Metal and Magic

by Chris Paton

  “Yes,” Stepan smiled. “It is good that we came early. We won’t miss a thing.” He grinned at Nikolas. “Be sure to remember every detail. Your mama will want to know all the details.”

  “Yes, papa.” Nikolas stopped bouncing. “I am sorry she can’t be here to see this. To see them.”

  “I am sure she will enjoy you telling her just as much. Look, now. Here they come.”

  Nikolas pressed his chest against the railing and leaned into his father. Stepan curled an arm around his son’s thin shoulders. The man standing next to Stepan grinned and lifted his daughter up onto the railing, her heavy shoes tugging at her feet as her legs dangled over the edge. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he hugged her close. Stepan and the man exchanged looks.

  “Exciting, eh?” Stepan smiled.

  “Yes, Kapitan. The most exciting thing to happen in Arkhangelsk in years. Something to tell our wives, when we get home.”

  “Forgive me,” Stepan paused, “is your wife sick too?”

  “Yes,” the man nodded. “It has been several...”

  “Papa,” Nikolas hopped within his father’s grasp. “Here they come.”

  Stepan and Nikolas felt the press of the crowd as the spectators jostled along the length of the quay to see the first of the steamers unload. The creak of the hawser in the wooden pulley was lost in an excited murmur as the people of Arkhangelsk pinched and pricked one another, pointing at the procession of men and women streaming onto the deck of the steamer. The small wooden chests they carried swung from the leather harnesses strapped across their chests. The crowd leaned around shoulders, stood on tiptoe, stared and wondered.

  Deckhands onboard the steamer scrambled with ropes, connected hooks to large stone counterweights that they raised with the deck cranes towering above the men and women at the ship’s rails. Lowering the stone weights into the water, the deckhands braced against the rails as the ship leaned, the starboard side dipping toward the gunwales. Stividors loosed the thick mooring lines as the steamer’s port side lifted. The men and women at the steamer’s rails secured themselves to the ship’s railing with ropes attached to their harnesses.

  “There is Mayor Chelyuskin,” Stepan pointed. “Do you see him, Nikolas?”

  “Yes,” Nikolas gasped against the wooden railing. “Papa...”

  “Hey,” Stepan bumped forward as the crowd jostled behind him. “Steady on.” He turned and glared at the men and women pressing into his back.

  “Papa...”

  Stepan looked down at his son as the small boy shrank in his grip, slumping onto the stone floor of the quay. An arrowhead of spectators pierced the space above Nikolas.

  “Hey,” Stepan shoved the crowd back, winding an older man as his forearm whipped into the man’s sternum.

  “What are you doing?” the man recoiled as Stepan’s actions rippled through the crowd.

  “Nikolas?” Stepan turned within the confines of the men and women pressing him against the railings. Reaching down, he gripped his son’s jacket and heaved him to his feet.

  “Imperial Navy officers,” the winded man clutched his chest. “Think they own the waterfront.” The spectators pressed against Stepan’s arm, locked at right angles, shielding his son.

  “Come on, Nikolas.” Stepan lifted his son into his arms, clearing a path with a scowl and the threat of violence. “Let’s get you home.”

  “But, papa,” Nikolas slurred. “I want to see the mechanical men, the emissaries, the ones from the poster.”

  “You will, Nikolas,” Stepan reeled as the crowd surged into the space at the railing. “Just not from here.”

  A cheer from the crowd slowed Stepan’s progress as he neared the outer row of people. Stepan turned and craned his neck to see.

  “Are they coming, papa?”

  “Yes,” Stepan set Nikolas on the ground. He kneeled down, the tip of his scabbard scraping upon the stone surface of the quay. “Come on, up on my shoulders.” Nikolas turned as Stepan gripped him under the arms and lifted him up and over his head, setting him down on his shoulders. Nikolas cupped his hands beneath his father’s chin. “Not too tight,” Stepan stood up, raising Nikolas two heads taller than the press of people in front of him. “Can you see?”

  “I can see,” Nikolas’ heels beat gently against his father’s chest.

  “Describe it for me.”

  “There are some big doors in the side of the ship,” the beating of Nikolas’ heels slowed. “Really big doors, papa.”

  “And?” Stepan curled his hands around the toes of Nikolas’ tired leather shoes.

