Clockwork Souls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “No!” the automaton shrieked over and over. “No!”

  Marie had never heard Ives make such a sound. She stared down at him. For a second, she thought she saw Malcomb thrashing at her feet, his face pasty with fear, eyes bulging, red whiskers shaking.

  Impossible! Yet . . .

  She bent closer and peered into the automaton’s eyes. Eyes that had housed a kindly soul, one she knew well. The soul that was in them now was not the same.

  “No! No!” he screamed again and again, as if he could not stop.

  He did not see her. He was lost.

  She straightened, amazed. This had not been her intention.

  Oya had intervened. She was sure of it.

  “Sir?” she heard Anthony saying. “Colonel?”

  Marie hastened to join him at Malcomb’s side. The large body lay a little distance from the fire. Knocked back by the concussion, no doubt. Marie knelt and touched the ruddy face.

  The body shuddered, then the eyes opened. Blue, blue eyes. Once filled with selfish cruelty, now with innocent wonder. “What is this?” he said in amazement, his voice slurred.

  “Look at me,” Marie commanded.

  The head turned. The eyes roamed, then focused on her. “Madame? What is this?”

  Marie sat back on her heels, gratitude welling in her heart. Above, shreds of pink cloud lit the morning sky.

  “A new day,” she said.

  The result of the mine’s explosion was not what the Union had intended. Troops that had been trained for the event were held back, and the uninformed regiments who were sent into the breach were unprepared, and ended up badly mauled. Then the trained troops were sent in, but by then there was no hope.

  Blame and accusations flew. Bad decisions had been made, and an unprecedented opportunity to break the Rebel defenses was lost.

  Yet in the camp of the 1st Automated Engineers, there was quiet rejoicing. They had done their duty and done it well, better than any human troops could have done. Colonel Malcomb, who had suddenly developed a modest and gracious attitude, praised his soldiers and passed all credit on to them. He delegated command of the regiment to Lieutenant-colonel Ramsey while he recuperated from a slight mishap that had occurred in the Headquarters camp. Anthony graciously permitted Marie to nurse the colonel.

  “You will have to go to Boston,” Marie told him, serving him a bowl of soup and bread hot from the oven. “There are doubtless affairs of business you should attend to.”

  “I have already received a number of letters, Madame. You are right that I must go eventually, but there appears to be no immediate concern.” He paused to savor a mouthful of the bread. “How excellent! I never understood why humans loved food so much. Now I do.”

  “You have much to adjust to, while you recover,” she said.

  “Indeed. Speaking of recovery, how is . . . Private Ives . . . doing?”

  Marie took a moment to adjust the blanket that lay over Colonel Malcomb’s body. She still had the same trouble calling him by that name that he had just shown with his former name.

  “I am not involved in the maintenance of your soldiers,” she said.

  “I am certain that you know, Madame. Tell me. Has he regained his sanity?”

  Marie shook her head. “His body was repaired, but he still raves. He has been declared unfit for service.”

  “You could help him, could you not?”

  Marie met the blue gaze. “Why would ever I wish to?”

  “Out of mercy, Madame.”

  She scoffed. “Mercy. He would have given none to you.”

  “That does not make it right to let him suffer.”

  “What would you have me do? Restore him to his place? I will not. He would only cause harm to a great many others.”

  The colonel drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, his brow puckered in thoughtful concern. “Do you believe in Heaven, Madame?”

  “Not for the likes of him, cher.”

  “Would he go to Hell, then, if he was freed from his . . . mechanical form?”

  “I do not know.”

  “And will I go to Hell,” he whispered, “for staying where I am?”

  Marie set aside the soup bowl and drew herself up. “Your place in Heaven or Hell is built by your actions in this life. Do good, and you will earn your way to Heaven.”

  “Even though I deny that man his home?”

  “It is not you who denies it, but me. I will take the consequences upon my soul.”

  “Ah. How good you are.”

  The colonel closed his eyes. Marie laid a cool, damp cloth across his brow.

