Clockwork Universe

by Seanen McGuire

  “It is,” I agreed.

  “Not suitable for space travel, though.”

  “No. We’re not there yet. Soon, we hope.”

  “Sooner than you think.” Then Al snapped his fingers.

  * * *

  We were in a ship, as strange as anything the Z’porrah were in, but still, more familiar, more human. I could see some of the Golden Voyager in this ship. Which was good and proper.

  Unlike the Golden Voyager, this ship was fully enclosed, and made of metal, its design more like a bullet or a dirigible than our regal flying ship. It possessed seven decks in addition to the machinery deck, with spacious living quarters, at least as compared to what we were used to, an impressive weapons locker, and some even more impressive cannons and lasers on the ship itself. An advanced propulsion system that was set up to be self-replicating, so that running out of fuel was close to impossible. Which was important, since this ship was made to go into space. Deep into space.

  We were above the Z’porrah ships. I was fairly sure they couldn’t see us. They were too busy destroying the Golden Voyager.

  As I watched our beautiful ship fall slowly out of the sky, I focused on what Al was telling us. “… and you cannot come back to Earth. All on the planet must know and believe that you’re dead.”

  “What about those with families?” I heard someone ask, and realized it was my own voice.

  “If you’re doing this you can do that, too,” Sir Reginald said firmly.

  Al shrugged. “They’ll need the genetic material.” He snapped his fingers and all the immediate families of those who still had them appeared. Manning and I were alone—neither of us had anyone left on Earth. But now we had each other. Manning took my hand and squeezed it gently.

  “Why can’t we return?” Vrabel asked Al. “What you told us makes it sound like Earth will need our help.”

  He shook his head. “You’re providing the impetus for Earth’s survival. And you’ll be the ambassadors of your race and your planet.”

  “Why aren’t we more … upset?” Manning asked Al. “All that’s happened is so fantastic … I’d expect to be suggesting that Doctor Parker sedate most of the crew. And yet, we’re all calm, and so are the family members you just snapped here out of nothing.”

  “Distress isn’t what you need right now. Action is.”

  “Then thank you, again, for whatever you did to our brains to make all of this comprehensible,” Manning said. “And to keep us calm and accepting. I think.”

  “That was simple, and none of your minds have been harmed. The knowledge I gave you is why you’re all calm—you understand, at a deeper level than any of you can realize consciously—exactly what’s happened.”

  “But?” I asked. “Because there sounds like a ‘but’ must be about to follow.”

  Al nodded. “But you have the hard work ahead of you. Preparing the greater cosmos for the arrival of Earth onto the galactic stage. Staying alive out in space without my being around to help. Surviving. Putting technological knowledge and the clear understanding of events into all your minds was nothing compared to this.”

  The Golden Voyager was now out of sight. “Can we destroy these Z’porrah ships and still have Earth join together?”

  “No,” Al said. “However, the command ship is the one directly under us. And it might be good to show that the Golden Voyager fought back before being defeated.”

  I went to the bridge, Vrabel, and Manning coming with me. Dr. Parker was already there, as were Carswell, who was now in charge of Weapons, and Missy, who I’d promoted to Navigator, since, on this kind of ship, the Captain couldn’t perform that function.

  “I’ve examined all supplies, Captain,” Dr. Parker said. “We should be self-sustaining for at least a decade, and I can create medical supplies as needed.”

  “Excellent, Lori, thank you.” I seated myself, Vrabel in the chair to my right, Manning to my left. “Elizabeth, Edward, let’s test out the weapons system, shall we?”

  * * *

  “I wish she’d have come with me,” Reginald said. “Now my heart is broken and I’ll never see her again.”

  “It’s all for the best,” Algar said. It was. More for the best than Reginald would ever know. At least the Reginald in this universe. “They’re a good couple—her bravery, his caution, their combined intelligence. If I had to break the rules, they were worth breaking them for.”

  “But you’ve done one other thing right, Algar. I never want to leave this system again. I can’t risk meeting someone else like Jeanette and having to leave her behind.”

  He patted Reginald’s knee. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to.”

  “Thank you, though,” Reginald said. “For saving them. I still love her and, despite him winning, I like him as well. I just wish they weren’t alone.”

