Clockwork Universe

by Seanen McGuire

  “Fascinating, Titus,” von Trite replied, only half listening. The London overcast enveloped the Morgan as it rose. The crew tightened their grip on their billy clubs and glanced nervously about.

  “Fog, lads, fog. Nothing more, nothing less. We’ve seen thicker, in rougher seas …” von Trite’s voice trailed off as they broke through to clear sky. White tendrils of mist clung to the Morgan’s sides and rolled from her decks. Von Trite shielded his eyes against the sun-blazed cloud tops then slowly dropped his hand, stunned.

  An indescribably massive orb floated above the clouds, burning bright orange as it soaked in the sunlight. Over a hundred tethers sprouted from it, snaking down into the cloud layer, all of them wriggling oddly, coiling themselves up tight against the mother orb. Von Trite’s awe morphed into a hard scowl as he realized what the tethers’ movement meant.

  “No time to waste, lads. They are reeling them in. We’ll have company soon and no earth to throw at them.” Von Trite pushed a double set of levers full forward and steam shrieked from the aft nozzles. The crew grabbed for handholds as the Morgan surged forward, balloons creaking as they dragged to catch up.

  “There! Beneath it. That’s where we’ll land.” Von Trite pointed at delicate scaffolding that hung from the bottom of the great orb, almost hidden completely by the coiling tethers that surrounded it. At the center of the scaffolding spun a massive gyroscope, its three rings flashing around two flat bisecting slabs of shining metal, one vertical and one horizontal.

  “Hold fast, men!” Von Trite fired steam to port, swinging the prow to one side of a retracting tether. The port side balloons bobbled and bounced off the tether’s side. Exposed deck edges scraped it with a tremendous screech.

  Dr. Jenson’s voice cracked from below in annoyance. “Bah! I dropped my pick! Can’t we hold still for one moment? I’m trying to pry open the heart of the invader!”

  Von Trite frowned, concentrating on navigating the thickening forest of tethers. “Crowded skies, Titus. Crowded skies. Keep working.”

  A tether thumped off the bow, sparks flying as the Morgan scrapped down it. Men fell, slid across the deck, some barely catching hold at the far rail. Von Trite set his jaw, squashing the stomach churning thought of losing one of his dear crew over the side. He gushed steam to bring the ship around, using the tether as a pivot point, then grunted in relief as the crew regained their feet and re-manned their stations. The ship broke free into the empty space between the tethers and the bisecting planes, sailing fast.

  But at that moment the first automatons punched through the clouds, dangling from their orbs which blazed brightly at the touch of the sun. They whipped past the Morgan in their ascent to the mother orb.

  Von Trite growled and cut the heat to the balloons. The Morgan stopped rising. He steered directly for the middle of the bisecting slabs of metal.

  Thunk! An automaton landed on the deck, feet firmly planted on the wrought iron. The men turned. Von Trite frowned, wondering why the automaton did not hover above it, helpless.

  “Repel boarders!” he bellowed as he drew Maude from his belt and aimed. Crack! Maude’s shot whistled briefly, struck the automaton in the gyro and crumbled it to pieces. Von Trite’s frown deepened but he yelled, “They’re fighting bare knuckled now, lads! Give ‘em the cutlass and the shot!” The crew roared in return, pulling blades from barrels and grabbing for muskets even as a dozen more automatons plopped down on the deck. The men set about their work tackling, slashing, head butting and bowling over, each one a brawling, adventuring sailor at heart, glad to have another go at it.

  Von Trite shoved Maude back into his belt and peered ahead, noting a gap at the very center of the bisecting planes.

  “Titus!”

  Silence.

  “Titus!”

  A metallic tinkling emanated from the tube followed by a grunt of victory. “There! Got it!”

  “Titus!”

  “What is that? My word!”

  Clang! The Morgan jerked to a halt.

  The crew tumbled forward, falling into their foes, rolling into the outer railing. Von Trite fell into the stand that held the steam levers, ribs crunching painfully, steam engine coughing, missing three strokes. The Morgan shuddered, trying to move forward, its bow crumpled on thin air, grating against it, getting turned aside.