  “May I ask you a question, Madame?”

  “You may. I might not answer.”

  “Had you planned the . . . miracle . . . that occurred the night of the battle?”

  “No, mon cher. Miracles are in the hands of God.”

  “Then I do not know why it happened, but I am grateful for this gift.”

  “Is it better?”

  “Worlds better. I can feel! The sounds, the smells and flavors, the colors! Truly, Madame, the human body is a wondrous machine.”

  “That it is, cher,” Marie said softly. “But the soul is where true beauty lies.”

  “The soul,” he murmured, drifting to sleep with a gentle smile. “The soul.”

  She watched him for a time, then returned to her own tent and retrieved a charm that she had made some days before. She had been undecided about using it. Now she lit two candles on her altar, and made her way through the camp to the repair tent.

  It was mercifully empty of all but the one machine. The automaton called Ives lay restless on his cot, his cries of anguish tuned to a mere whisper by the medical engineers. She stood over his form for a few minutes, watching for any sign of rationality, any mote of repentance. She saw none.

  Glancing around the tent to assure herself she was alone, she drew her charm out of her pocket. It was a folded bit of paper, containing ashes of several unusual ingredients that she had packaged together in a paper scribed with the symbol of Ogun and burned at midnight beneath the new moon. She unfolded the packet and carefully sprinkled the ashes over the chest of the automaton, where his heart would have been if he had one. The thrashing and the whispering slowed, then stopped, as Marie blew the last of the ashes out of the paper.

  “Be free,” she said softly, as the light left mechanical eyes.

  Return to Table of Contents

  A Need for Expanded Abilities of a Discreet Nature

  Patricia Burroughs

  So. This was Professor Rufus Cornelius Abercrombie-Stubbins.

  She curtseyed stiffly before the Englishman. Gentleman, truth be told, for gentleman he surely was, despite the smear of oil on his cheek and his steamed-over spectacles. He whipped them off and wiped them on a filthy silk handkerchief. “You are from Mr. Claggmarten, I take it?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “My name is Eglantine,” she lied again.

  “No. You are not to have a name. I do not want you to have a name. In fact—you are not even what I ordered.” He slid his spectacles back onto the high bridge of his nose. “I know what I ordered—and you are not she. Not it. Not—” He snatched up the Atlanta Southern Confederacy newspaper from his cluttered desktop and shook it at her, showing the headline, “Hood Fails Again; Sherman Advances,” shown boldly across the top. “Not,” he said, “what I ordered. You are not the model I saw in Mr. Claggmarten’s place of business. If they have switched my order at this crucial moment when I have urgent and specific needs—every previous attempt I’ve made has failed!”

  He strode toward her with such ferocity it was all she could do to hold her ground, keep her chin raised and her gaze placid. He circled her, his upper lip curled into a disdainful sneer, taking in the dark gray traveling cloak, the cheap, sensible black shoes that pinched her toes, the dove-gray hat that didn’t perch quite neatly on her heavy coil of hair, much heavier than the automaton’s hairstyle which she had copied. She clutched the heavy
carpetbag before her, hoping it had ceased to emit unfortunate noises.

  He slapped the packet of papers against his thigh. “I demand to know why I have been foisted off with a substitute!”

  She met his glare calmly, without flinching. “I am endowed with all of the attributes you ordered. All of them,” she added significantly.

  “But tonight. He promised me you would be here in time for my final attempt tonight—and now he has sent me an entirely different model and I am supposed to take it on faith that you are equal to the automaton I ordered?”

  “Superior.” The familiar rage simmered in her veins. “I am superior.”

  “Well, your appearance is lifelike, I must admit. In fact, I am certain I have never encountered an automaton quite as—well, as distinctive as you—on either side of the Atlantic.” His eyes flickered up and down her body, paying close attention to her hands, the bare skin at her throat, her face. “So realistic and unexpected.”

