The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

  “You could help me fix it, help me design a machine worthy of the Guild, worthy of the Chroniker name.”

  “Me . . . help you?” She blinked, her heart racing. Petra Wade, Guild engineer. This could be her chance; this could be the opportunity she had been waiting for all her life, offered freely, and yet . . . She narrowed her eyes. “Why me?”

  “Why not you?”

  “Because . . . because I’m no one, just a shop girl,” she said, shaking her head.

  “What’s the difference between spur and helical gears?”

  Before she could stop herself, the words spilled from her mouth. “Spur gears are simple, having teeth parallel to the axis of rotation, while helical gears have teeth inclined in relation to the axis, ensuring smoother action and better load capacity. But with helical gears, there is the disadvantage that the teeth build up side pressure which causes thrust on the . . .” The realization dawned on her, and she met the engineer’s eye. “That’s what was wrong with the automaton’s gear system, why the gear train kept throwing itself off balance. You tried to balance the thrust with opposing rotations, but you miscalculated.” Her fingers twitched toward the screwdriver in her pocket, and she flexed her hand into a fist, her mind racing with possible adjustments she could make to the gear train. If she knew the weight and gauge of the gears inside, and the corresponding systems, she could—­

  She glanced up at him. “Why are you smiling?”

  “You spent no more than a minute with the automaton, and you figured all of that out without even removing the plating or reading the schematics.” He regarded her carefully. “You’re an engineer.”

  Petra stared at him. “That doesn’t mean I can help you.”

  “Why not?”

  She pointed up the street to the University, its brass walls blazing in the afternoon sun. “I don’t belong there.” She remembered their haughty laughter and jeered insults, the way they judged her, as if she was worth less than a smudge of grease on the bottom of their shoes. “You think Lyndon and the Guild will let you employ a girl from the slums, that they would let me design and build a ticker for them?” She shook her head, lowering her hand to her side. “They won’t.”

  The engineer stepped closer. “You don’t know that. Please, I need your help.”

  Petra looked into his copper-­brown eyes. Here was her one chance, the perfect opportunity for her to prove herself among the best engineers of the world, and yet she knew that it was too good to be true. “For all my life, the world has told me that girls can’t be engineers, that I will never be one of them.” She sighed. “I don’t know why you thought I could help, but I can’t.” Her chest tightened and she backed away, glancing once more at the gleaming University. It was the monument of everything she ever wanted, everything this engineer offered her, and she was going to turn her back on it. “I have to go.” She shook her head and turned to leave.

  “No, please,” he said, stepping forward. “Petra, wait. I—­” He clamped his mouth shut.

  She stopped and stared at him. “How do you know my name?”

  The engineer froze. “I—­erm—­” He swallowed. “I asked around, when I was—­when I was trying to find you.”

  “What do you want with me?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

  He blinked rapidly and then placed his hand on his chest. “My name is Emmerich Goss, and I need your help.”

  Petra narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice trembling as fear and doubt and embarrassment crept into her chest. She pointed toward the University. “There is a school full of capable engineers—­a Guild full of them—­and you come to me? Do you think I’m stupid?” Heat welled behind her eyes as she recalled every teasing insult spoken at her expense, every rude name, every mockery of her ambitions. He was no different than they were. “You’re lying. This is some trick, some scheme to get me to make a fool of myself, to put me in my place. I know it is.”

  “No, it’s not like that. Why would I—­”

  “Because you’re just like the rest of them. You’re a pompous, self-­important prat who thinks I’m inferior because of where I live, because of who you think I am.” She stood up to her full height, still several inches shorter than the engineer, and glared stubbornly into his copper eyes. She was a shop girl, a stupid, impoverished shop girl from the fourth quadrant, but she was also an engineer, and he had no right to judge her. “I am ten times the engineer you are, and I won’t be played by some University fop who thinks he can get the better of me.” She wheeled away from the engineer and strode down the street, her hands clenched at her sides and eyes stinging.

  “Prove it,” he said quietly.

  Petra stopped but did not turn around.

  “You think you’re a better engineer, that you could do my automaton better. Prove it.” His boots clicked against the cobblestones as he stepped closer. “Agree to help me, and you can prove to everyone that you’re just as good an engineer as the rest of us. I’ll even pay you for your work—­five pounds sterling a month—­for as long as you help me.”

  Five quid a month! It would take her ages to make that much money working at the shop. If she agreed, in just a few months she would have enough to pay for her tuition at the University. Six months, and she’d have enough for a year.

  She turned around. “Why should I believe you? How do I know you aren’t lying?”

  He hesitated, seeming to weigh the answer in his mind. “I could show you.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow, after hours, I’ll show you the automaton. I’ll show you why I need your help, and you can decide then if I’m telling the truth.” He laid his hand on his chest. “I give you my word as a gentleman that this isn’t some trick. I’m not trying to fool you.”