  “The men and women on deck are pulling some kind of wire out of the boxes.”

  “An antenna, maybe?”

  “Yes, an antenna.” Nikolas twitched his heels. “The doors are opening papa. Mayor Chelyuskin is walking down to the ship.”

  “Is there a gangplank, Nikolas?” Stepan leaned forward, lifting his heels for a moment to peer over the men in front of him.

  “Yes, bigger and wider than anything I have ever seen. The cranes are moving it into position.”

  “What’s that music? Is there a band?”

  “It’s your band, papa. I can see Poruchik Nemtinov. He is conducting.”

  “Good old Aleksey,” Stepan’s lips stretched, curling upward, the corner’s of his eyes wrinkling.

  “Can you hear it, papa?”

  “Yes, I can hear it.” Stepan took a deep breath, filled his lungs and joined the crowd as they sang the March of the Common People, Nikolas’ fingers flexing beneath his chin. Flicking his eyes up to see his son, Stepan smiled through the chorus as Nikolas wiped away the tears trickling down his father’s cheeks.

  The crowd gifted the chorus from the people of Arkhangelsk to the men and women, sailors and officers of the German Confederation preparing to unload the first of the steamships at the dock. The men and women on deck straightened the antenna, opened the boxes clipped to their chest harnesses and tucked their heads beneath the lids. The last chorus was flattened by the clang and shudder of the gangplank slamming into place.

  A hush spread through the crowd. The last of Stepan’s tears swelled upon the skin of Nikolas’ finger and dribbled over the top, splashing onto the stone at his feet.

  The creak of the mooring lines masked Mayor Mikhail Chelyuskin’s steps as he walked to the gangplank and waited.

  “What’s happening, Nikolas?”

  “Shh, papa,” the crowd fidgeted beside them.

  Nikolas leaned down and whispered into his father’s ear, “Mayor Chelyuskin is waiting for something. He is staring into the ship.”

  “Into the hold?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything inside?”

  “Wait, papa,” Nikolas let go of his father’s head and straightened his back, the tips of his toes arched downward within Stepan’s grasp.

  “Nikolas?”

  “Something is coming out,” the crowd murmured. “Something big. It is them. They have arrived.”

  “What do you see, Nikolas?”

  Nikolas shifted his weight upon Stepan’s shoulders as the gangplank wobbled under the metal mass of light blue emissaries marching out of the ship’s hold. In single file the machines with bloated metal chests clanked up the gangplank, stepping onto the stone surface of the docks, bowing to the Mayor before clanking alongside the ship.

  “Three,” Nikolas counted the machines, tapping his father’s head with his fingers for each machine that clanked past the Mayor. “Six.”

  “How big are they?”

  “Eight,” Nikolas tapped. “Twice as big as the Mayor, papa. Eleven.”

  “How many?”

  “Fourteen. Fifteen,” Nikolas wriggled upon Stepan’s shoulders. “Twenty-one, papa, and two more coming out of the ship.”

  Stepan turned at the approach of a Poruchik wearing the regular uniform of his unit, the man’s heavy boots scuffing the grit lying in a thin layer on the quay.

  “Kapitan Skuratov,”
the Poruchik dipped his head. Pulling a crumpled paper bag of black sweets from his pocket, he held them up to Nikolas.

  “Uncle Vladimir,” Nikolas beamed down at the Poruchik. Thrusting his small hand into the paper bag, he pulled out a handful of sweets. Popping them in his mouth he nodded a quick thanks and turned back to the action on the dock. “That’s twenty-five.”

  “Poruchik Pavlutskiy,” Stepan gripped Vladimir’s hand. “It has been a week.”

  “More like two,” Vladimir shook Stepan’s hand before offering him a sweet.

  “Thanks, Vlad. Nikolas can have mine.”

  Vladimir shrugged and looked inside the bag. “I think he already has.” Crumpling the bag into a ball he tossed it over his shoulder. “How’s the show?”

  “Can’t see a thing,” Stepan flicked his eyes upward. “Had to pull the little man out of the crowd before they opened the hold.” He looked up at Vladimir. “Of course, you can probably see everything from up there.”

  “Not much to see. A bunch of metal men parading on the docks.” Vladimir licked an errant bit of sweet from around his teeth. “How is Anna?”

