Clockwork Universe

by John W Dennehy

  Soon, they cleared the large city buildings and Niles accelerated the Rover. A billow of smoke shot from the exhaust pipe. They headed down Congress Street, hurrying toward the channel, separating Boston proper from a warehouse district.

  The fishing peers and deep-water docks lay along Boston Harbor just beyond the shabby brick warehouses across the bridge.

  As the Rover thumped across a wooden bridge, traversing the channel, Cunningham leaned over and squinted at a small monument.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Cunningham said, pointing.

  “A memorial of the Boston Tea Party,” Kevin said.

  “Blazes, why in Pete Sakes does the Empire allow this sort of dissent?”

  “Just a historical marker,” said Kevin.

  “Anarchy, absolute anarchy,” Cunningham said, pounding the dashboard. “Commemorating a day when a bunch of rabble rousers started an upheaval.”

  “Never seen a monument commemorating a lost war,” Niles said quizzically.

  Kevin slumped in his seat. All the excitement about the hunt had caused him to forget his predicament. Their comments were a reminder, not only of his situation, but of the fact that he really didn’t know much about this terrene.

  “Don’t worry, lad,” Cunningham said. “Your New Hampshire militia fared well during the war. The colonies lost mainly because of the secret treaties with France and Spain that cut off much of the supplies and support.”

  “Hearing that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Losing should never make you feel well,” Niles commented, “especially if you’re a born winner. Winners always hate to lose.”

  “Sounds like you’re a prospect for a winner,” Cunningham said. “Glad to have you along. Makes this expedition a little more interesting.”

  Kevin thought Cunningham actually sounded sincere.

  They rambled over the end of the bridge and cruised past a few warehouses. Following the brick buildings, a street wound to the right, lined in triple-decker, multifamily houses, with clapboard siding. Each level had a porch overlooking the street. Past the houses lay a flat plain of land, covered in tall grass, which dropped off at the ragged coastline.

  Beyond the grassy plain, lay wharves, and then the choppy waters of Boston Harbor. The scene depicted a port city hard at work. A few fishing piers jutted from the coastline on the left. Boats plodded along trying to make their daily catch. On the right stood a few deep-water docks.

  Vast wooden sailing ships were tied at the docks, thick ropes fastened to the piles; steam cranes worked hard unloading the cargo. Wagons pulled by dray horses hauled freight off the big docks, plank beds sagging under the weight of heavy loads.

  Upon the water, an immense schooner was being escorted to a dock, sails rolled up. Little steam tug boats nosed the schooner along, spitting black smoke from stacks protruding from the pilot cabins.

  An ominous dark boat patrolled the harbor. Cannon ports were located along the iron-plated sides just above the waterline; most of the hull was submerged in the murky water. Smoke billowed from twin stacks jutting from the flat roof, and a Union Jack fluttered at the stern. The city-class ironclad gunboat seemed to be roving the harbor in methodical, constant motion.

  Niles maneuvered the Rover toward the deep-water dock that moored two ships. They parked on the edge of the thick grass and climbed out.

  “We’ll leave the rifles here for now,” Cunningham said, walking hastily toward the dock. “But grab that knapsack, lad. Might need what’s in there.”

  Kevin slipped the knapsack over a shoulder and headed after them. Cunningham rushed toward the dock and Niles hustled to keep up. The hunters pulled further ahead as Kevin struggled to catch them.

  Cunningham stood on the edge of the dock, feet planted shoulder-width apart, with Niles beside him. The Great Hunter reached for his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Kevin approached and realized Cunningham held a rough sketch.

  Peering over a shoulder, Kevin noticed the sketch depicted a ship that likely transported the beasts. A steam crane had been staged on the dock. The drawing had a rectangle where the crate had crashed.

  “Wonder if that’s the steam crane in question,” Cunningham said, pointing to a crane unloading a nearby ship.

  “Suppose it could be our crane,” Niles responded, “or one very much like it.”

