Cogs in Time 2 (The Steamworks Series)

by SJ Davis

  The kitchens showed at least a little more use than all of the other rooms, only dirty in places and not covered by dust. Even so, the sights left Jorge uncomfortable. Food lay wasting, covered in flies, and wild stains of dried brown blood had splashed on the butchering block, the same colouring covered haphazardly strewn knives lousy with rust. He picked the closest one up and held it to the light. The blood was sticky and fresh, muting any shine left in the metal underneath. Carefully, Jorge placed it back on the counter, and turned to leave the kitchen. There was nothing to find there.

  A shape appeared in the gloom of the corridor beyond.

  Jorge fought an instinct to run, to hide, to flee whatever it was. His rational mind told him to wait, tried to quell the rising fear. He could hear a muttering now, low and insistent, the words yet indistinct. Involuntarily, he stepped back into the kitchen, towards the cutting board and the knife he had just examined. As the shape approached, it became man sized, and Jorge recognized it to be Mortenson, with no small amount of relief.

  At least initially.

  The old man had never been the most well-dressed of people. Even when Jorge and he had first met, Mortenson's top hat and tails, a slightly old and faded charcoal grey instead of its intended black, had been a little grubby. He’d worn a moustache that had needed waxing, and the hair sticking out from the bottom of his hat along the back of his neck could have used a cut. His cane, with its magnificent silver headpiece had wanted for polishing. Even so, Mortenson's voice had betrayed great intellect that suffered no fools and, broached no failure. The look in his eyes was piercing, a glance that read people in moments.

  Mortenson now looked something else entirely. He wore a cream shirt that might have once been white, but for the marks of sweat and dirt that covered it. His jacket and top hat had been lost somewhere unknown. Both sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the arms below them were covered in soot and grease. The old man clearly hadn't shaved in some days, possibly even weeks, his stubble long and beginning to blur the lines between his intended facial hair and unattended growth. His eyes still sparkled, but with a hard icy stare that made Jorge involuntarily shudder.

  Mortenson stopped muttering when he saw Jorge at last. “You? Oh good. You've come.” He didn't seem to question why Jorge would be inside of the residence, or how he might have gained admittance. If the light had attracted him, he made no mention of it. “Follow me boy, we have much to do on this vital evening!” With one arm, he swept Jorge alongside him and into the hallway, walking back along the way that he had come.

  Jorge uncertainly crept alongside Mortenson. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. His need for the continued patronage of his employer won over his better judgement - at least for the moment.

  Mortenson suddenly stopped. “Wait! Wait here boy. I have forgotten.” With that, the old man abruptly turned and disappeared into the darkness back towards the kitchen, seemingly not needing light to find his way.

  A sharp clattering and a string of obscenities that matched those Jorge had heard amongst the dock workers sounded before Mortenson appeared again, a huge carving knife held firmly in one hand. Like the others, it had lost its gleam some time before, but still looked dangerously sharp.

  “Now boy, we go!” Once again, the sooty arm descended upon Jorge's shoulders and pulled him close.

  “What are we doing, sir?”

  “This evening is the culmination of all of my efforts. It has been the ruination of my family fortune and the direction of my life for all these years, but now the end is in sight!” Mortenson ranted a crazed sermon.

  “I don't understand sir—”

  “And why should you, indeed?” Mortenson cut him off. “No reason at all. I'll show you! All the explanation that you'll need.” He thrust Jorge before him with some urgency, as though he could show him whatever it was sooner that way.

  They reached the large staircase in the entrance hall at the front of the residence. Two curved sets of steps led away from either side of a fresco showing little angels locked in mortal struggle with devils twice their size painted onto a protruding wall. It was a horrible visage. On the left hand side, the steps elegantly ran upwards towards the floors above, carpeted and with an expensive looking wooden handrail. On the other side, the steps descended at the same angle, forming a spiral with their opposite fellows. The downwards steps passed through a morbid looking arch, made of a chalky stone, and being bare uncarpeted metal, glinted brightly in the light.

