tears. His face set, trying to hold back a shiver of fear. The Corvidae were bad news; both of us knew that. He put his hand on my shoulder, fingers wrapping across the scars. "But I'm going to take care of her," Jackson said. "She didn't deserve this, Randal."
No-one ever does. Jackson didn't look at me, just tore a page from his notebook and held it out. It was a list of parts, carefully annotated, written in Jackson's sloppy script. I ran down the list, noting the unfamiliar names. They were small parts, tiny. Expensive, too, with our finances.
"I'll take care of her stitches," Jackson said, limping toward the stairs. "It will be okay, Randal. We'll get away before you know it."
* * * *
I double-checked the locks as I left, nervous about leaving him alone. Most of the time, shopping for Jackson takes effort rather than money. This time he was working small, and that meant parts with names I didn't recognise. Technology; state of the art; the kind with names that read like a secret code. Finding those parts meant someone with black-market contacts. It meant shopping fast and getting o
ff the streets before someone noticed what I was doing. It meant Jackie Pelican.
I went down to the river and found him sitting near the harbour tunnel, hawking cheap tech to Cityside tourists heading home after a day in their favourite kink-house. There was an art to the way Jackie worked, pretending to thumb a ride and then hustling the drivers with cheap promises and stolen tech the moment the car stopped. Pelican always said that anyone stupid enough to stop for a Downsider wearing six jackets as he thumbed a ride was going to be an easy mark for his patter, and it turned out he was right more often than not.
He was cutting a deal when I found him, a lump of layered coats and furs pushing data-chips through the window of a Cityside Lexus. I hung back, out of sight. The Pelican didn't need me interrupting his business, and I knew better than to get in his way. It took him five, maybe six minutes to close the deal. Money changed hands and the Lexus sped off, threading into the tunnel that linked the Downside grime with the towers and gleaming lights of the city. The Pelican stood by the side of the road, shuffling through his bills, then nodded and slipped the cash into the pockets of his second jacket. I lumbered across the concrete, coming up behind him. Pelican heard me coming, recognised the tick and the steady thump of my limp. "Randal," he said, making a wide turn, his small face beaming among the layered jacket collars. I clapped Pelican on the shoulder and the gears in my arm groaned. He feigned a shudder at the noise. "Clockwork was a bad fad, Randy. When are you going to let me fix you up with something a little less retro?"
"I don't have money for your upgrades, Pelican. You know that."
"You could work it off, Randal," Pelican said. "You're a good kid, talented, and you're wasted in Jackson's workshop. I'm sure I could find a job for you."
"I like the workshop," I said. "It's homey."
Pelican rolled his eyes and laughed, the thick layers of coats wobbling, his throat swelling up as his humour boomed out. "Fine," he said. "If you can't be lured away from the aging reprobate, why don't you tell me what the Pelican can do for you? I assume Jackson's sent you on another shopping trip?"
I held out the list and pointed at the items I needed, letting the Pelican study them through the cracked lens of his glasses. He puffed his cheeks out as his read, fleshy jowls ballooning as he chewed on the air. "That's a strange list, Randal. What's Jackson up to?"
"I don't know, but if I had to guess..."
"Yeah?"
I shook my head and shrugged. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's building someone a tongue."
The Pelican's eyes went narrow and his teeth clicked together. He breathed in, hissing. "A tongue for whom?"
He was standing straight now, drawing up to his full height, bulging jowls starting to quiver. I stumbled backwards, putting weight on the bad leg. Jackie didn't move to help me, he just settled back into the seat he kept near his hitching spot. "I don't know," I said. "Some girl he found."
The Pelican whistled through his yellowing teeth. "Jackson and his strays," he said. "Fuck." He closed his eyes and quivered. I knelt down next to him, waited for him to explain, watching the watery eyes that refused to meet mine. I put the clockwork arm on his shoulder, let him feel its weight.
"What do you know, Jackie Pelican?"
The Pelican let out a soft snort, glancing to either side. "Nothing, kid," he said. "I know nothing. Just be careful, okay?"
He smiled at me, cheeks rosy, and named me a price. I paid it and collected the parts, lugged them home, worrying.
* * * *
Jackson had the girl awake by the time I made it back, the steady patter of his speech broken by the stilted syllables of a synthesizer linked to a touch pad. I listened to the dead, cold voice as it answered questions, carrying on her half of the conversation. It was raspy, empty. There were better programs available, but Jackson preferred the retro feel of passive inflections and static. I put the supplies down on the nearest workbench and locked the door, double checking all three deadbolts before stepping back. The alleyway outside was empty, dark even during the day, but talking to Pelican had left me feeling anxious and worried about what was coming. I'd stumbled down three or four different alleyways on my way home, backtracking and cutting through side-streets. I wondered how long it would be before I was actually being followed; sooner or later the news that the girl had survived would filter its way to the Corvidae and they'd come looking for her. I contemplated pulling a workbench in front of the door, damn the mess that moving one would make.
