The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

Emmerich turned toward the workshop, now empty of engineers. The in-­progress tickers sat quietly on their tables, half finished, with missing gears, belts, and bolts. As she and Emmerich passed one table—­covered in incomplete gear trains, a long cylindrical brush, and a brass shell—­she stole a peek at the design. From the engineer’s scribbles, she deduced the completed machine was a motorized carpet sweeper of sorts. Another set of papers theorized a perpetual motion machine, and one section of the workshop held a modified bicycle skeleton with a bulky combustion engine attached, similar to the steam rickshaws in the city.

  “Where is your work space?” she asked, searching the workshop for his automaton.

  “Downstairs,” said Emmerich. “Until the Guild approves the final design, I have to work in the student workshops.”

  He led her to the back of the main workshop and down two flights of stairs. The oscillations of the subcity beat like a thousand drums behind the walls, only drowned out by the occasional hiss of steam.

  Emmerich’s work space was in the far corner of the workshop, opposite the stairwell, his desk recognizable by the brass-­plated automaton sitting atop it. Petra still marveled at its design—­a perfectly miniature humanoid shape, crafted with a loving attention to aesthetic detail in the curvature of its plating, the perfect overlap of joints and plates, the inner mechanisms hidden beneath the polished brass. Emmerich leaned against the table beside her, and the automaton whirred to life in front of her eyes.

  Petra examined its exterior as it pressed its spindly arms against the surface of the table and stood. Emmerich never touched the thing. “How are you doing that?” she asked.

  He only grinned, his hands behind his back. The automaton swept into an elaborate bow.

  She frowned at him. “Now you’re just showing off.”

  But as the machine straightened, she noticed that the plating around its head rattled and the joints at its hips and knees vibrated far more than they should have. A vent at its back spouted a burst of steam, and the gears within groaned and juddered.

  The automaton stalled and fell face-­first onto the desk. Petra placed her hand on its back and felt the clicking of the off-­kilter gear train. Water leaked from its legs, spreading across the desk and wetting a stack of papers.

  Emmerich sighed heavily and tossed a small brass box onto his desk. “Now you see why I need your help.” He ran both hands though his hair and locked his fingers behind his head. “The control works—­which was all I really aimed for in the beginning—­but as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the fallen automaton, “the thing can hardly do more than walk.” He dropped into his chair and slid down into a slump, kneading his forehead. “There isn’t enough power to translate to what the Guild wants.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair until it nearly stood on end. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Petra reached across the desk and grabbed the small brass box, turning it over in her hand. Several spring-­loaded, sliding buttons decorated the front, each one sporting a number of raised dots in unique patterns. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “My wireless control apparatus,” said Emmerich, crossing his arms. “That was what I was working on, what I dedicated the last year of my workshop hours to.” He scoffed. “Not this blasted thing the Guild wants me to build.”

  “How does it work?” she asked, fiddling with the buttons. Deep within the automaton, the gearbox groaned and ratcheted, and the automaton shuddered as another burst of steam vented from its back.

  “Here. I’ll show you.” Emmerich’s chair creaked, and then he was standing next to her, leaning over her shoulder. “I transmit a signal to the automaton by adjusting these sliders.” His fingers slid over hers, demonstrating the movement, and her heart jumped into her throat at his touch. “The box emits a pulse,” he continued, gesturing to the antenna at the top, “and depending on the frequency and intensity of that transmission, I can control the automaton. Each position on the slider emits a specific frequency, which corresponds with an action. When the automaton receives the signal via electromagnetic waves, a switch activates within the gearbox, dictating the action the automaton takes.”

  She surrendered the box and drew away. “Electromagnetics?”

  Emmerich nodded. “The apparatus design was based on a combination of electromagnetic induction and telegraphy. The idea is to transmit signals without connective wiring, which would revolutionize communications between machines.” He grinned. “And it works. It actually works. I mean, the theory was sound, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull it off.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it only works at close range. The farther away I am from the automaton, the more distorted the signal becomes, and if the control-­box battery is less than three-­quarters charged, the signal is too weak. It won’t transmit.”

  Emmerich pried the casing off the back of the transmitter, revealing a spiral copper wire joined to a condenser and battery. Several coated wires were connected through the circuit, corresponding with the sliders. He detached the battery and placed it on the desk.

  “The batteries within the automaton can only supply power to a limited number of mechanisms, and they don’t stay charged nearly long enough. My first problem is finding a way to power the automaton without relying on batteries or hydraulics. I considered employing a combustion engine, as it would deliver plenty of power, but for what the Guild wants, the sheer weight and size of the motor . . .” He sighed. “It just wouldn’t work.” He turned to face her. “What do you think?”

