by Sean Wallace
He smirked visibly now, scars tightening across his skin, and Simon felt his fists close into balls at his side. For one mad moment, he wanted to launch himself at the Staatspolizei man, but Itzak caught his eye and the other shook his head. Then, just as easily as if he was slipping on a mask of his own, Itzak grinned and stepped forward, touching Kaltenbrunner’s shoulder as if they were old friends.
“What have you got there, Ernst?” He gestured to the papers still rolled on the table.
Kaltenbrunner’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he smiled. “New orders from the Emperor. Plans.”
Unceremoniously, he swept a number of Simon’s tools aside and spread the papers, smoothing them down. Both Itzak and Simon stepped forward to look over Kaltenbrunner’s shoulder.
The diagram showed a roughly spherical shape, which seemed to contain other smaller spheres within – a construction of interlocking metal and gears, delicately wrought. Simon frowned slightly, pulling the diagram closer. Kaltenbrunner was watching them and there was something both amused and almost hungry in his gaze.
“I shall leave you to it, then.”
For a moment Simon thought the captain was about the sketch a mocking bow. Instead he turned sharply on his heels and moved for the door. The smile did not leave his lips, and it lingered in Simon’s mind, chilling him, even when the door was closed and they were alone.
There had been something in Kaltenbrunner’s eyes, in his smile, something that nagged at Simon like a persistent itch on the wrong side of his skin. He turned to Itzak, his mouth open to ask the other’s opinion, but Itzak’s expression stopped Simon’s words in his throat.
Shadows carved Itzak’s features and his shoulders were slumped as though in defeat. Something in his haunted eyes reminded Simon of Annah, crouched over her uncle’s fallen form. It was an expression he had never seen in Itzak’s eyes before, and it left him more than cold.
“What’s wrong?”
Simon found his voice at last, and glanced back at the plans Kaltenbrunner had left. He studied the diagram again, frowning, and again the nagging sensation came to haunt him. Then at last it clicked in his mind.
“It’s all copper and wire. There’s no heart, no substance, it’s just an empty shell. There’s nothing inside.”
“Not yet.”
Itzak’s voice was a raw whisper, and Simon turned to him, alarmed. There was a strange look in Itzak’s eyes, at once bright and full of shadows.
“I don’t understand.”
Itzak shook his head, and then smiled a humorless smile. “Then consider yourself lucky.”
Simon stared at him, uncomprehending, but his partner said no more.
Something tugged at the edges of Simon’s consciousness, pulling him up from dreams where wheels with bright sharp teeth spun ceaselessly and crushed faceless people beneath them. Shadows transformed the scrap metal and junk into blurred and unfamiliar shapes of darkness. The scrying mirrors and crystals were blind eyes, watching him.
Slowly Simon sat up, looking around for the thing that had woken him. A fire-shaded point of light burned in the darkness. There was a slow intake of breath, and for a moment the light illuminated a face. Smoke curled away from Itzak’s cigarette, and Simon moved towards him.
Itzak’s lips were moving, but Simon could hear no sound. The other seemed unaware, or uncaring, of Simon’s presence. Now that he was right beside the other, Simon could hear the murmured words and he jumped. Itzak seemed to address him, but without once glancing his way.
“I could do it. I could make the thing work. Kaltenbrunner knows it, and he knows that I know. He knows I’ll be tempted to try, just to show it can be done.”
“What?”
Simon strained forward, trying to catch the words. Itzak’s head snapped up, startling him. The other’s eyes burned as bright as the cigarette in his hand. After a moment, Itzak smiled, showing the shadows and the strain.
“We’re very alike, you and I.” His voice was soft again, and he took another deep breath. Smoke curled around them. “We’re fascinated not only by the working of things, but by the possibility of them. If we suspect something can be done, we want to try, to push ourselves just a little bit farther to see if it really will work. And we will push to the exclusion of all else.”
“What are you talking about, Itzak?”