  Jorge hoped that Mortenson would lead him upwards on the far more appealing stairs. That hope died almost as soon as it was born. As the light from the lantern passed over them, he saw that the carpet had begun to rot in places, and that they were covered in the same dust as was throughout the building. By comparison, the opposite steps looked well used. Extremely well used.

  Mortenson dragged him onwards, and down, into the depths of the building.

  They rushed along the lower levels as the stairs spiralled down, the lantern swinging in Jorge's hand and constantly adjusting the light, making the circular walkway treacherous. Mortenson seemed possessed by singular enthusiasm and vigour as he leapt the steps two a time, never once seeming unstable. It was all that Jorge could do just to keep up, his spare hand clenched tightly in his benefactor’s.

  They passed by doors set into the wall, initially proud and matching the mansion above, but then crude, wooden portals set into roughly hewn rock and uneven brickwork. Still there was no light at any of the apertures as they descended further. Jorge wondered if they had been recent additions, made since the mansion was first constructed. They didn't seem to match at all. As they spiralled ever downward, the walls became much rougher, more poorly laid brickwork, chunks of mortar missing from between them more often than not.

  Finally, they reached the bottom. Mortenson didn't slow his pace, and near immediately ran off into the darkness with a cackle, releasing Jorge's hand at last. Panting, Jorge had a moment to look up and to see how far that they had travelled. His light was dying out, flickering and pitifully inadequate for the task. It lit his hand and arm with its glow, and little else.

  It occurred to him that it was his chance to escape, to run back to the surface and leave it all far behind. Something was wrong there, and he could find another employer like Mortenson.

  The candle went out.

  Jorge panicked. He could never negotiate the steps in the inky blackness and would easily fall to his death. Even if he did make it back up, he would have no way of finding his way through the residence to the front doors.

  And that was assuming that Mortenson wouldn’t pursue Jorge, and drag him back again.

  A hand fell onto his shoulder and spun him around. Jorge screamed, the sound amplified many times in the stairwell, reverberating off of the walls over and over.

  “Jumpy, aren't you boy?” The voice, low like a whisper. Jorge stared at the space where it had come from, still unwilling to move. The scream stopped when he realised it was Mortenson, the echo ending a couple of seconds later.

  “You'll be needing this, I imagine.” Mortenson thrust something into Jorge's hands.

  The object was hard, round, and smooth. It tapered at the top, almost to a point, where a wick protruded.

  A candle.

  A fresh candle!

  Mortenson struck a flint from a tinderbox, and there was a hiss and a crackling sound before an orange flare of light illuminated them both. He tapped it to the top of the candle that Jorge held, and waited until it took, before tossing it away into a forgotten corner to die.

  “Enough time wasted. Follow me boy, no dragging your heels!” Once again he was off, with Jorge being pulled roughly by the hand as before.

  The pair travelled through a short corridor with dry, dusty brick walls and a grey stone floor. Fleeting glances to either side showed arches that led to antechambers and storage areas. Whilst nothing looked clean, the whole area showed signs of activity, the doors open and the floors cl
ear, none of the earlier sprawling neglect. Peering into a couple of rooms revealed some light sources at such a low level, braziers in the chambers burning down to embers and ashes.

  “Now, boy, you will see!” They stopped at a large door at the end of the tunnel, wooden with metal bars across it. It looked extremely heavy, sitting slightly ajar. Mortenson's hands clasped around a metal rung set on one side, and he heaved it open using both hands, revealing the room beyond. Noise suddenly crashed back into the world, cranking, mechanical, inhuman rhythm. Just about every piece or material that Jorge had couriered for the old man, and more, was inside.

  A hearth sat at one end of the room, flooding the space with light as it burned away, feeding what Jorge imagined to be a furnace of sorts, a huge iron belly that fed into numerous tubes that ran along every wall. Covering it were instruments and strange apparatus, displays with needles that twitched and shook unsteadily, and clocks with their hands moving the wrong ways - either inverted and backwards, too fast, or too slow.