  Stepan nodded. He took a deep breath. “It is good of you to ask, Vlad.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

  “Then let me tell you later,” Stepan gave Nikolas’ knees a quick squeeze. “Over a beer?”

  “A bottle of Khlebnikov?” Vladimir curled his fingers around the stubble on his chin. “Now that sounds good, Kapitan.”

  “I want to come too.”

  “You’re too small, Nikolas,” Vladimir reached up to pat Nikolas on the back. “Wait,” he turned to peer over the shoulders of the crowd. “There’s one more on its way out of the hold.”

  “Twenty-six,” Nikolas flicked his heels.

  “Steady on, Nikolas,” Stepan gripped his son’s feet.

  “Are they wearing swords?” Vladimir took a step forward. He turned to smile at Stepan. “Would you believe it?” Vladimir whistled. “They’ve got ceremonial swords hanging in scabbards over their shoulders.”

  “The last one, the one with the grey star on his chest,” Nikolas pointed. “He is carrying his sword in one hand.”

  “It’s drawn?” Stepan frowned.

  “Looks like it,” Vladimir squeezed between the men and women in front of him and stared. He turned his head and nodded. “Nikolas is right.”

  “What’s happening now?”

  “He’s walking up to the Mayor, papa.”

  “Stepan,” Vladimir pushed back to the Kapitan’s side. “This doesn’t look good,” he shook his head.

  “I am going to put you down now, Nikolas,” Stepan reached up and gripped his son under his armpits.

  “No, papa. I won’t be able to see.”

  “Exactly,” Stepan lifted Nikolas up and over his head.

  “Papa,” Nikolas screamed.

  The crowd recoiled as the strike of metal upon stone rang through the docks. His son suspended above his head, Stepan stumbled as the crowd pushed back, fleeing the ugly roar of metal being drawn from twenty-five metal scabbards. Nikolas fell to the ground. Landing heavily upon his small feet, he disappeared under a wave of people pushing and shoving their way clear of the railings. Vladimir planted his feet on the ground. Standing firm, he parted the crowd like a rock.

  “Nikolas?” In the eddy in front of Vladimir, Stepan pushed himself to his feet, flicking his head left and right. “Nikolas? My son?”

  “There,” Vladimir took a step forward. His arm straight, he pointed into the crowd. “Ten yards. That way,” he pushed Stepan forward.

  Pushing through the crowd, clawing at shoulders and stepping over trampled bodies, Stepan fought his way toward Nikolas. Focusing on his son’s blond hair, Stepan breathed when he saw him, fought the wave of people when he didn’t. He stopped at the sound of splintering wood. The crowd slowed and Stepan turned as they did to look behind them, toward the docks.

  Towering above the heads of the men, women and children in the sea of people, two of the metal emissaries from the docks lifted their great swords in a double-handed grip, swinging fast and hard into the stragglers. Stepan reached for his sword, drawing it slowly as he watched the machines chop and hack their way toward him.

  “No, Kapitan,” Vladimir wrapped his fist around Stepan’s hand. “Run.” The hilt of his sword clicked against the lip of the scabbard as Stepan sheathed it. The emissaries clanked forward. “I will meet you at Romanov’s.” Vladimir freed Stepan’s hand from his sword, gripped the hilt and drew it.

  “Vlad?”

  “Run, Kapitan. Find Nikolas.” Vladimir raised Stepan’s sword and charged toward the machines. Stepan watched as the Poruchik, a giant of a man, shrank beneath the height and raw power of the machines. As Vladimir ducked beneath the slow swings and thrusts of the emissaries, Stepan pulled himself away and turned back toward the crowd surging away from the docks.

  “Papa,” Nikolas cried out.

  “Nikolas?” Stepan stumbled over an elderly woman, her right foot twisted beneath a broken ankle.

  “Help me,” the woman raised a wrinkled hand. She grasped the hem of Stepan’s trouser leg as he stepped over her.

  “I can’t,” Stepan hesitated. “My son...”

  “You are an officer,” the woman stretched the fabric of Stepan’s trousers. “You are obligated...”

  Stepan twisted at the sound of splintering metal. At the quayside, Vladimir reeled backward, Stepan’s broken sword tumbling out of his bloody hands. The Poruchik, ducked beneath the massive arm of his mechanical assailant, turned and stumbled toward Stepan.