Simon realized his voice was trembling. He was frightened, but he was no longer sure whether it was for, or of, the man in front of him. Suddenly the other seemed just that, other, alien and strange. Itzak’s features were pale, almost translucent, and that same wildness, that same danger Simon had seen the first time they had met, shone brightly in his eyes.
“I have an idea.”
Itzak’s voice was barely audible and something in it made Simon want to shiver.
“Do you trust me?”
Itzak’s eyes found Simon’s in the dark and pinned him. Simon forced himself to look at the myriad things he saw there – hurt, fear, and yes, madness too. But it was all part of what made Itzak what he was, and slowly Simon found himself nodding.
“Good, because I can’t do this alone.”
The night was cloudless and moonlight spilled through the glass to touch Simon as he crouched over Itzak on the floor. Above them, the golem loomed, wrapped in shadow and watching over them with unseeing eyes. Simon held a knife, but his hand was shaking so hard he couldn’t keep it still.
“I can’t do this.” He spoke through clenched teeth.
Itzak moved his head to either side, checking the bonds on his wrists, and then turned back to face Simon.
“Yes, you can. You have to.”
The moonlight showed Itzak’s skin, and it was terribly white. His chest was bared, showing the scars that ran over his ribcage and legs and arms, disappearing around to his back, which was pressed against the cold floor.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will!”
Itzak’s voice was fierce, and it startled Simon so he almost dropped the blade. Itzak’s eyes pinned him, burning mad and frightened all at once. Simon’s heart was in his throat and he swallowed hard around the lump it made. Suddenly he realized that, of the two of them, he had no right to be afraid.
“I’m sorry,” Simon murmured.
Itzak nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s okay. You have to hurry though. Just do it, quickly. Don’t even think about it.”
Something like a grin twisted Itzak’s lips, and Simon shook his head, feeling tears coming to his eyes.
“I never have.”
He took a deep steadying breath, and plunged the knife in.
There was more blood than Simon could have imagined. Despite what he knew intellectually, it still surprised him – the red spilling over his hands and leaving them slick.
Simon gagged and was nearly sick as he reached into the cavity he had made, lifting Itzak’s heart in his hands. He was sharply aware of his own heart, its beat twin to the one he held. Through it all Itzak’s eyes remained on him, bright and wild, and the other continued to breathe in shallow panting breaths. Simon could almost see the net of will with which Itzak held himself together.
Simon felt a moment of panic that froze him where he was. He was holding Itzak’s heart in his hands and it was still beating. He knew what he was meant to do, but he couldn’t get his limbs to obey his command. He was a man of parts and gears, not flesh and blood. Mice and horses were one thing, but a man, his friend . . .
Simon shook himself and, trembling, he walked over to the golem and opened the plate covering its chest. Everything was laid out as he and Itzak had planned and built it, gleaming coldly in the light. Simon took a deep breath and forced doubt away. He let his hands take over, and did what Itzak had advised – he didn’t even think about it.
As though from a great distance Simon watched his hands moving in a red-white blur. Metal was joined to flesh as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Moonlight caught the characters on the
golem’s forehead, and they winked back at Simon. Beneath them, the creature’s face was lifeless and still.
He stepped back. His hands were still red, but they were no longer shaking. A strange calm filled him as he regarded the golem. He took one last steadying breath, then he raised his bloodstained hand and brushed it gently across the golem’s brow.
Itzak gasped behind him. Simon turned in time to see his friend’s body go rigid, and then strain terribly upwards as if he was trying to pull free of his bonds. There was still a gaping hole where his chest had been, and red ran in ribbons over the white of Itzak’s skin. Then, as though a string had been cut, Itzak slumped back and was still.
The golem opened its eyes.
They were not Itzak’s eyes. They were strange things of mirror and glass, and though blind, they saw. The golem trembled, and then took a lurching step forward. There was a scream of tortured metal – a scream that might also have been a cry of pain.