  Instead of inspecting the spot where the wooden cargo container had broken open, Cunningham stepped to the location of the steam crane on his drawing. He carefully spied the crane working to unload the nearby ship, taking in the actions of the operator, and then turned and began to act out the unloading of the Rhino-pards.

  “The report indicated that the hoist gave way,” Niles said. “So, this exercise could prove to be a waste of time.”

  “Rubbish,” Cunningham retorted. His hands worked make-believe levers, as he intently scanned the scene.

  Niles watched Cunningham curiously. “You think something else happened?”

  “Look at that piling to the left,” Cunningham said.

  Kevin and Niles turned to view the piling. It had a sizable gash in the side where something had swung into it and splintered the wood.

  “That could have happened any time in recent months,” Niles finally responded.

  “But look over here,” Cunningham said, pointing at the dock near his imaginary cockpit. “See where the dock is chewed up. That’s from the crane tipping.”

  “Looks fairly recent.”

  “The operator got distracted by something over there,” Cunningham explained. “He swung the beam too far, causing the crane to tip. The crate swung wide and crashed into the piling.”

  “Then the Rhino-pards burst through the broken crate.”

  “Right you are, Niles,” said Cunningham. “After hitting the piling, the crane would have righted itself, causing the crate to swing back.”

  Kevin noticed claw marks in the dock. “And they jumped out right here,” he said, indicating to striations in the wood.

  Cunningham smiled proudly.

  “Right you are, lad,” Cunningham said.

  “They broke free and trampled along the edge of the dock,” Niles said, walking toward shore.

  Kevin and Cunningham followed after Niles. There were sporadic claw marks in the dock as the Rhino-pards tore off, fleeing the pier. Glancing at the claw marks, Kevin estimated the width at sixteen centimeters.

  There were also a number of gnarled planks along the edge of the dock, aligning with some claw marks. Bits of wood were churned up from the pounding beasts.

  Cunningham waved for them to halt at the end of the dock. He looked around and then pointed to a Rhino-pard print in the muddy shoreline to the right. There were a few more prints beyond it.

  Leading the way, Cunningham slowly stepped along the shore, being careful to walk to the side of the tracks. Kevin and Niles trailed a meter behind. The tracks snaked along the tideline.

  “Blazes!” Cunningham said, halting. “Would you look at that?”

  A number of boot prints intermingled with the tracks in the mud.

  “Bloody shameful,” he added, shaking his head.

  Approaching another dock, the tracks veered away from the water and disappeared into tall grass. A multitude of boot prints jumbled throughout the mud near the point where the Rhino-pards entered the brush.

  “This is where the trail ended for our predecessors,” Cunningham jeered.

  “What do we do from here?” Kevin whispered to Niles.

  “Wait for him to figure it out.”

  Cunningham bent down on one knee and tilted his head low to the brush. Then he stood and walked a few paces along the shore and did it again. Wind blew off the water; he got up and took a deep breath while scanning the coastline.

  There was a slope from the shoreline to the grassy plain. Many locations had steep grassy embankments stemming three meters high.

  “How big are these creatures?” he said to Niles.


  “From the size of the paws and back feet,” Niles responded, “I’d say they approximate a small, younger rhino.”

  “Not a full-sized adult?”

  “Heavens no.”

  “More like a White Rhino than a Great Horned Rhino?”

  “Correct,” Niles answered. “These are likely 1.5 meters high, and weigh closer to a ton, slightly over that.”

  “Not the two-thousand pounders that we hunted in India?”

  “These are smaller,” Niles agreed. “But they appear to be much more agile.”

  Cunningham nodded, seeming to understand, and then he examined the grassy embankment further. Suddenly, he turned and inspected the muddy shore, squinting and running a hand over his pate.

  He walked off without saying a word, trailing the edge of the grass where it meets shore. Mud clumped to the soles of Cunningham’s boots as he plodded along. Eventually, he bent down and stared at a rivulet trickling from the grass. A tiny stream of water meandered into the harbor.

  Then, Cunningham stood erect and turned toward the grassy embankment. Hands on hips, he spied the grass for a moment, staring at the hillside, and then he scanned along the grassy plain.