  Petra sat down in Emmerich’s chair, wiping the sweat from her neck; the room was beyond sweltering. Possible designs whirled through her head: combustion systems, steam boilers and hydraulics—­both were too unsteady, too volatile. Electric power had only recently been adopted, still not wholly tested or experimented upon beyond the most rudimentary of technology, such as lights and telegraphy. But clockwork . . . It would take an intricate design, but she was confident she could rebuild the automaton with clockwork alone. However, the control apparatus posed a problem; if Emmerich wanted to maintain wireless connectivity between the apparatus and the machine, the automaton needed electricity to pick up the signal and drive the switch. Electromagnetics was too intangible a science for her. She needed things to touch and hold. But if Emmerich could design the accompanying electric system, they could then figure out how to fit it all together.

  “Well?” said Emmerich.

  Petra stared at the automaton, drumming her fingers on the desk. Something still nagged at her, a persistent doubt that refused to go away, present since Emmerich had first asked for her help. She chewed on her lip, struggling for the words. She wanted to believe she could work on the automaton with him, that she could help him make it better, and that once she did, the Guild would recognize her as a talented engineer. But in her heart, she still feared it was too good to be true.

  “Emmerich,” she said slowly, turning her gaze from the automaton to its engineer. He stared back at her with a pensive expression. She inhaled a deep breath and dove into it. Best to get the truth out now, before she dug herself too deep. “Do you really expect me to believe that the Guild will approve me to work on the automaton? And tell me the truth.”

  “Petra—­”

  “Have you, or haven’t you, talked to the Guild about me helping you with the automaton?”

  His gaze, for once, diverted away. “No,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

  She shook her head and sighed. “I knew it,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I believed you, why I dared to think that—­” She pressed her lips together. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She wheeled away, taking a few steps toward the stairs. She had put all her hopes into an engineer she didn’t even know, on his word that he needed her help, that she might finally attain the recognition she deserved. The corners of her eyes stung, but she did not cry. She refused to cry over someth
ing so stupid.

  “Petra, wait.” Emmerich approached her, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry I lied to you, but I thought if I told you the truth, you would refuse to help.”

  “And the money? Was that a lie too?”

  “No,” he said. “I swear to you, I have every intention of paying you—­five pounds a month, as promised—­for as long as the project takes.”

  She turned around. “How?” she demanded. “If the Guild doesn’t approve—­”

  “The Guild doesn’t have to know.”

  Petra frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s . . . complicated. Look, I know you have no reason to trust me on this, but—­”

  “Then give me a reason to trust you.” She stared into his copper-­brown eyes, and for the first time since she had met him, Emmerich Goss faltered. The intensity of his eyes waned in that moment—­a flicker of sadness and defeat. “If you want my help,” she continued more gently, “be honest with me. You owe me that much.”

  Emmerich ran his fingers through his hair then leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. “The truth . . .” He released a heavy sigh. “Very well. You want to know why I asked for your help? I’ll tell you, but what I say cannot leave this room, understand?”

  Petra nodded slowly.

  “The automaton project is highly confidential, the modified design known only to a select number of engineers within the Guild, myself included, and even I do not know the full extent of what the Guild plans to do with the finished machine. We all have our part to play. Mine is to design the control system and the basic design, power system included. If any one of us was found or captured and interrogated by the Guild’s competitors, we would be unable to deliver the full spectrum of its new design. The council swore us to secrecy on the knowledge we possess of the automaton.” He shifted uncomfortably. “If the Guild came to know I acquired outside help, I would be marked . . .” He took a deep breath. “I would be marked for treason against the Guild, perhaps even the city itself.”

  Petra blinked. Treason? The automaton project could not be so important, and if it was, Emmerich had no business dragging her into it. She frowned. “If the automaton is confidential, why were you strutting down Medlock with it?”

  “Everyone knew of the automaton prototype. It was my thesis project for the University. I wasn’t a Guild engineer then, only a student. I never even intended to use it to apply to the Guild, but then my father pressured me into presenting it, and here we are.”

  “But why ask me to help? Why not ask someone in the Guild, or another student?”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I want your help.”

  Petra shrugged him away.

  “Please,” said Emmerich. “At least consider. I know you already said that you would do it, that you would help, but in light of this, I will not hold you to that. I was not truthful with you, and that isn’t fair. You didn’t ask to be dragged into this.”

  She regarded him carefully, his eyes shining with sincerity. She could see that he was telling her the truth, but if they must work in secret, that meant her hopes of becoming a Guild engineer were next to impossible, buried beneath an oath of secrecy and the risk of being accused of treason. She chewed on her lip, torn between accepting the proposal despite the risks or walking away from her one opportunity to work for the Guild. “If I did still agree, you wouldn’t be able to acknowledge my involvement on the automaton, would you? My name won’t be on the designs or the final presentation.”

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, but I cannot—­not officially.”

  “Officially,” she repeated. Petra scoffed and shook her head. At this rate she would never join the Guild, never become a proper engineer.

  She should have expected as much.

  Pulling her pocket watch from her skirt pocket, she checked the time—­nearly ten o’clock. “It’s getting late,” she said, not sure why it mattered. No one was expecting her home tonight. “I should go.”

  “Wait.” Emmerich stepped forward. “I want to show you something . . .” He trailed off with a frown, his eyes focused intently on her face—­there was guilt there, she saw, and something else. He cleared his throat. “ . . . before you leave.”