Simon felt a pang of fear, strangely mixed with guilt. Now the wildness of Itzak’s shape matched the wildness Simon had seen so often in his eyes; there was nothing left to hold the pain and darkness at bay. And the shape Itzak wore now had been built for only one thing. But it had been Itzak’s choice. It was the only way.
For a long time, Simon merely cowered in the shadows, listening. The first cry cut through him like a knife and he felt it in his very bones. He was sure he would never move again, and they would find him one day – bones amongst the twisted metal and gears. A terrible crashing sound followed the first cry, and then a dull roar.
All at once Simon was on his feet and running. He pelted through the corridors, pushing past shouting officers. Panic was a tangible thing, thickly filling the air. The golem was tearing the Staatspolizei headquarters apart piece by piece. Simon heard another scream, and he felt heat rush towards him as something caught aflame.
A door leading off to the side of the corridor opened, and something made Simon stop and turn. Flames framed a man, making him a shape of blackness, torn from the light. Simon stared and the man turned slightly, just enough so that the light was no longer behind him, and fell on his face instead.
Firelight played in the deep lines on Kaltenbrunner’s face. His eyes shone. Simon had expected rage, but there was none. The hunger and the amusement were gone as well. What Simon saw in that gaze was far more terrible still. All around them, Staatspolizei officers, dragged up from their sleep, screamed and died and burned, and Kaltenbrunner’s eyes locked on Simon’s. In silence they seemed to say, In this moment, Herr Tinker, you and I are not so different after all.
The faintest of smiles touched the mask of Kaltenbrunner’s face – a smile that was not a smile at all. Then as others were turning to run away from the chaos and the flames, Kaltenbrunner turned back to the burning room. His eyes finally left Simon’s, and he closed the door.
There was no guard at the door leading into the courtyard, and none by the gate, but the lock was still in place. Simon tore his shirt off and began to climb. At the top he wrapped the torn fabric around the razor wire, leaving it behind as he dropped down safely on the other side.
Then he was running again. Breath burned in his lungs, and he legs ached as he pounded into the narrow streets. Someone was shouting, and it took Simon a moment to realize it was him. He was laughing too, and there were tears in his eyes. He could smell smoke, heavy with ash, drifting down from the direction he had come.
“Out! Out! Everybody out! We have to leave, now!”
He banged on doors, on windows and walls, any surface he could get his hands on. A wild, uncontrolled panic boiled through him as he moved through the streets. Doors behind him began to open, and frightened thin faces peered out. He could see it in their eyes, like Annah, they didn’t trust him; at best they thought him mad.
People were starting to step out onto the street though, barefoot on the stone. Some had noticed the fire up on the hill, and their distrust was immediately forgotten. There were more shouts, and they began to move.
“Leave your things. Take a little food, only what you can easily carry. Come on!”
Simon rushed forward; exhilaration, shot through with panic, carried him. His eyes lit on a woman standing in a doorway, watching him. Annah’s eyes were frightened, but her expression was hard. Her arms were still crossed over her chest, and she was watching him with suspicion.
“Annah!”
Simon rushed forward and caught her hands. This time she did not pull away. She glanced past him to the flames, and they reflected in her eyes.
“Hurry, we have to leave, now!”
He was fully aware of the metallic sound that had been on the edge of his hearing for some time now – it was coming closer. Annah darted another glance over his shoulder, and her eyes widened, then she nodded silently. All around them bodies pressed, wild in their panic. People were already making for the walls.
“We have to go, now!”
Simon gripped her hands hard, and at last he felt her fingers soften beneath his.
Annah turned and called into the small room behind her. Her uncle and two small children emerged, looking fragile and frightened. Without thinking, Simon lifted one of the children into his arms and began to run, glancing back over his shoulder just long enough to see that Annah was following him.
Simon’s heart was in his throat as he ran. People were scrambling up the walls, some of the Staatspolizei officers among them. Those too weak to climb were being left behind, stepped on in the panic of others to escape. Someone above him, whose face he couldn’t see, reached down thin arms and Simon handed the child up into them. Then he too began to climb.