  Algar patted Har and Ten. “Don’t worry, lad. I left them something that will help them. For at least as long as their line lasts.”

  * * *

  Somewhere during the time when we fired and the Z’porrah ship blew up, Al and Sir Reginald left us. Dr. Parker had checked the entire ship, just to be sure, but she confirmed that they were gone. And we hadn’t even said goodbye. Or thank you.

  “Do you think we’ll really be able to survive all the unknown we’re heading for?” I asked Manning as I had Missy set a course for the nearest star to ours. Alpha Centauri was our first destination. Per the information Al had given us, we’d be there in about a year, give or take.

  Manning took my hand and put the two little Poofs into it. “Yes. As long as we’re all together, we’ll never be defeated.”

  “Then let’s head the Brave Voyager out into the cosmos and see what comes, shall we, Mister Manning?”

  “Absolutely, Missus Manning. Absolutely.”

  Heart of the Empire

  Jason Palmatier

  The pistons that had replaced Admiral von Trite’s heart rose and fell with a soft hiss-gush, hiss-gush, playing peek-a-boo behind his rigid shoulders. A light smoke swirled up from his stack, no more than would curl from a fine walnut pipe, tingeing the air with the acrid smell of coal-fire. He glared at the crisp parchment in his hand, twisting his magnificent mustache between thumb and forefinger as he read.

  “Admiral?”

  Von Trite’s frown deepened and he glanced up at his oldest, dearest friend and confidant, Dr. Titus Jenson.

  “What does it say, sir?” Dr. Jenson leaned forward, squinting through his thick spectacles.

  Von Trite grunted, looked down at the letter and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice boomed, still full of command in this, his fifty-seventh year.

  “Sir. Your offer of aid to the Crown in these trying times is most appreciated. As we endeavor to throw back the relentless invader that has beset us, it is a great comfort to Her Majesty to know that such an honored and dear friend holds her safety close to his heart. However, at this time Her Majesty feels that the best hope for the Empire lies in the courage and arms of the magnificent Gendarme Elektrièni. Her Majesty beseeches you, her most beloved Royal Explorer, to seek safety in the underground of our dear capital while our newly armed company defends her.”

  “I … I see.” Dr. Jenson paused, not quite sure what to say. The steam-powered heart he had designed for his friend had slowed the Admiral some, but it had not reduced his temper. He braced himself for the venting that was sure to come from such a curt letter of dismissal.

  The Admiral slowly shook his head.

  “‘Close to his heart’ indeed,” von Trite mused. A distant explosion rumbled Dr. Jenson’s teacup on its saucer and knocked a shrunken head from its stand in one of von Trite’s glass curio cases. “Forty-three years, Titus.” The great clock atop the mantel bonged loudly, a hiss of steam shooting from the side nozzle that regulated pressure from the house boiler. “Forty-three years of service to the crown on the highest of high seas, in the darkest of dark jungles.”

  Dr. Jenson swallowed, nodding his head
, fortifying himself for the verbal onslaught that was surely imminent. But instead, the Admiral’s face fell slack and his arm dropped onto the desk. His magnificent, mustachioed head sagged forward. Dr. Jenson startled, then reached out for the small pile of coal at the corner of von Trite’s desk. But he caught himself, fingertips inches from the ornate silver charger that the black char sat upon. Nothing set the Admiral off more than feeding his hopper for him.

  “Sir.” Dr. Jenson cleared his throat. “Sir!”

  Von Trite blinked, looking up groggily.

  “Your fire, sir. It’s low.”

  Von Trite squinted, confused, then blinked in understanding. He flopped his arm forward, worked a nugget of coal from the pile, and laboriously lifted it into the hopper over his left shoulder. It clattered down to sit atop the firebox door until von Trite weakly twisted the spring-loaded door handle on his left side.

  The coal fell in and ignited. The pace of the shining pistons on his back quickened. Blood surged through the fine glass sight tubes that ran across the back of his neck. Slowly the fog cleared from the Admiral’s eyes. He pulled in one deep breath, then two. Presently he resumed talking, his mind ramping up along with his boiler’s pressure.

  “I blocked an assassin’s bullet for her with my own heart, Titus, and this …” von Trite tossed the paper onto his dark mahogany desk. “This is how she repays me? Telling me to hide in the underground like a rat? A rat!”

