The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

  Solomon set his shovel aside and made for the ser­vice ladder.

  Emmerich shifted beside her, his hand sliding across the railing. “Who is that?”

  “Oh, that’s just Solomon,” she said distractedly, staring at the narrow distance between their fingers. Her chest tightened, and she glanced away, clearing her throat. “My brother.”

  Solomon climbed up to the catwalk and strode toward them, wiping his hands on his trousers. Soot rested in the creases of his clothes and clung to his sweaty skin. His bronze forearms shone beneath the char, muscled from hours of shoveling coal. He stepped forward and pulled her into a crushing hug, likely covering her one good dress in soot. “It’s good to see you,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I know,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  Solomon smirked. “I can see that.”

  She pushed him away with a gentle shove, her cheeks burning. She cleared her throat. “Emmerich, this is my brother Solomon.”

  Emmerich stepped forward, his arm grazing hers as he reached forward to shake Solomon’s hand. Her pulse leapt into her throat, and she swallowed thickly, cursing herself for being so affected by a simple touch.

  Solomon hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “So what brings you two down here?”

  Petra glanced at Emmerich and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I wanted to show him the subcity. He’s never been to this part.”

  “Well, it’s a sight worth seeing,” he said with a grin. “I’d show you around the boilers, but I should get back to work.” He nodded to Emmerich. “Sorry to run. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Solomon returned to the rows of boilers, and Petra grabbed Emmerich by the sleeve. “Come on,” she said, dragging him deeper into the subcity. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  From the boilers, they traveled the tiers of catwalks, descending deeper into the subcity—­vast chambers of enormous gear trains and spinning turbines laid out neatly below, hundreds of floor engineers, foremen, operators, and technicians attending to the chief tasks that kept the city alive and running. The droning roar of the massive machines filled the air with a deafening hum, infused with the sound of clanking pistons, the oscillating whir of spinning wheels and gears, the groan of overburdened pipes, and the gratifying hiss of steam as pressure was released.

  Petra and Emmerich drifted through the discordant rhythm, passing by the busy control deck and into the very heart of the subcity—­the primary engine room, the source of all power to the city. They stood over the spinning driveshaft, surveying the grandest of machines from the narrow catwalk bridge that spanned the width of the chamber. It was here, deep in the thrum of the city itself, that Petra felt truly alive, truly inspired—­her sanctuary.

  She rested her arms against the railing, breathing in the rich scents of coal, gasoline, and oil, the pulse of the city singing through her body. Emmerich marveled at the whirling turbine, his eyes brighter than she had ever seen them, filled with an excitement she knew well. He no doubt felt the thrum of the machines in his chest, the whir of gears in his mind, the oscillations of linkages in his bones, the hiss of steam in his lungs. Here, he was one with the machines, one with the city, connected in the same way she was. In that moment, caught up in the movement of the machines, he understood her in a way that no one else ever could. It was why she had brought him here.

  Emmerich smiled to himself, inhaling a deep breath as he surveyed the machines below. The subcity was reflected in his eyes, his irises mirroring the whirring machinery with a fervid gleam. He gripped the railing and bowed his head, a preoccupied frown weighing on his brow as he stared determinedly at his hands. “I am glad to have met you, Petra,” he said quietly, his voice barely perceptible over the roar of the subcity. He exhaled a heavy sigh and glanced up at the wall of machines, a small smile on his lips. “For reasons I never expected.”

  He reached across the railing and placed his hand atop hers.

  Her heart fluttered at his touch, and she stared at their hands, unable to breathe. His fingertips hesitantly traced the side of her hand, as gentle and deliberate as a kiss, before finally settling around the curve of her palm. She swallowed hard, a tingle spreading up her arm.

  He glanced up at her. “Petra, I . . .” He trailed off as his gaze fell to her lips, and she felt her breath catch in her throat, paralyzed by the intensity of his eyes as they roamed from her mouth to her neck to the collar of her blouse.