  “And they’re certainly smarter than your typical rhino,” he finally said.

  “How so?” Niles said.

  Cunningham pointed at a spot in the embankment where the grass stood tall and thick. “Right there,” he said.

  Nothing appeared visible except tall brush.

  “What do you have there, chap?” Niles inquired.

  Tracing with a finger, Cunningham indicated from the embankment back toward where the muddy boot prints were located. He intimated as though this explained everything. It didn’t enlighten Kevin as to what the Great Hunter had fixated upon.

  Niles looked confused as well.

  Breaking from the shoreline, Cunningham plied his way through the tall grass. “This way, my lads,” he commanded.

  ****

  Following Niles through the tall grass, Kevin reached the embankment long after Cunningham. They found him looking things over peculiarly. He peeked around the brush scratching his head.

  “What is it?” Niles said.

  “Should have brought a machete,” Cunningham said.

  “Didn’t think we’d need one in the city,” Niles said. “After all, it’s not like we’re in the African bush.”

  “Stand back,” Cunningham instructed, and then he whacked at the brush with his hand. Crabgrass flew in sundry directions until the mouth of a large steel pipe was revealed. Kevin lent a hand and uprooted more brush.

  The steel pipe was three meters in diameter. A steady trickle of water dripped from the end of the pipe, meandering through reeds and crabgrass toward the shore.

  “They plunged through the brush into the pipe,” Cunningham explained. “Did it so quickly that the grass popped back into place.”

  “So that’s how they disappeared from view,” Niles reasoned. “And no one could track them from there.”

  “With all the commotion on the dock,” Cunningham said, “nobody even saw them dive in here.”

  “How could the Rhino-pards have known?” Kevin asked.

  “Definitely very smart,” Niles said. “Very bright indeed.”

  “Probably sensed the water and jumped through here,” Cunningham said. “Like plowing past a waterfall into a hidden cave.”

  Something caught Cunningham’s attention. He reached for a piece of material stuck on the side of the shiny metal pipe. Kevin couldn’t make out the object. It seemed like a scrap of rubber tire, like retread torn loose on the open highway.

  Cunningham turned and held it up.

  “They busted through here so fast and hard,” he said, “that one of them caught its hide on the pipe there.”

  Niles looked it over. “These things have skin like the armor-plated tanks that we used in the Great War.”

  Cunningham nodded in agreement.

  They stood there looking at the pipe for a moment. A glimmer of daylight shone inside for about three to four meters, and then the pipe extended into extreme darkness. The total length of the pipe was difficult to determine.

  “What in blazes is this pipe used for?” Cunningham expostulated.

  Niles climbed up the embankment and looked around. He quickly honed in on something and so Kevin and Cunningham trudged up the hillside. A large factory building jutted in the distance, constructed from brick. Five enormous smoke stacks towered from the back of the building.

  “A cogeneration facility,” Niles said.

  “Why the pipe?” Cunningham asked.

  “The facility is a power plant for combined electric and heat,” Niles explained. “The city is likely getting power and heat for its various public buildings from that facility. Steam is the source of heat and power. The perfect location for such a facility, actually.”

  “You still haven’t explained the pipe.”

  “They take water from the ocean, purify it, and then use coal to heat it into steam,” Niles continued. “The steam creates energy that they conduct through lines running underground. The same tunnels carry typical steam pipes for heating buildings.”

  “So this pipe is just a conduit for electrical lines and steam pipes?” Cunningham questioned. “But why doesn’t anything come out on this end?”

  “A future line?” Kevin guessed.

  “Heavens no,” Niles answered. “This here is a major condensate line for the facility. You see, all steam lines carry steam along the top of the pipe, which is used for heating and gets into radiators in buildings. But a natural by-product of steam is condensate, water. If not drained from the line, the condensate can affect the system. It naturally travels across the bottom of the piping and drains out at low points, through drainpipes and drip-legs.”

  “So, this pipe drains all the condensate from the system?” Cunningham said.