  They climbed the stairs to the main floor and entered the lobby, the dark night casting a shadow beyond the front entrance. Emmerich led her to the lift and gestured for her to step inside.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He smiled warmly. “You’ll see.”

  She entered the lift and turned in a circle as she examined all the exposed gears and belts, pulleys, linkages, and electric wires, forgetting her disappointment, forgetting her worries and her doubts. Emmerich followed her in, the curved glass door of the lift closing behind him.

  Buttons decorated a freestanding podium at the back of the lift, each one seeming to correspond with a floor in the east tower. There was a large lever on one side of the podium; Emmerich produced a key and slid it into a locking mechanism on the other side. Petra heard a distinct click within, and then, above the lift chamber, the drive motor whirred. Emmerich pressed a button labeled with an ornate O at the top right of the panel and pulled a knob at the bottom. The gearbox within the drive motor shifted, and a white bulb above the podium ignited.

  “Ready?” He placed both hands on the large lever.

  Petra nodded, and he put all of his weight into pulling the lever back. The whirring of the drive motor slowed for a moment, and with a loud click, the driveshaft locked. She held her breath. The spring-­loaded lever snapped back to its original position, and the lift slowly rose above the lobby floor.

  Petra’s heartbeat quickened, the steady hum of machinery whirring beneath her feet, vibrating through her bones. She could not help but smile, the gears spinning in perfect, deliberate harmony—­a sound fashioned by the hands of a skilled engineer. This was why she wanted to be a part of the Guild, why she tried so hard to prove herself; she wanted to build things that sang, machines so expertly designed that they never faltered, so innovative that she changed the very motions of the world.

  She wanted to build the future.

  The last chink of light from the lobby disappeared, and the gearbox above their heads shifted again, spinning into a violent whir.

  “You might want to hold on.”

  Petra grabbed the lift railing and Emmerich followed suit.

  The lift shot upward.

  Her weight sank to the floor, gravity welling at her ankles as the lift rocketed past floor after floor, ascending at a speed she could never have imagined. Before she could stop herself, she was laughing. Emmerich smiled at her, his copper eyes flickering in the fleeting light of each floor they passed.

  As she grew accustomed to the strange gravity of the lift, she carefully edged toward him, and the rocking floor threw her into the railing.

  “This is fantastic!” she yelled.

  He smiled down at her. “Hold on.” His voice was nearly lost in the racket of the rattling lift.

  Petra gripped the railing again. She didn’t hear the gearbox shift—­the sudden change to a slower speed caught her by surprise. Her momentum carried her upward a few inches, and for a brief moment she felt completely weightless. She eased back to the floor as the lift clattered up more slowly.

  Emmerich stepped away from the rail and pressed the knob back into the panel, and a moment later, pale moonlight flooded the lift. A series of clicks and gear stalls brought them to a halt, and when he retrieved his key from the podium, the curved glass door swiveled open. Then he led Petra into the empty observatory.

  “You can see the entire city from here,” he said, guiding her to the edge of the deck.

  From the observatory, the city was a collection of pipes, steam, and smoke. She could see the port outside the city walls, ships drifting silentl
y in the harbor, and the vast, dark ocean spreading outward from the island. If it were day, she knew she might have seen the coast of southern Wales just miles away. Instead, the night plunged everything in darkness, save the gas lamps flickering along the streets below.

  Emmerich seated himself on a stool attached to one of the enormous observatory telescopes. “Take a look at this,” he said, aiming the instrument up toward the sickle-­shaped moon.

  As Petra neared the telescope, he withdrew from the eyepiece and stepped down to help her onto the stool. His firm grip held her steady as she climbed the narrow footholds, letting go the moment she settled into the chair. The small of her back tingled from the absence of his warm hand, but she kept a straight face, dismissing the familiar touch as nothing more than concern for her safety, to keep her from tripping over her skirts and slipping from the pedestal. She cleared her throat and leaned forward to peer through the scope, pressing her eye into the eyepiece.

  The moon filled her sight, a brilliant, white crescent suspended in the sky. She gasped, able to see distinct shapes on its silvery surface, cosmic pockmarks—­the gentle curves of the larger craters, the fierce starbursts of tiny asteroidal impacts—­visible even in the darkness of the shadowed side of the moon. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Isn’t it?”

  She abandoned the telescope and eyed the tiny moon high above, seeming as far out of reach as her dream of ever becoming a Guild engineer. She released her breath with a heavy sigh.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Emmerich.

  “All I ever wanted was to be a part of the Guild, to be an engineer the world remembered.” She stared out the curved glass of the observatory, the whole of the city laid out below her. “And then you came along. You offered me everything—­and yet I feel I’d be a fool to accept.”

  Emmerich maintained the silence for a moment, both of them caught in the stillness of the night. Finally, he spoke. “I meant what I said. If you no longer wish to help me, I understand. It wasn’t fair of me to promise you things that I could not give, and I am sorry for that.”