  “Vlad?” Stepan pulled his leg free of the woman’s grip.

  “I am okay,” Vladimir stopped, his chest heaving, blood trickling from a cut in his brow. “But I cannot stop them. Can’t even slow them down.” He looked back at the approaching machines. “We must go, Kapitan.”

  Stepan gripped Vladimir’s arm and pointed at the woman. “One arm each. We’ll drag her out of here.” The woman wailed as Stepan and Vladimir pulled her between them as they ran.

  “Where is Nikolas?”

  Stepan shook his head. “I have not seen him.” Pausing at the entrance to a warehouse, Stepan nodded in the direction of the open door. “In here.” Leading the way, Stepan let go of the woman’s arm as Vladimir propped her up against the packing crates inside the warehouse. The clank of the emissaries drew closer.

  “Kapitan,” Vladimir left the woman and crossed to stand by Stepan’s side. “We need to go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stepan waved his hand toward the machines as they clanked past the warehouse. He watched as they moved beyond the warehouse and out of sight. “I counted eight ships,” he gripped Vladimir’s shoulder. “Nikolas counted twenty-five...”

  “Twenty-six,” Vladimir wiped the blood from his cheek.

  “Yes, twenty-six machines from just one ship.”

  “They were supposed to be workers, automated machines for the shipyard and mines.” Vladimir examined the blood smeared upon his palm. “What is this about?”

  “I don’t know,” Stepan let go of Vladimir’s shoulder and walked to the door. Leaning against the frame, he stared in the direction the emissaries had disappeared, following the spoor of broken bodies with his eyes. “Nikolas,” Stepan took a deep breath.

  “We’ll find him,” Vladimir walked past Stepan and into the street. “Are you coming, Kapitan?”

  Stepan slammed his fist upon the door frame and nodded. “Yes.” Removing his sword belt, Stepan let the scabbard fall to the ground. Flinging his ceremonial cap onto a packing crate, Stepan jogged out of the warehouse and down the street. Vladimir fell into step alongside him. “We’ll follow the crowd until we find him.”

  “Yes, Kapitan. For as long as it takes.”

  Chapter 2

  The Flying Scotsman

  Somewhere over the North Sea

  May, 1851

  Luise Hanover smoothed her fingers over
the rough paper pages of her notebook. Tracing the khronoglyphs with the tip of her little finger, she chewed at her bottom lip. The packing cases and crates enclosing her in a square pocket of hardwood creaked as The Flying Scotsman buffeted in the wind. Loose pages of khronoglyphs, the corners tucked into the cracks in the wood flapped within Luise’s workspace, the edges curling and teasing inches from her nose.

  At Luise’s feet, the cylindrical impediment machine rocked with the movement of the airship. At the turn of each page in her notebook, Luise glanced at the machine, pressing the toe of her black leather boot against the side of the cylinder to stop it rolling across the deck.

  Hari Singh paced around the outside of Luise’s research space. Stopping to peer over the crates, he rocked on the balls of his feet. Hari grasped the metal strut above him as the nose of the airship dipped violently downward. The packing cases leered over Luise’s shoulder, shifting with the rasp of rough wood.

  “It’s getting worse,” Luise pinched her notebook closed, marking the page with her index finger trapped between the leather covers. Pressing her nose with her knuckle, she suppressed a sneeze. “And with all this dust...”

  “Yes, Miss...” Hari braced himself with one hand on the strut and the other on the packing case in front of him. “Yes, Luise?”

  “Well, with all this dust,” Luise stopped to sneeze. “Our lungs will be a mess by the time we reach Copenhagen.” She sneezed again. Frowning, Luise pressed her fingers to her temple.

  “Is something wrong?” Hari leaned into the workspace.

  “No,” Luise looked up. “Just...”

  “Just what?”

  “It’s silly, but since the demons came through into our world, I have had a voice whispering inside my head. Several times, in fact.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “I didn’t know what to say, Hari.”

  “What does the voice say?”

  “I am not sure.” Luise tugged a folded piece of brown paper from between the back cover and the last page of her notebook. “It is not really whispering as such.” She waved the piece of paper. “More like symbols, really.”