  Choked sounds emanated from the voice tube, as if Dr. Jenson were trying desperately to speak but could not produce the words.

  For von Trite the world wavered, contracting then expanding as he drew breath with his shattered ribs. He blinked slowly, near delirium, and wondered at the sight of an irregular black mass hovering in a gap at the intersection of the metal slabs, two hundred yards away. He squinted then pulled forth his mariner’s spyglass with a grimace and a hitched breath. Von Trite stared for a moment, mind reeling through the implications of what he saw, then he grunted and let the spyglass fall. He looked down at the main deck, eyes on the glowing sight-windows of the firebox doors. He nodded in understanding and shoved himself backwards, towards Ulysses.

  Dr. Jenson staggered up the canted steps from the lower decks, clutching his stomach, trying to regain the breath that had been knocked from him. He croaked out two words, “Martmortimer, don’t!”

  Von Trite grabbed the stock of Ulysses and swung it around. He turned to Dr. Jenson with a deadly serious look. Dr. Jenson froze and clutched something to his chest.

  “What have you discovered, Titus?” von Trite asked.

  Dr. Jenson swallowed and opened his hand, revealing the purple-black chunk of coal von Trite knew he had pulled from the captured automaton’s gyroscope sphere. “Battle Coal, sir! Except, it … it is alive! Look!” Dr. Jenson shoved the chunk of coal into von Trite’s hand and held his largest magnifying monocle over it. Minute glimmers suffused the coal’s surface, ebbing and flowing, reaching up as if searching for the inner edge of the sphere that had encased it.

  Von Trite could feel the warmth of it even through his calloused hands, the pulsing of it, the life. He spoke without looking up.

  “And what of it?”

  “And what of … ? But don’t you see Martmortimer! The Kappa Cygni invaders, they are Battle Coal. Living Battle Coal! And they’ve come for their lost brethren!”

  “Their lost brethren.” Von Trite could feel the small bag of coal beneath his coat, pressing into his chest where his heart should have been. “The brethren we burned in our fireboxes, Titus? The ones that burn in mine as we speak?”

  “I …” Dr. Jenson paused, unsure of his friend’s meaning, of his flat tone.

  “What will they do when they’ve deduced what we’ve done? What will their temperament be, their actions?” von Trite continued.

  “I, I don’t know, sir.”

  “Nor do I. But I do know my duty, Titus: to preserve the Empire, to protect the Queen.” Von Trite lifted the chunk of coal in his hand, looking out at his crew who watched him; at the automatons that stood next to them, equally enthralled but with a tension in their stance von Trite could feel like a blade in his gut. “I cannot place either in jeopardy with a gamble on good will.” Von Trite looked back to his friend, the steam engine on his back giving out a sluggish sigh, its pressure gauge falling fast.

  Dr. Jenson’s mouth hung open in shock. He began to stammer a reply. But von Trite spoke with a tired sigh.

  “Anyway, old friend, I think my fires need a little stoking.” Von Trite threw the chunk of coal over his shoulder, into his hopper and twisted the firebox door knob.

  Purple-blue flames erupted. The automatons pointed and shrieked. Von Trite spun and snugged the butt of Ulysses to his shoulder, sighting down the long barrel at the distant chunk of coal at the nexus of the slabs. Boom! Ulysses’ stone shot flew true, blasting the coal from its position like a billiard ball, shattering it in the process. The great orb flared, sending a bright orange pulse down the tethers to the smaller orbs that then passed it down into the hearts of the automatons. Whoosh! The spheres at the auto
matons’ hearts shot up the tethers, passed through their parent orbs and continued up into the great orb above, disappearing into its heart.

  And then everything fell apart.

  Automatons collapsed into piles at the feet of the stunned crew, their tethers bursting from their backs and from the orbs they had attached to in great sprays of light. The massive tethers that connected the smaller orbs to the great one above blew apart, showering the Morgan with large chunks of debris, sending sailors diving for cover. The bisecting planes groaned ponderously and began separating, falling lazily earthward. Von Trite retook the helm, the steam engine on his back pumping furiously under full, ungoverned pressure. Balloons tore and gushed air. The Morgan listed, spiraling down as von Trite growled, clutching his side, struggling to steer the great ship out from under the rain of debris.