  Petra narrowed her eyes. Her heart pulsed in her ears as she considered the offer. It was a risk, but five pounds sterling a month—­getting paid to work on a Guild ticker, to have a hand in building the next great innovative technology, a chance to prove herself. It was everything she’d dreamed about. How could she walk away?

  She looked into his copper-­brown eyes, his face nothing but sincere. If nothing else, she would at least learn the secrets of the automaton, how it worked, how he controlled it.

  “Fine,” she said, making up her mind.

  A wide charismatic smile spread across his face. “Excellent.” He offered his hand. “And now I think a proper introduction is in order. Emmerich Goss, Guild engineer.”

  She eyed his open palm and resigned herself to the formality. “Petra Wade.”

  He shook her hand firmly, still smiling. “Very pleased to meet you, Petra,” he said, his eyes gleaming. He withdrew a step and tipped his hat. “Until next we meet.”

  PETRA CLIMBED THE stairs to her flat and pushed through the door, finding her hodgepodge family all sitting around their poor excuse of a dinner table. Their matron, Etta Wade, busied herself with plates and flatware, making sure the youngest had napkins tucked into their collars and that everyone had washed their hands before doling out their dinner.

  Matron Etta had collected the children over the years—­the unwanted, the abandoned, the forgotten. First had been Petra, foisted onto the young nurse after the tragedy of the Guild fire thirteen years ago. Then Solomon joined their family a few years later, and Constance not long after. And then the rest of them—­little Helena, quiet Emily and ladylike Esther, mischievous Chris­tian and dutiful Susan, and always new young ones, nameless babes left at the hospital door, and unruly toddlers, coming and going as their parents were found or a new adoptive family offered to take them in.

  Matron glanced up from the table as Petra kicked off her boots. “Oh, good, you’re here. Constance has to be off tonight for a special rush order at the shop, and I need you to watch after the little ones once I’m gone.” She gestured to the tumble of children playin
g in the floor, their supper already eaten.

  “I just watched them last night,” said Petra, hanging her apron next to the door.

  Matron Etta frowned. “Yes, but you’re all I have. Esther still isn’t old enough to look after them, and Solomon has to work.”

  “Solomon always has to work.”

  Her brother grinned at her from the head of the table, his face creased with soot. “I’ll trade you, if you like.”

  “Very funny,” she said, crossing the room to sit on the stool he had saved for her, plopping down between him and Constance. “I’ll watch them tonight, but you’re trading me for tomorrow,” she said to her sister. “I have to . . . work.”

  Constance pushed her springy blonde hair out of her eyes and arched an eyebrow at her. “You never work Monday nights.”

  “Well I am tomorrow,” she said. “Trade?”

  Her sister rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

  After dinner, Petra retired to her corner of the living room and pinned up a threadbare sheet to hide behind, giving her a smidgeon of privacy from everyone else. It was the closest thing to a bedroom she had. She turned the crank on her musical box and let the melody drown out the noise of the playing children as she traced curlicues in the faded green and brown wallpaper, her mind occupied by Emmerich’s offer.

  Someone pulled back the sheet, interrupting her meditation. Solomon stood over her, his shaggy black hair creased where his hat usually sat. He held a sweet roll covered in icing in his callused hand. “Thought you might want one. Constance brought them.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took the roll and bit through the thick icing into the soft bread.

  Sol sat next to her against the wall. “Tough day?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I always know,” he said softly, nudging her with his elbow. “So? What happened?”

  Petra swallowed another bite of sweet roll and shrugged. “Got in a fight with Tolly, almost got my wages docked, and I turned down a chance to work with a Guild engineer. You?”

  “A Guildie?”

  She nodded.

  “What did he want?”

  “He offered me work—­engineering work. Five quid a month to help him redesign a ticker, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Sol wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, breathing in his familiar coaly scent. “If some rich bloke offered me money to perform with a troupe in London, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second,” he said, hugging her. “This is your chance to do what you love. Take it.”

  “It’s not the same, Sol.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if I take the offer and regret it? What if I fail? What if all I prove is that I’m as stupid and worthless as they think I am?”

  “Then refuse it,” he said. “Give up your dream of becoming an engineer and work in the pawnshop for the rest of your life, making your twenty pence a week.” He sighed. “Petra, don’t give this up because of a little doubt. You know you’re the best engineer this side of the city. Why not show everyone else that? What’s the worst that could happen if you accept?”

  She shrugged. “I won’t be recognized for my work. The Guild will still refuse to accept me as an engineer. I’ll go back to being a shop girl, and nothing will change.”

  “So what do you have to lose? Say it does work out. What then? What if accepting this job is your chance to be a Guild engineer?”

  Petra thought about it, envisioning herself working in the University workshops, building something spectacular, something that would change the world forever. She would be a celebrated engineer, famous for her contributions to the Guild, for her innovations in clockwork mechanics. And Emmerich Goss was there, helping her work out the designs, calculating figures at her request, building prototypes with her. She had him to thank for it. He insisted she take credit for her contributions to the automaton design, and with his help, she proved to the Guild that she was as good a ticker engineer as any, if not better.