  Following the pipes, Jorge saw that most were copper or brass, some a dull iron tone and several a bright, shiny silver colour. It was impossible to see where many went, disappearing into walls, but others fed into brass tanks or rumbling engines, with pistons pumping up and down. Somewhere, there was a great ticking sound of cogs turning with inexorable momentum, grinding against one another and driving something.

  It took Jorge's breath away. Everything he had tried to run from, the very machinations that that he had hoped to escape and avoid his whole life, were all an arm’s reach before him. The great machine was like the heart of an abomination. He stared about, eyes wild with fury.

  The old man had done this. Tricked him into carrying the pieces around and made his life a poor, tragic jest. Jorge wanted to smash the whole room to pieces. Heady with rage, he almost forgot to breathe, leaving him light headed.

  “You understand?” Mortenson looked as if he would start hopping up and down from foot to foot.

  “Understand?” Jorge bitterly spat the words out. He only saw that which he found contemptible.

  “This is the beginning. The engine of the gods! Now, follow me and I will show you the culmination of my studies, of those before me. That which will change the world!”

  As much as he wanted little more than to break the engine to pieces, something in Jorge compelled him to follow Mortenson around a workbench, and to look into a previously hidden chamber. Inside sat a large bulky object, covered with a light tan tarpaulin. The old man danced around it.

  “Behold!” Mortenson tore the covering off.

  Jorge's mouth fell open as he stared at the figure underneath. It was huge, at least twice the height of a man, its head near touching the ceiling even from its seated position. All metallic, with solid, curved pieces of steel for plating, under which through the gaps Jorge could see cogs, pipes, springs, and pistons. Its barrelled chest, crudely shaped to resemble that of a man, sat above a large concentration of gears and a panel with several dials fixed into it. Each arm ended in immense hands, the fingers a cross hatched girder with a ridged plate at the end. Rivets held the metal man together, heavy, durable bolts that could have been the same as used on the ships Jorge had worked on.

  The face disgusted Jorge the most. Lifeless and without moving parts, it was much the same as a statue, serenely staring outwards. Its lips lightly curled downwards at the edges, lending it an expression of dissatisfaction. The eyes were dull inserts in which glass panels reflected the blaze of the hearth, and on its side, more of the delicate cogs and piping trailed across the figure's shoulders and behind its back.

  A steel giant, the parody of a monarch in his throne.

  Jorge's fingers on his free hand involuntarily curled into a fist.

  “He is the future!” Mortenson was in front of Jorge, stepping between him and the towering figure.

  Jorge struggled for words to describe the monstrosity. His mouth opened and closed, incandescent fury robbing him of sound. His fist clenched tighter, nails digging into his palm. Finally he found something.

  “Why?” The word was painfully, woefully short to convey the question, but Mortenson at least seemed to understand.

  “Because, boy, this is the ascension! The culmination of all of man’s scientific progress. We have conquered the world now. Next we will master the heavens!”

  Jorge looked at the old man as though for the first time. He saw how Mortenson had changed. His hair had become lank, greasy, and matted together. Spittle hung at the corner of his lips, which were parched, dry, and cracked. A nervous tick had taken over the left side of his face, and his eyes frantically darted from left to right, as if seeing things in the corners of the room that were not there. He had become a madman. Lost, completely gone to whatever demented delusions had broken him. Jorge might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if it were not so desperately real and terrifying.

  Mortenson still held the knife in his right hand, white knuckled tight.

  For the first time, Jorge felt threatened by the old man, by whoever he had become.

  “Boy, if we are to realise this, we must act quickly!” Mortenson turned his back to attend to some obscure machinery on the steel giant.

  Jorge took a second, weighing his desire to take up the nearest heavy object and bludgeon the old man to unconsciousness, to smash the apparatus around him into pieces. It fought against his growing level of fear, the instinct to turn and run, to keep going and to leave all of this far behind. Fight or flight. Primitive human survival instinct won. Jorge bolted from the room, through the open doorway.