  The decks shuddered, debris slamming down, bending the railing, smashing the fore steam engine’s guide arm, which screeched and groaned and sheared in two. Von Trite gritted his teeth and heaved levers, shut valves, shunted steam. A chunk of tether took off his hat, slashed his cheek and ripped three buttons from his coat. He scrunched an eye at the burning cut and dumped more steam to port. A full length of tether slammed onto the deck, buckling it, sending sheared-off bolts whistling through his mustache. He twitched his lip and put full steam to the aft nozzles.

  The Morgan spiraled down, bursting from the bottom of the clouds, trailing smoke and mist and iron as her decks gave way. Von Trite aimed her for the open space of St. James Park, sweat rolling from his brow, pink froth tingeing his mustache. The Morgan’s prow slammed into the earth, digging up a great furrow, screeching and groaning as it slid to a halt a mere foot from the balcony of Buckingham Palace. Her remaining engines, warped by the buckling of the deck, shrieked and froze, blowing out solder joints and sleeve connectors in a hissing billow of steam. Silence fell save for the white-noise bleed-off of pressure and the thumping of great chunks of tether onto the earth.

  Titus pulled himself from the deck, spectacles askew, monocle lenses cracked and scuffed. Von Trite threw two more levers, venting the last of the steam from the Morgan’s boilers and shuttering her fireboxes. He counted his crew as they pulled themselves from the deck, his heart rising with their rising numbers. He flicked sweat from his brow and turned to find the Queen arriving, out of breath, flanked by horrified advisors, staring at him in disbelief.

  “You are still alive, Admiral?” she gasped.

  Von Trite cleared his throat, attempting to stand tall despite his broken ribs. “Yes.”

  “The enemy is defeated?”

  “They are.”

  “And the Empire is secure?”

  “It is.”

  The Queen shook her head, gazing out at the battered city as the remaining tether pieces crashed down onto it. After a moment of stunned reflection she spoke. “You are a magnificent man, Martmortimer.”

  Von Trite beamed, his eyes lighting up and the remains of his mustache twitching in delight. “I have always endeavored to impress My Queen.”

  She turned to him, eyes round with wonder. “Consider your endeavor successful.”

  Von Trite smiled broadly, a singular warmth spreading through him. He felt no need to reply, choosing instead to bask in the glow of her appreciation. It was not the love he had sought in his youth, but it somehow satisfied him more than he could describe.

  “But now you have lost your ship …” she said.

  Von Trite looked over the sagging remains of the Morgan, her bent smokestacks, her mangled engines, her bruised and bleeding crew. She was little more than a pile of steaming iron ready for the scrap heap. But he felt no sadness for her. “I think it the only fitting end for so fine a ship: to die in glory, protecting the heart of the empire.”

  Von Trite did not take his eyes off the Queen. “And saving the city was important too, of course,” he added.

  The Queen looked back at him sharply, a matronly frown on her face. But von Trite gave her a roguish grin, eyes alight with mischief, and her frown melted into a sour smile.

  “You never give up, do you Martmortimer?”

  Von Trite shook his head. “I find failure does not become me.”

  The Queen shook her head, fighting it a moment longer, then threw her head back and laughed; deep and long and genuine.

  * * *

  Dr. Jenson tightened von Trite’s rib wrappings with an unnecessarily rough tug, smiling with satisfaction at the grunt of pain it elicited.

  “Gah! Are you going to stay mad at me forever, Titus?”

  Dr. Jenson harrumphed, tying a knot to keep the bindings in place. “Not forever. You’ll die sooner or later.”

  “Bah! What more could I have done?”

  Dr. Jenson pressed his lips together, speaking sharply. “What more? Negotiated a ceasefire! Brokered peace! Who knows what we could have learned!”

  Von Trite shook his head. “In another time, Titus, in another place. But not here, not now. The risks were too great, the situation too grim.”

  Dr. Jenson shook his head, unwilling to give up on what could have been. But eventually he sighed. “You are probably right, old friend, but I wish it were not so.”