  Indelicately, she slipped her hand from beneath his and backed away, stuffing her hand in her pocket and anxiously twisting the winding stem of her watch, her pulse leaping in her throat. Emmerich stared at the place where her hand had been, rubbing his thumb across the railing. A thrill swept through her, both terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and she felt as if she were drowning in her own heartbeat, the thrum of the subcity amplifying the sound of her pulse until she could not discern the difference between heart and machine.

  Could it be that he—­and she . . . ?

  Petra swallowed thickly and took another step back, knocking into the railing on the other side of the catwalk. She felt the metal groan beneath her weight and heard the rail creak behind her. In a single step, Emmerich had one hand around her waist, pulling her to the center of the catwalk. He held her against him. His eyes burned, gazing at her in the same way he had marveled at the subcity machines. He lifted a hand to her face and brushed her sweaty hair to the side, and his fingers seemed to tremble against her skin—­or perhaps she was the one trembling.

  She searched his copper eyes, staring back at her with such intimacy. He had no right to look at her that way, no right to touch her that way. She had no right to stand in his arms, pressed against him in the heat, breathing in the saltiness of his skin. Respectable society shunned such brazen behavior. Yet, in the thrum and pulse of the subcity, society had no peering eyes, no whispers of scandal or impropriety. No one would know of their embrace.

  Emmerich’s heart hammered within his chest, pressing against her with each beating pulse, until her own heart danced in rhythm with his. She could no longer ignore the growing attraction between them, the thrill of his touch, the weight of his gaze upon her. She wanted only to remain in his arms, lost in the beating rhythm of their hearts and the subcity machines. Never had she felt so alive.

  Then he released her, stealing her breath and her warmth.

  She could only stare at him, her chest aching as she held back the storm of emotion that rose within her. She wanted to tell him everything she felt in that moment—­how vulnerable he made her feel, how his mere touch sent shivers across her skin, how desperately she wished for another embrace, for nothing but breath between them. But she could not find the words to speak.

  Emmerich offered her no apology. He merely stood there with his hands clenched at his sides, avoiding her eyes. Petra swallowed her pounding heart, wondering if he did not speak out of shame, embarrassed by his display of affection toward her. Or was his silence equal to her own, bursting with words of romance and feelings he was unable to bring himself to say?

  Emmerich finally looked up, his uncertainty reflected back at her. He frowned, worrying at the edge of his trouser pocket. Petra held her breath, waiting for him to speak, but still he said nothing.

  “Emmerich—­”

  “Petra—­”

  They both spoke at once and then fell silent.

  She wrung her hands and stepped forward, the pulse of the subcity thrumming heavily through the air, but she did not know what to say. No words seemed good enough to convey what she felt, to address what had happened between them. Her own mind was too tumultuous—­insecure and hopeful and afraid and so full of yearning all at once.

  “Petra, I—­” He cut himself short, clearing his throat as he straightened his posture. “Thank you for bringing me here, for
showing me this place,” he said. His voice sounded detached, impassive, without any of the softness of before. “It was . . . diverting.” He winced as he spoke the last word, shaking his head with a sigh.

  “Yes,” she conceded, resigning herself to feigned obliviousness. She inhaled a deep breath and tried not to think of how desperately she wished to stand in his arms again. “Diverting.”

  They departed the subcity in awkward silence, retreating to their usual haunt in Pemberton Square. There, she and Emmerich sat on opposite benches, sipping their flavored ices—­a distraction to keep them occupied. She tried not to think about what had happened, tried not to think of how striking he now looked in the glare of the afternoon sun, or about the fleeting touches between them in the past weeks—­the kiss on her hand, the moment he touched her cheek in the workshop, and most vividly, the embrace they had shared in the subcity.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk about it. She needed to talk about it, needed to know what it meant, what had changed, but now that they had left the intimacy of the subcity, the situation required silence. It wasn’t proper to talk of such things—­it wasn’t proper to have let them happen, either, but only she and Emmerich knew what had transpired below.