  His best option was to hide in one of the chambers, let Mortenson charge off upstairs after him, and then sneak out behind the man. Jorge ducked into the gloom of the nearest open antechamber, and quickly ran through without looking into the room beyond.

  The smell was the first thing that hit him. Stench was a better word. Jorge stared around in horror. Shapeless bodies, everywhere. Naked, a milky off white in the darkness, carelessly heaped on top of each other, limbs draped lifelessly over one another, sticking out at unnatural angles. Gaunt faces, flesh stretched too tight over bone, empty eyes in hollow sockets devoid of life stared wherever he turned, mouths open and locked in silent screams. Jorge backed into a corner, trying to get as far away as he could, blubbering openly like a child, shivering hands held over his eyes. He slumped to the floor, and hugged his knees with his arms.

  He didn't know how long he stayed that way. After a time, Mortenson found him, the old man's touch surprisingly gentle.

  “I know, boy. I know,” his voice had calmed considerably, a low reverent tone with a hint of sadness to it. “But progress has ever demanded sacrifice.” He led Jorge, still sobbing, away from the bodies, out of the room, and back to where the great engine continued to rumble away.

  Jorge let himself be led. All resistance had left his body.

  IV

  “You are a monster.”

  Mortenson raised an eyebrow at the statement. “Perhaps. But man must become what he must to ensure success in his endeavours. I have merely not faltered in my pursuit of enlightenment where others might have over these long years.” He paused, waiting for Jorge to respond, staring intently.

  Jorge only managed to shrug his shoulders, still numb.

  After collapsing in the cold amongst the dead, the machinery room was hot, making his skin flush, all the heat burning the side of him that faced the hearth. Its crimson glow illuminated everything with a red tint, naturally lending a murderous, visceral shade to the scene. Sweat ran in tiny rivulets down his back, underneath his shirt, and his limbs felt sapped and drained, too heavy to lift.

  “Boy, take heart. I shall still need you in the hours to come. Your participation is absolutely essential.” Mortenson grinned a rictus smile at him.

  Jorge noticed that the old man still held the knife still. It belied any sincerity in his words.

  He had no choice.

  “What must I
do?” Jorge's tone was defeated, the only hope now was to survive the night.

  “Here, you must operate this, whilst I perform the final adjustments and stimulus.” Mortenson indicated a large clockwork dial set into a brass casing near to the steel giant, a junction from which a multitude of mismatched pipes and funnels ran, entering other devices or tanks all over the room. A large glass panel was affixed to it, beneath which, sat a white painted indicator with a semi-circle line and numbers etched on its face. At the far end of the line there was a section coloured in rich red. The needle sat lifeless for the moment on the opposite side.

  Jorge nodded. Mortenson seemed delighted, the grin spreading wider.

  “Excellent, excellent. Wait here, boy, whilst I make the final preparations.”

  This time, Jorge didn't run.

  Mortenson spent the next hour fine-tuning his instruments with delicate fingers, tightening a fixing or valve here, oiling a cog or spring there, and tapping panels and making measurements. The muttering had returned, the old man repeating the same phrases over and over like a mantra, or asking questions and answering them himself in the next breath, without missing a beat.

  Throughout, Jorge sat on one of the benches and watched him, numbed by what he had experienced. It was though he stared at the sight before him through someone else's eyes, or watched a performance on stage. With a red flash of anger that he hadn't thought left to him, he remembered his father taking him to see a play like that when he was much younger. The simmering bile had never gone, staying with him for all those years, and proved unwilling to relinquish him, even for a night of horrors such as this one.

  The heat in the room steadily increased as Mortenson fed the fires higher with more fuel, raising the levels on the boilers and drums around him. Over towards one corner, a tank had begun to bubble and shake slightly. Mortenson did not seem concerned any more by this than he was by the other increases in operating tempo noise from the equipment around. Scornful as he was, Jorge was mesmerised by the rapid pace of the pistons moving up and down throughout the room. They churned away, fixed to wheels that spun around and pumped with inhuman regularity and ceaseless clockwork efficiency, almost hypnotic.