  “Mr. Claggmarten will be most gratified by that observation. He is not only the finest automaton creator in Savannah, but in the entire South.”

  She maintained her stare and repeated the words spoken so recently to her by the thing she had destroyed and replaced. “I am a Nova-Model Exquisite Female Automaton, created on the eleventh day of November, in 1864, the year of our Lord, activated for use on this afternoon for your order. In addition to the fine array of capabilities all Claggmarten creations bear, I also have Exceptional and Expanded Abilities of a Discreet Nature—”

  “Enough.” He cleared his throat. “It is not your—the—more discreet abilities that I’ll be needing.”

  She was, as always, grateful that her complexion was not prone to blushes. It was a safe guess that blushing was not meant to be in her repertoire.

  In the quick flicker of a glance she allowed herself before lowering her gaze, she noted that it was his cheeks that stained red. How confusing. He’d ordered the Courtesan Model, after all. If not for sexual congress, then why? And yet she could hardly ask for clarification.

  “If you would honor me with an explanation of this unwanted and unexpected change . . .”

  “The model you ordered did not satisfy the rigorous testing demanded of a Nova Model Automaton upon activation. It exhibited an unfortunate . . .” She paused delicately. “Tendency.”

  “Tendency?” he repeated, alarmed. “What sort of tendency?”

  “You indicated a preference not to discuss our more discreet abilities.”

  His face blanched.

  This was truly too easy.

  He cleared his throat, suddenly eyeing her even more warily. “How can I trust that you are more reliable than the model I ordered turned out to be?”

  “Because Mr. Claggmarten sent me in her stead, Professor.” Her sister’s governess had never chided so sternly.

  “May I?” His question was no question, but instead a clear demand, as he took the carpetbag from her, and dropped it, startled. It clanked.

  Was that a soft hiss of steam coming from within? Or a . . . sigh? She maintained her rigid pose.

  Was the pulse at her throat beating as wildly as it felt? Did her fichu hide it?

  He took her left hand in his and bent it this way and that, curling her fingers, flexing her thumb, and finally flipped a coin high. “Catch it.”

  Her hand shot out of its own volition and snatched the coin out of the air.

  His snort sounded less than satisfied. He then took her right hand and opened it, splaying her fingers wide. With agonizing slowness, he dragged a finger across her palm. She stood frozen, her palm tickled as if stroked by a feather, the need to yank her hand away overwhelming. She could do nothing; she could not stop its flesh from twitching.

  He stroked her palm again, clearly intrigued by the twitch.

  She wanted to jerk her hand away, to slap him, and yet here she stood, once again forced to accept the attentions of those who held themselves her superior.

  But this time would be different. This would be the last time.

  She could tolerate anything, knowing that.

  Twelve hours. She must remain hidden from the Patrol for twelve more hours.

  And so she stood frozen as he lifted her hand higher and blew across her knuckles. “Amazing.” He released her.

  She felt his gaze piercing into her but she did not raise her lashes, could not raise her lashes, could not risk betraying herself.

  “You are almost lifelike,” he announced.

  Almost.

  She stifled a wild laugh.

  “Your hands appear to be as dexterous and as small as the French model I ordered. Thus, I hope you will be adequate. However, I shall write to Mr. Claggmarten to voice my displeasure that—”

  “I will provide you with the proper form, sir.”

  “I am not a Sir. I am a Professor.”

  “Professor, I will provide the form. I will also deliver it for you. Satisfaction is guaranteed, and delivering your remarks to my creator is one of my . . . duties.” If the inventor of the Nova-Model Exquisite Female Automaton hadn’t designed the voice to curl seductively around that word, well, they should have done so.

  He flushed crimson again. “Eglantine,” he said, using her name after all, she noted. “In future, do remember that I define your duties.”

  He whirled away from her and strode back to his desk so quickly, he seemed to be making a retreat. But the way he sank into his chair and leaned back and studied her as if she were on exhibit for his curiosity, left her quite unsettled.