  She tried to forget the look in his eyes, the feel of his hands on her waist, and she told herself that he couldn’t have entertained the same fancies she did. A man of his position could not consider such a thing, to be romantically involved with someone like her. But . . . what if he did? His face burned into her mind—­the sweat upon his brow, the uncertainty in his lips, his eyes so fiery she could burn standing too long in his gaze. If only he would have said something, told her what was on his mind, what was in his heart. If only he had not stepped away.

  And yet, perhaps it was best that nothing more had happened.

  To pursue those feelings, to consider such a romance, would jeopardize their friendship and their partnership. They had an automaton to build, and enough was already at risk that they didn’t need to involve their hearts in the mix.

  PETRA TRIED NOT to dwell on the exchange. The beat of her heart had always echoed with the ticking of a clock, and she had been content with that. She had filled the absence of family—­of love and belonging—­with clockwork, with gears, pinions, and springs. She needed only the constant rhythmic hum of a ticker to comfort her. But now her mainspring had broken. The gears were bent and warped. The hands of the clock had stopped.

  And only Emmerich could fix her.

  She tried to forget her feelings, but not a day had passed before Emmerich came to the pawnshop again, his face beaming with excitement.

  “The materials arrived,” he told her when she descended the steps after her shift.

  Excitement replaced the confusion of emotion within her, the thrill of soon seeing the machine come to life banishing all else from her mind.

  She slipped back into the pawnshop, changed into her spare clothes, and they headed to the University.

  When they came to the lobby, instead of guiding her to the student workshops below, Emmerich led her up the wide curved staircase to the upper workshops.

  “They finally admitted me to the Guild workshops,” he said, guiding her through the neatly organized drafting tables, displays, and dark mahogany desks. “Most of the Guild initiates work on this floor, building whatever they think might impress the Guild council and advance them to the next level.” Emmerich led her up a spiral staircase in the corner, a locked door at the top, produced a key and entered. “I work up here.”

  The second level of upper workshops looked much like the inside of an office building, with proper rooms branching from the halls, locked doors, and windowless walls.

  “This is where Guild engineers build the more classified projects—­like the automaton.”

  He led her down the rightmost hall and unlocked one of the offices near the end. She saw his name on a plaque on the door—­EMMERICH P. GOSS—­and beneath it, a second plaque that read JR. FIELD ENGINEER. Petra hadn’t realized there were different sorts of engineers within the Guild. A door opposite Emmerich’s read SR. BIOMECHANICAL ENGINEER; another read only ARCHITECT.

  Emmerich flipped the lights on within the office—­electric, she noted—­and guided her inside, closing the door behind her. The room itself was larger than she’d expected. A polished, cypress desk sat in the front corner near the door, similar to his desk in the student workshops. Beneath it sat the automaton prototype, propped against a crate.

  The back of the office was a workshop. Several unlabeled crates had been stacked to the ceiling, and a shelf of small parts—­pinions, minuscule gears, screws, washers, bolts, and the like—­stood nearby. A miniaturized crane stuck out from the back wall, hovering over several worktables where Emmerich had already laid out the piping needed to build the automaton skeleton, as well as an assortment of saws, clamps, blowlamps, and a vast array of spanners and screwdrivers.

  “Shall we begin?” he asked her.

  Petra could not suppress the smile that spread across her face.

  They worked for hours, sawing and bending pipes, welding joints, and bolting the frame together. She and Emmerich worked seamlessly, as if they were extensions of one another. Rarely did she have to say what tool or piece she needed next, and she knew instinctively what he needed of her with nothing more than a gesture.

  By the end of the night, they had constructed the base frame for the chest and pelvis. They modeled the design as close to a human shape as possible, building two boxy, trapezoidal frames to house all the mechanisms. They planned to shape linkage rods for the legs and begin structuring the leg frames at their next meeting. With so little time until the automaton’s deadline, they had to work swiftly and efficiently. Any setbacks or delays could jeopardize the project’s completion.