  “Not quite,” Niles answered. “This is likely a major drainpipe for the boiler and other drain lines may run into it. There are underground vaults all around the city where piping enters and exits. The pipes entering the vaults deposit the condensate into the vaults by exiting drip-legs.”

  “What are the drip-legs?” Kevin said.

  “Just smaller pipes attached to the bottom of the steam lines,” Niles said. “Valves can be opened or closed to allow for drainage into the drip-legs.”

  “So the drip-legs are attached to the bottom of a big steam pipe. And the condensate runs along the bottom of the pipe and drains out the drip-legs.”

  “That’s about right, lad,” Niles confirmed. “But only when the valves are open. The drip-legs are usually smaller pipes than the steam lines they are attached to.”

  Kevin nodded understanding.

  “And so that is why steam lines are tapped on top of the line,” Niles said, “when diverting steam in different directions.”

  “To allow the steam to continue upward and along the pipe, while the condensate runs along the bottom and drips out?” Kevin asked.

  “Correct.”

  “There were attacks in various parts of the city,” Cunningham said. “If this pipe merely runs back to that factory, how do you explain it?”

  “Maybe it connects with another pipe, or a tunnel,” Niles answered. “Or perhaps they came back out.”

  Cunningham stood there contemplating.

  “So what’s next?” Niles asked.

  “Get the rifles, lad!” Cunningham commanded. “We’ve got ourselves a hunt.”

  Chapter Nine

  Kevin dashed over bent grass heading to the Rover. His boots sunk into the mud that oozed between fallen reeds. Reaching the edge of matted crabgrass, he took a deep breath. Malodorous saltwater and low-tide muck pierced his nostrils.

  He hurried along the shoreline as the ironclad chugged through choppy water twenty meters offshore. An extraordinary show of power. Waves broke against its bow, splashing onto the low decking, and smoke rhythmically spit from twin stacks
protruding from the ship.

  A stern sailor leaned near an open canon hatch. His face looked gaunt and hard, smeared in soot. He seemed impervious to the damp, chilly sea breeze. Although the sailor appeared haggard, Kevin suspected they were a similar age.

  Cunningham jolted Kevin from thoughtful contemplation. “Get moving, lad!” he yelled. “And bring the Gibbs.”

  Double-timing back to the Rover, Kevin glanced back and caught Cunningham grinning. Then, the Great Hunter slapped Niles on the shoulder, seeming excited the hunt was finally underway.

  Kevin jogged by the end of the deep-water dock. A couple of workers jeered at him, motioning to the tops of their heads. They obviously found his purple Mohawk funny. He didn’t pay them any mind and headed straight for the Rover.

  Parked on a knoll above the embankment, the Rover was surrounded by tall grass. The big tires pressed the reeds down, but the rest of the crabgrass had sprung back up. Kevin forged his way through waist-high grass and opened a rear door. Reaching for the Gibbs, he thought over Cunningham’s instructions.

  Initially, they told him to get the rifles, then Cunningham demanded the Gibbs. It wasn’t clear if Cunningham wanted all of the rifles, or only the Gibbs. Slinging the Gibbs .505 over a shoulder with the barrel pointed down, Kevin thought about the weapon that Cunningham had used in Canada. Kevin reached for the Weatherby .460 elephant gun.

  After deciding upon the Weatherby and the Gibbs, Kevin grabbed two ammunition belts, each full of rounds for the respective rifles. He slung the belts across his chest, and then slipped the Weatherby onto the free shoulder.

  Kevin steadily marched back to the oversized pipe, grasping the slings of both rifles to steady the weapons. Dense stocks jabbed into his shoulders, and the rifles weighed him down. By the time he returned, Kevin’s legs had begun to tire and his shoulders were chafed from the slings.

  Niles had the knapsack on his back and a kerosene lantern by his side.

  Standing nearby, Cunningham wore his Australian bush hat, while peeking into the pipe. He wore a pistol in a leather holster slung through a web belt with a brass buckle. The holster had a flap with the stamp of the crown, concealing the butt of the pistol. Cunningham seemed to notice Kevin, and walked over; he reached for the Weatherby.