At the top of the wall he paused, one leg hung down inside the ghetto and the other out. The headquarters and the warehouse burned with angry red flames that clawed at the black sky. What moon there had been was now obscured by smoke and backlit against the flames on the hill were small figures running. Among them was one large figure, a blot of shadow against the night. Even from this distance Simon thought he heard a tortured metallic scream, and he thought of the heart that beat within the metal chest of the golem.
“What is that thing?” Annah whispered.
Simon turned, and Annah’s eyes met his. She was straddling the wall too, breathing hard. A hot wind full of ash lifted her hair around her face, and once more he saw the thinness, the bruises, and the unmoving shadows. Simon turned back to the chaos, his eyes locked on the golem. Firelight reflected on Simon’s cheeks and showed tears running like blood. His voice was very soft.
“A friend.”
Tanglefoot
Cherie Priest
The Clockwork Century
Stonewall Jackson survived Chancellorsville. England broke the Union’s naval blockade, and formally recognized the Confederate States of America. Atlanta never burned.
It is 1880. The American Civil War has raged for nearly two decades, driving technology in strange and terrible directions. Combat dirigibles skulk across the sky and armored vehicles crawl along the land. Military scientists twist the laws of man and nature, and barter their souls for weapons powered by light, fire and steam.
But life struggles forward for soldiers and ordinary citizens. The fractured nation is dotted with stricken towns and epic scenes of devastation – some manmade, and some more mysterious. In the western territories cities are swallowed by gas and walled away to rot while the frontiers are strip-mined for resources. On the borders between North and South, spies scour and scheme, and smugglers build economies more stable than their governments.
This is the Clockwork Century.
It is dark here, and different.
Part One
Hunkered shoulders and skinny, bent knees cast a crooked shadow from the back corner of the laboratory, where the old man tried to remember the next step in his formula, or possibly – as Edwin was forced to consider – the scientist simply struggled to recall his own name. On the table against the wall, the once estimable Dr Archib
ald Smeeks muttered, spackling his test tubes with spittle and becoming increasingly agitated until Edwin called out, “Doctor?”
The doctor settled himself, steadying his hands and closing his mouth. He crouched on his stool, cringing away from the boy’s voice, and crumpled his overlong work apron with his feet. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“Only me, sir.”
“Who?”
“Me. It’s only . . . me.”
With a startled shudder of recognition he asked, “The orphan?”
“Yes, sir. Just the orphan.”
Dr Smeeks turned around, the bottom of his pants twisting in a circle on the smooth wooden seat. He reached to his forehead, where a prodigious set of multi-lensed goggles was perched. From the left side, he tugged a monocle to extend it on a hinged metal arm, and he used it to peer across the room, down onto the floor, where Edwin was sitting cross-legged in a pile of discarded machinery parts.
“Ah,” the old doctor said. “There you are, yes. I didn’t hear you tinkering, and I only wondered where you might be hiding. Of course, I remember you.”
“I believe you do, sir,” Edwin said politely. In fact, he very strongly doubted it today, but Dr Smeeks was trying to appear quite fully aware of his surroundings and it would’ve been rude to contradict him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. You sounded upset. I wanted to ask if everything was all right.”
“All right?” Dr Smeeks returned his monocle to its original position, so that it no longer shrank his fluffy white eyebrow down to a tame and reasonable arch. His wiry goatee quivered as he wondered about his own state. “Oh yes. Everything’s quite all right. I think for a moment that I was distracted.”
He scooted around on the stool so that he once again faced the cluttered table with its vials, coils and tiny grey crucibles. His right hand selected a test tube with a hand-lettered label and runny green contents. His left hand reached for a set of tongs, though he set them aside almost immediately in favor of a half-rolled piece of paper that bore the stains and streaks of a hundred unidentifiable splatters.