  “Your lifelike appearance is confusing me. In fact, I’m quite certain I don’t care for it, not one little bit. If I could have purchased a less lifelike automaton with your unusual abilities I would certainly have done so.”

  He finally dismissed her with a flick of his long fingers. “Your trunk was delivered this morning. It is in a room on the top floor. Mr. Claggmarten did not indicate you would need so much . . . gear. I went to open it—”

  He had opened her trunk? Calm . . . calm. She blinked once. Slowly.

  “—but it was quite secured.”

  “It is filled with spare parts for use in England,” she said. “To be shipped tomorrow.”

  “Oh well, it doesn’t signify right now.” He glared at her over the tops of his spectacles. “It is time to put you to the test, and for all our sakes, I pray you are capable of all your creator promised.” He flung his papers out of his way and rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

  Longing for bed, for a quiet place where she could shiver and quake, longing for a water closet—she did the only thing she could. She followed him.

  He strode quickly up the stairs and then down a dark hallway. Dust clung ominously to the baseboards and drifted in the air as they passed, disappearing into darkness between the dim glow of inadequately spaced gaslights. Clearly he should have acquired an automatomical servant to actually clean. Rips and tears wounded the dismal wallpapered walls, and occasional dark smears of something unidentified. A heavy odor of grease, coal smoke, and electrical ozone assailed her from somewhere in the distance, and she knew from grim experience this was not a good combination.

  And it was getting stronger, the farther they walked.

  His stride was so quick and nervous that he left her behind. He went straight past a corridor opening on the right, but before she reached it, a stuttering click-click-click-scrape came from that direction.

  She paused mid-step as a mechanical beast of some sort—quite the tiniest and certainly the most hirsute she believed she’d ever seen—lurched its way in front of her, cocked its head, and followed the professor. Its hair was apparently white at one time and possibly even fluffy, but now was matted and dark around the joints. It also emitted a vastly unfortunate dribble of what must be oil from its posterior.

  Flickering her eyes quickly between the floor and the back of the man ahead of her managed to avoid stepping into the spots it left behind. But she’d gone scarcely six steps before he froze
in front of her, his back rigid.

  “Miss Eglantine,” he announced precisely, without turning, “please dispose of the creature.”

  Dispose. The heavy weight of her carpetbag grew heavier, but she fought the urge to drop it.

  “In what manner?” She managed to keep her voice crisp.

  “Shove it into a box. Close it in a room. Whatever method presents itself first.”

  The ‘creature,’ however, quite quivered with what appeared to be excitement, almost like a living dog upon approaching its master, and the click-click-click-scrape increased in tempo.

  “Miss Eglantine!” he snapped.

  She scooped it into her hands just before it reached him. A quick examination proved that the left rear leg was bent, resulting in the dragging-scrape as it lurched forward. She pondered whether it could be adjusted or repaired.

  “I’m waiting.” And yet he did not turn or speak directly to her.

  She searched for a switch and found none. She finally turned into the hall whence it had emerged and opened the first door on the right. Her intake of breath was silent, she prayed.

  A nightmare vision spread before her of an ungodly number and variety of automatons—ripped apart with gaping holes, patches of charred exteriors, and limbs with dangling bits and bobs of brass chains, exposed cylinders, and bent gears.

  She clutched the mechanical dog instinctively, not wanting to close it in with what felt eerily like gore and death. The dog’s feet moved mechanically beneath its body—a windup toy seeking traction to continue its way across the floor.

  She closed the corridor door, then set the creature down and aimed it toward the opposite wall. After opening her carpetbag, she silently placed its contents amongst the disturbing remains of clockwork corpses—the precisely disassembled and disemboweled Nova-Model Exquisite Female Model the professor had ordered.

  Within moments she heard a repeated click-click-click-scrape followed by a bump on the other side of the door. It was bumping against the door in its quest to escape. She opened the door enough for the dog to escape and placed it carefully into the carpet bag, hoping the enclosed darkness would soothe it to sleep. And quiet.