  “As do I. But we must deal with what is …”

  “Not what is supposed to be. I know.”

  Von Trite nodded, smiling at his friend’s patronizing tone. He settled his head back and closed his eyes. “Besides, you forgot to check my coat pocket.”

  Dr. Jenson frowned, but as he pulled the sack of Battle Coal from von Trite’s tattered great coat his eyes lit up. He dumped the contents out and stared with stark fascination at the impassive lumps in his hand. Von Trite peeked at him from the corner of his almost-closed eyes.

  “Take them, Titus. Do with them what you will. Perhaps that upstart Tesla can aid you in bringing life back to them. As for me, I’ve got a full firebox, a pounding head and a need for a long, well-earned nap.”

  The Red Queen and the White

  C.B. Pratt

  Despite the strides that had been made in exploring the forsaken places of the world, even with the efforts of mankind to fill every available niche, regardless of the wonders of modern communication—heliograph, aerograph, and sonic-tubes—when the first sky-ship appeared, no one knew of it for weeks.

  A Bedouin ushering his family across an otherwise empty quadrant of the Sahara first reported it to the French Army outpost at Ain-Salah. Another week passed before the commander sent a party out with the insistent Bedouin. A stringer for the New York Times went along looking for local color. A devotee of Alice Through the Looking Glass, he dubbed what he saw The White Queen.

  “A large shining wing reflecting the white sands below and the pitiless sun above, all who see it are struck dumb in wonder. One can only find oneself in that reflection by jumping up and down, waving your arms, or otherwise attempting to make oneself larger than life. Slowly it dawns upon me that this Earth, the purported Jewel in God’s Eye, is not so alone in that as we have ever believed.”

  My father, department chief of the New York Times’ Foreign Bureau, crossed out the last sentence with a firm stroke of his pen. “Old Danvers sounds frightened to death,” he commented. “Still, there’s no excuse for blasphemy.”

  Home from Massachusetts Institute of Technology for the end of term holiday, I’d come in for our traditional Father-Daughter luncheon. As usual, his “I’ll be ready in a moment” had turned into thirty minutes of “just one more thing.” On more than one past occasion, luncheon had been taken at quarter-to-six in an otherwise deserted restaurant.

  “Is the story true?” I asked.

  “With Danvers, one never knows. He landed a masterful scoop once when the Russian prince was murdered in Cairo, revealing a secret treaty. On the other hand, he’s much too willing to believe all the native jibber-jabber he hears, which is why he’s still just a stringer. We haven’t forgotten his report of the Great White Ape.”

  Father dropped his voice.
“Plus I fear he is not very steady in other ways.” Translated, that meant either drink or women.

  “Will you run the story?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, marking it for publication. “Now to luncheon!”

  Delmonico’s glistened with gilding and crystal, all against a background of red plush. The crowded tables had the usual proportion of businessmen, lunching ladies, and stage performers. Father, gratifyingly, was recognized by persons from all walks of life.

  I waited until the coffee had been poured and his single cigar of the day lit before broaching the subject I’d intended to discuss all along. He was chattering merrily on about whom he intended to invite to my graduation the following spring. “Definitely Aunt Ermy, don’t you think?”

  “She’s been predicting since freshman year that my brains would never take the strain of so much education.”

  “All the more reason to invite her. Though she thinks even Boston is too uncivilized a place for a New Yorker.”

  “Well, perhaps she won’t have to travel quite that far. I’m planning to transfer to Columbia.”

  “Columbia? I thought you loved Cambridge?”

  “I did. I do. It’s been a wonderful experience. But I have an opportunity to study with a great professor here. My Alchemy master recommended me.”

  “Another alchemical professor? Lead into gold, eh?”

  Everyone makes that joke to alchemical students, sometimes repeatedly. “No, transmutation of materials isn’t until senior year. Besides, I’m changing from alchemy. Dr. Brock has made a life-long study of Franklin’s Theory.”

  “Franklin’s Theory,” he said musingly. Then he sat up straight. “You don’t mean electricity?” I nodded. “But that’s dangerous, child! It killed Franklin stone-dead in the blink of an eye.”