  As they were about to leave the Guild workshop floor, Emmerich pulled Petra aside. “There is something else I want to show you.”

  He took her shamelessly by the hand, reminding her of the closeness they had shared just an afternoon ago, and he led her through a labyrinth of hallways and staircases. She barely noticed anything beyond the warmth of his fingers entwined in hers and the feel of her heart pulsing in her throat. When finally they stopped, she and Emmerich stood in a long carpeted hallway, wallpapered with a dark magenta damask pattern. Dust peppered the floor and lingered on the portrait frames that lined the walls. Brass plaques gleamed in the dim electric light.

  “Not many ­people visit here,” said Emmerich, slowly guiding her down the hall.

  Petra examined the portraits, recognizing many of the ­people as famous engineers and scientists who had contributed to the scientific movement over the last quarter century. Many of them had attended or taught at the University, if only for a short time. Édouard-­Léon Scott de Martinville, inventor of the phonautograph; Werner Siemens, renowned innovator in electrical engineering; James Clerk Maxwell, developer of the electromagnetic theory; and Charles Babbage, designer of the difference engine. The hall was filled with portraits of inventors and innovators, all men—­except one.

  At the end of the passage, hanging in a gold filigree frame, was a portrait of a woman. Petra drifted to the end of the hall and read the plaque beneath the painting: LADY ADELAIDE FRANCINE CHRONIKER. 1843-­1868. FOUNDER OF CHRONIKER UNIVERSITY.

  The lady was phenomenally stylish for an engineer, sporting an intricate hat of feathers and silk ribbon, and a cap-­sleeve bodice. Her scheming, amber eyes and soft smile suggested both cleverness and confidence.

  Emmerich didn’t have to explain why he had brought her to this place. Hanging around Lady Chroniker’s neck was a pocket watch—­her pocket watch—­identical down to the gold-­wrought C sculpted into the front casing. It was the same watch. She knew it.

  “I knew her, you know,” said Emmerich, joining her at the portrait. “When I was young, my uncle often brought me
here to the University. He was an engineer himself, and he and Lady Chroniker were close friends. I often sat in on their meetings as they dreamed up new machines, technologies for the generations to come. She was a brilliant woman, so full of ideas for the future. She saw so much promise in what the innovations and imaginations of young minds could offer the world.”

  He slipped his hands into his pockets, regarding the painting. “She was only eighteen when she and Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon founded the University. She believed in the purity of science, the beauty of it, and it was her ambition to see Chroniker City as the heart of scientific discovery and progress—­and she succeeded. For the last twenty years, since the school’s founding, this city has been the heart of scientific advancement in all of Europe, perhaps even the world. The other polytechnic universities cannot hope to compare.” He exhaled a heavy sigh, looking upon the portrait with a sad smile. “But she died before she saw her vision realized.”

  “What happened?”

  “The University fire,” he said with a frown. “She died in the Luddite attack—­her and many others, including my uncle.”

  The same fire that Petra had survived.

  Petra swallowed thickly, a sudden surge of emotion burning her throat. She looked into Lady Chroniker’s eyes, wishing she were still alive. She wanted to meet her, someone who might be proud of her, but more importantly, someone who understood what it was like to be a female engineer. Her gaze slipped to the pocket watch in the portrait, the same pocket watch now in Petra’s possession. Whoever she had been to this woman, whatever importance they once had for one another, she could not remember. Perhaps Lady Chroniker had been the one to give her the pocket watch. Perhaps she had been the one to inscribe her love in the casing.

  A tear slid down Petra’s cheek as she felt the loss of a woman she never knew, never got the chance to know. It was unfair that she had died so young.

  Petra sighed and pressed a trembling hand to the painting, tears falling in earnest now. Her fingertips brushed the oily surface, and beneath the paint and canvas, she felt the steady thrum of machines behind the wall, eerily similar to a heartbeat.