  Dr. Jenson flinched at von Trite’s vehemence. If the Queen only knew how much the old Admiral still loved her, she would let him throw himself at the invaders in a vain but glorious attempt to defend her. But she did know. That was the problem. She didn’t want him to die because she loved him too.

  When von Trite had knelt before her, dashing, young, cocksure, asking for a grant to map the Antarctic for crown and country, she had gazed down at him with fixed fascination, smitten from the get-go. Dr. Jenson had watched von Trite lock eyes with her, challenging her to say no and wooing her to say yes, all at the same time. It had been magnificent. Classic von Trite. But all of that steadfast love had now brought about this stalemate of the heart. Her Majesty would not risk von Trite in battle, and von Trite would not sally forth without Her Majesty’s approval.

  The Admiral shoved himself to his feet, sweat beading his brow. Dr. Jenson attempted to curtail the inevitable. “I know, sir. But she only means the best. These …” he waved his hand at the ceiling, “Kappa Cygni invaders, or what have you, are very dangerous. Not a single one has been felled by her majesty’s forces.”

  “Not even by the ‘Gendarme Elektrièni?’” The Admiral spat the Queen’s prized brigade’s name out like rancid olives.

  “Well, they have been held in reserve until now …”

  “Bah!” The Admiral shook his head in disgust. “The upstarts. What have they got over the Morgan? Eh? What have they got with their light poppers and crackle makers? A fancy show? A glowing exposition piece? They still need the steam, Titus! They still need the fire and the water to make their contraptions work. They still need the steam!”

  “I know, sir.”

  The Admiral settled back, waving his hand. His specially crafted great chair, with cutouts for the boiler and engine on his back, creaked in protest. The centrifugal governor whirred, the bar arms flattening out to slow down the inflow of steam to his pistons, keeping them from over-speeding and throwing a rod. Dr. Jenson swallowed and tried to calm his nerves. It looked like the storm had passed for the moment.

  The room shook to another rumble, this time closer and longer lived, followed by a muted volley of rifle shots. The great steam clock gushed again, releasing excess pressure. Dr. Jenson jumped. He turned and glared at the clock. “Now what would make it do that again so soon …”

  Running footsteps in the hall interrupted his musing. A loud knock sounded at the door.

  “Come,” Admiral von Trite bellowed.

  The door flew open, revealing a royal messenger out of breath and smeared with soot.

  “Tesla’s weapons have failed!”

  The Admiral and Dr. Jenson frowned in confusion.

  “The Gendarme Elektrièni have fled from the streets in disarray! The invaders are closing in on the palace unimpeded. The Queen beseeches you for aid, sir!”

  The Admiral stared. The great steam clock ticked out four distinct seconds. The Admiral rose slowly to his feet, knuckles resting atop his desk.

  “Tell Her Majesty that she shall have it.”

  The messenger sagged in relief and bowed, then turned and fled back down the grand hallway. Dr. Jenson turned to the Admiral with a look of shock.

  “But sir! How? The Morgan will never be ready in time.”

  Von Trite said nothing. Instead he walked stiffly over to a grand curio of solid oak and turned the key to its stained glass door. From within he withdrew a small, black walnut chest garnished with gold leaf. He raised the lid and looked over to Dr. Jenson, whose eyes flew wide in recognition.

  “Battle Coal!” Dr. Jenson cried.

  The Admiral nodded. Dredged from the shallows off the coast of Cuba, the coal had fired the great ship Morgan into full battle frenzy for two years, burning hot and fierce, letting them run on a quarter bunker load. They flew over the seas, blasting, boarding and ramming with glee. They sank Russian and pirate ships with ease, sealing the Admiral’s name in sea lore before their supply ran out. Dr. Jenson had thought none had survived.

  “But that’s not enough to fire the Morgan …” Dr. Jenson began.

  The Admiral gave his friend a knowing half-smile. “Ah, Titus. It’s not going to fire the Morgan. It’s going to fire me.” Von Trite picked a small jet-black piece from the chest and tossed it into his hopper, firebox door already open. The coal rattled down and exploded into flames, burning bright blue tinged with deep purple. The pistons on his back bucked hard, ratcheting up to an as yet unseen level. Dr. Jenson gasped.