"Randal?" Jackson's voice floated down the stairwell. "Randal, is that you?" There was fear in his voice, but he disguised it well.
"It's me." I limped to the stairwell and waved.
"Randal," Jackson said, "Come up and meet our guest." I shook my head and Jackson frowned at me, his thick eyebrows drawing together. I pointed to the lopsided mask, the arm that had frightened her earlier, and Jackson snorted
"Randal," he said, and I lowered my head. I started climbing up the stairs, my right foot thumping on the wood. Jackson smiled and took my arm as I reached the top, leading me into the room. The girl was still limp, still caught in the numb painkiller haze, she shuddered when she saw my face. Jackson led me over and sat on the corner of the cot. "This is Randal," he said, keeping his voice calm and low. "You'd call him my assistant, I guess. He took care of you during the evenings."
"Hi," I said. I gave her a lopsided grin. "You look like you're healing well."
She was pale now, paler than when I'd left the workshop, and there were bloodstains on her bandages. Jackson had been drugging her, prepping her for more surgery, re-working the lines of blue stitches that held her battered body together. There were sutures on her cheeks that hadn't been there when I left. The girl scratched her hand across the touchpad, letting the computer beside the cot translate the movements into speech. Thank. You. Randal. My. Name. Is. Rose.
There was something lucid beneath the drug haze, something aware of where she'd found herself. She studied my face with her good eye, following the lines of steel and scarred skin, suddenly focused on what those scars could mean. "It's an old job," I said. "And I'm too cantankerous a patient for Jackson to replace things or make them pretty. Don't worry; he'll make sure you're still beautiful when he's done."
She smiled at me then, a terrible expression on her broken face, and winced as the smile tugged at the sutures. Jackson slipped a hypodermic into her neck, easing opiates into her bloodstream. I stepped back, giving him room, watching as she went under.
"Sleep now, Miss Rose," Jackson said. "We'll have you up and talking soon." She shook her head, fingers fumbling for the pad, but the drugs hit and she faded. Her hand went limp again.
Jackson stood up and ran his fingers through the pale wisps of his hair, looking pensive as she studied the ruin of her face. "She isn't going to be pretty, Randal. You shouldn't have lied to her."
I turned around and walked toward the stairs.
"She'll be pretty enough," I said. "You'll rebuild her and she'll be pretty enough."
We both knew he planned to install the tongue before we ran away.
* * * *
We argued after that, Jackson and I. Argued about running, about rescuing the girl, about trying to install a new tongue while we both knew the Corvidae were coming to find us. Jackson won, as always; he's a smart man, and he has arguments aplenty when he needs them.
"We shall stay," he said. "Who would find us, if they looked for her? Who would even consider looking for a girl in a place like this?"
"Pelican knows," I told him. "He knew the moment I asked for the parts. He knows, Jackson, and they'll know to ask him. They're looking, Jackson. They're going to come."
Jackson shook his head, his eyes sad. "We are safe enough, Randall. She'll heal before they find us, and there is always the tunnel if she does not. Pelican knows many things, but he does not know about that." He settled down behind his workbench, sitting in the battered hardwood chair with its back stiff and straight like a throne. Jackson, king
of clockwork, master of the world he surveyed. I didn't share his faith in the tunnel. We could get out if we used it, yes, but we still had to run. And the tunnel has been here longer than I have, longer than Jackson and his towering piles of junk. He always told me it was a service entrance, built in the days when the workshop was home to grander creations than ours. It wasn't a secret then, and it was barely a secret now.
That night I took a lantern and walked down the dark length of the tunnel. We had used it as a graveyard, a crypt for the gutted husks of grandfather clocks we'd salvaged for parts. The slow tick-tock of my heart echoed against the stones, mocking the dead clock-faces.
"Safe enough," I told myself, and the words echoed off the walls. It took hours to clear a path, to make sure the tunnel was ready if we needed it. I checked the locks and the keys at the far end, just to be sure. I ambled down the narrow corridor. It would be a short sprint, if running was needed, but I'm not built for speed and Jackson was old. My faith in his plan waned as I contemplated the possibilities.
* * * *
They found us the day after Jackson installed Rose's new tongue.
Jackson and Rose were asleep when it happened. He, lost in a quiet slump beside the cot, she, twisting and turning through another night of medicated slumber. I stood by the doorway, my heart a metronome beat beneath the steady rhythm of Jackson's snoring, and I heard the muffled thump in the workshop downstairs. I thought it might have been an invention, or a pile of Jackson's parts collapsing in the night. Such things weren't unheard of in a workshop such as ours. It wasn't until the second thump, and then the third, that I realized what it was: someone kicking, hammering, trying to batter down our door. I heard the wood give way, the locks bending inwards, the soft crunch of someone walking across the workshop floor.
We had an intruder, and that wasn't a pleasant thought.