  She smiled.

  Sol hugged her close. “You can’t let this go, Petra. Even if it doesn’t work out, you have to at least try. Do it for yourself. Show them that Petra Wade is not just some shop girl from the fourth quadrant. Give yourself that chance. You deserve it.”

  “If you say so.” She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in the smell of soot and burning coal baked into his clothes. “Thanks, Sol,” she whispered.

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Anytime, you lovely girl.”

  Chapter 3

  PETRA PACED BACK and forth in front of the pawnshop, the final rays of sunlight fading from the evening sky as night set. The gas lamps along the street hissed and sputtered to life, each glass lantern flaring in a bright explosion of flame before settling on a tame glow, giving light to the darkening street. She paused and checked her pocket watch—­nearly nine o’clock. Emmerich should not be long now.

  She glanced up the street, wondering if he would even show. She had spent all of the night before thinking over his offer, considering her answer, if the risk of failure, the risk of humiliation, was worth the chance to prove herself. She wanted to hope for the best, to believe that everything she ever wanted would come true, but her doubts kept her feet firmly on the ground. She doubted Emmerich’s sincerity. She doubted herself, her ability to help him.

  Most of all, she doubted that her efforts would actually be rewarded. The unfortunate truth still remained—­girls couldn’t be engineers, not for the Guild, not for the University. She feared that if she did help Emmerich Goss, the praise for the automaton would all go to him, and there she would be, his forgotten assistant, the girl who did nothing more than follow orders and stayed out of the way when she wasn’t needed. At least, once it was all over, she would have the money she needed to make an honest go at becoming a student at the University, even if she had to do it in disguise.

  “Miss Wade?”

  Petra turned, finding Emmerich Goss looking comfortable in a shirt and trousers, his hands in his pockets and the top buttons of his shirt undone. She envied him his attire, her in her skirts and form-­fitting corset, her work apron tied neatly around her waist. What she would give to be wearing trousers.

  “Mr. Goss,” she said politely.

  “Please . . . call me Emmerich. There’s no need to be so formal with me.” He hesitated. “Did you think about my offer?”

  She worried at the stem of her pocket watch. “I did.”

  “And did you come to a decision?”

  She swallowed thickly, her determined resolve slipping away. All the reasoning, all the measured weighing of pros and cons seemed to vanish, and she was certain that if he asked it of her in that moment, she would agree to build a hundred thousand automatons for him and not give a care whether she was acknowledged by the Guild or not, but she could not be so careless with her future. She tightly gripped her hand around her pocket watch and raised her chin, reminding herself of her ambitions.

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

  His face broke into a wide grin.

  “If you agree to my conditions.”

  “Anything,” he said, still smiling.

  “I want weekly pay.”

  “Done.”

  “And I want credit.”

  Emmerich started to reply, but stopped himself. He pressed his lips together in a firm line and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by ‘credit’?”

  Petra stood a little straighter. “When you present the finished automaton, my name will be on the designs. You’ll give me proper recognition for the work I’ve done.”

  “I see,” he said, absentmindedly scratching his jaw.

  “Those are my terms,” she said. “Agree, or I won’t help.”

  He
lowered his hand and stared at her. “You’d just walk away?”

  She nodded, her heart pounding in her throat. If he refused, if he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble—­

  “All right.” He stuck out his hand. “I accept.”

  “I have your word?”

  “As a proper gentleman.”

  Petra hesitantly grasped his hand and shook, hoping she wouldn’t regret it.

  “Now then,” said Emmerich, withdrawing his hand. “Would you like to see it—­the automaton?”

  She couldn’t help the beaming smile that spread across her face. “More than anything.”

  EMMERICH LED HER up the street to the University, the tops of its brass towers gleaming silver in the pale starlight. At the height of the eastern tower, the observatory sparkled far above the city, an iridescent globe to rival the moon. Ahead, electric light flooded the University square, spilling out of the open doorway and down the polished steps, shining with a radiance far brighter than the pale yellow light of the flickering gas lamps of the streets.

  As Petra and Emmerich neared the University steps, embarrassment crept back into the pit of her stomach at the memory of her last encounter here, burning her with the desire to turn and run, but Emmerich’s strong arm guided her safely up the stairs, through the open brass doors, and into the building. Beneath her feet, the floor vibrated with the rhythm of the subcity, but the smell of gasoline and paraffin was less pronounced now, with the workshop nearly empty. Only a handful of students still lingered around the cluttered drafting tables and workbenches, and they seemed to be gathering their things to retire for the night.

  “Are you sure it’s all right, you bringing me here?” she asked, eyeing the departing engineers. She felt so out of place in her skirt and shop apron, her long hair braided over her shoulder and tied with a satin ribbon.

  “It’s fine, Petra.”

  She bristled at the familiar use of her first name, the way he said it as if they were old friends, as if there was some tenderness between them, but she said nothing of it.