  “Sir, you must be careful! You will exceed your governor limits and shut down your boiler!”

  The Admiral flared his eyes, the flames of the coal seeming to burn within them. He stretched his back with a crack and two pops then reached over his shoulder and yanked the madly spinning governor off, slamming it onto the desk. “Now we can’t have that, can we Titus? There’s an empire to save!” Von Trite dumped the remaining coal into a small sack and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “To the Morgan!”

  The Admiral brushed past his stunned friend, snatched his greatcoat and hat from the wall, and strode down the wide hallway, picking up steam with every step. Dr. Jenson stammered, and followed as fast as his stiff legs would allow. The Admiral pounded down the servant’s staircase while settling the hat of the Admiralty overtop his thinning hair.

  As he raced to follow, Dr. Jenson called out, “But the Morgan’s boilers, sir! And the crew!”

  Dr. Jenson emerged in the echoing dampness of the basement and stopped dead in his tracks, gaping in amazement.

  The Morgan sat plumbed to the house, as she had for the last ten years, her great boilers powering the clocks and gadgets and heating the rooms, but now her hull sat in the Thames, instead of in the hoist frame above it. And her decks swarmed with men, ratcheting, wrenching, oiling. Her boilers seethed at battle pressure, needles just below the red arc that would trigger an emergency blow.

  “That’s why the clock blew so soon!” Dr. Jenson exclaimed. The Admiral could always smell a fight coming. He must have sent the cabin boy to round up the men. And they had all come, every last one of them. Come for the fight, for the adventure, for the Admiral.

  Von Trite shouted to Tawny, a shirtless old sailor in jaunty blue, who heaved on a massive four foot wrench to close the outflow steam valve to the house. A shout went up from the men as the Morgan’s pressure gauges wobbled a hair’s breadth further up, grazing the red line. Then three other sailors, all weathered and old, hauled on a sleeve nut two feet around and the Morgan slipped free of the house plumbing, drifting in the choppy Tham
es.

  “Spin the paddles, lads, bring the pressure down!” The Admiral’s face glowed with youth and vigor, the call of adventure dashing the years away, pulling Dr. Jenson along with it. The doctor sprang forward from the slippery stone floor, forgetting his age, and landed on the Morgan’s deck with sure feet.

  “That’s it Titus! Just as when we were lads on the storming Indian Sea! Ha ha!”

  The six great paddle wheels of the Morgan began to turn, dipping in the water, their massive gears rotating on immaculately maintained spindles. The steam engines that powered them huffed and chugged, echoing like thunder from the damp stone walls.

  “Get ‘em moving boys, full power! We have a Queen to save and a cur to fight!” The crew cheered as they threw off the last moorings and secured the last ropes. It was time for battle.

  The Admiral took hold of a worn peg of the rudder wheel from the helmsman. “I’ll steer her, my lad. It’s been too long since I’ve guided her fury with my own hands.”

  The helmsman stood in shock for a moment, then nodded and backed away. The crew paused at the sight of their great commander at the wheel, smiles spreading across their faces. This is the way it had been in the old days, the way it should be. Von Trite at the helm, high station be damned, steering them towards victory in their greatest time of need.

  Dr. Jenson disappeared below but returned quickly, the two dozen lenses on his multi-monocle headpiece giving him the appearance of an exotic bird. He flipped down a telescoping one and adjusted it, saying “I would like to get a look at one of the invaders, if possible, Admiral.”

  “I have been told that will not be a problem, Titus.”

  The Morgan churned the rank waters of the Thames into frothy brown as it emerged from the imposing stone foundation of von Trite’s manse. Her sharp prow clove the water with predatory glee, forged iron ram jutting forth. Gray smoke billowed from her main firebox stack at the center of the ship, lesser columns of dirty brown drifted up from the smaller stacks fore and aft; three fire boxes, feeding three engines, turning six massive paddle wheels in a puffing, chugging, click-clacking frenzy. The gunnery crews swarmed over the three swiveling cannon on her foredeck. The main deck sat idle, bereft of any armament due to the high arcs of the paddle wheels to either side. But the high captain’s deck at the rear held a single swivel mount, empty for the time being. Von Trite stood at the wheel before it, surveying the chaos of the city around him.