Well, he'd come this far. It would be foolishness not to continue.
Grit crunched beneath Mr. Noble's feet as he walked. The chisel-marks on the walls fell into sharp relief in the light of his lantern, then faded away again when he passed. The acrid smell grew strong enough that he seriously considered turning back.
And then he noticed the noises.
Creaking. Whirring. Hissing.
What the devil was Miss Gates keeping down here?
He kept moving toward the source of that noise until finally he saw a dull orange glow flickering against the floor. It emanated from a narrow crack running the width of the hall just ahead, apparently the space beneath yet another door. Mr. Noble grimaced at how strong the smell had become by now. It was almost like sulfur. Clamping a hand to his nose, he walked forward and found the door's knob.
Time to see what a terrible state her furnace was in, he supposed. And he swung the door open.
The entire room gleamed at him, brass and fire and movement. Everywhere he looked there were spinning cogs and dials, gauges for measurements he didn't understand, pipes with steam coming out of their ends. Directly across from the door was the grate of a blackened cast-iron furnace, which was blazing. And sitting just in front of the furnace was Bartholomew with his back to the door.
Mr. Noble couldn't do much besides gawk at his surroundings speechlessly for several minutes. It was without a doubt the strangest thing he'd ever seen and certainly not what he had expected. What was the point of this, exactly? Why was it running so late at night? And why on earth would a woman like Miss Gates have it concealed beneath her house?
Bartholomew's tail thumped the floor. Mr. Noble winced at him as he edged slowly around the perimeter of the room. A guttural purr that sounded like the cat's throat was about to rupture could just be heard beneath the sounds of the machine.
Egh. Filthy animal.
Mr. Noble was brought up short by the edge of a workbench on which a few loose papers had been neatly laid out. He glanced at them, then paused. They looked like pages from some sort of log, perhaps written by Old Man Gates himself.
Of course, this must be research for the cannery, somehow. Perhaps his daughter was trying to figure out how to put it to use now after his death. He picked up one of the pages and began to read.
--more complex than the analog computation systems available commercially, but the end result has not been as viable as I would have hoped. Problems arise from the sheer size of the system, which would be impossible to move without disassembling the unit, and even so its capacity for modeling complex marketing and transport problems is limited. It is still more practical to rely on human workers to process the information in the end. Eventually I should hope to streamline the machine, should old age not claim me first which is a very real possibility. Regardless I am glad that I was able to create something of this magnitude, and perhaps my progress will help to pave the way for other ambitious souls to succeed where I have not.
This was all that was written on the page. Not particularly interesting to a city council member, perhaps, but it did explain the machine that had been integrated into the room. Mr. Noble turned the sheet over out of habit. To his surprise, text was scrawled across the back of the page in a different hand, more spidery than the first.
Oct. 16: Began work on stage 2 of "the compact". Should be able to help with problems of bulk and data storage, if my idea of a hybrid system works as well in practice as it does on paper. May end up as impractical as the first system, but progress was never made without taking risks. Hoping to obtain subject soon.
Oct. 30: Subject acquired. Introduction of foreign parts commences today. (details in notes, page 3)
Oct. 31: System failure. Starting over with new subject in a week if parts are reusable.
Nov. 15: Subject acquired, this time something a little larger to accommodate parts more easily. (diagram 2b, page 3)
Nov. 17: Failure. Subject may be salvageable, however.
Nov. 18: Subject stabilized. New approach: less integration, more replacement. Becoming less and less viable in terms of practicality even if research is still suggestive. Acquisition of a more complex subject might make the most sense, but this raises several questions of a moral nature. Construction of "the compact" is where this line of work will end, most likely, except for application of any discoveries made in the process.
Here it stopped. Mr. Noble set the paper down and checked his pocket watch. Half past two, wonderful. He'd wasted a good ten minutes in this room and had nothing much to show for it. Still, he was fairly certain it wasn't in the floor plans for a reason. Surely a tip to the council would be enough to start an investigation, and it would be all downhill from there.
Feeling mildly satisfied, he turned to leave.
Something hard and solid caught Mr. Nobel's foot. His arms flailed in an attempt to catch his balance, but it was no use. He fell face-first to the floor. His pocket watch skittered out of his pocket and came to a stop just out of reach.
Bartholomew moved into the council man's line of vision, completely unperturbed at having just been tripped over, glassy stare fixated on his face. Mr. Nobel noticed that he was not only purring but vibrating erratically with the sound.
Feeling uneasy, though he hardly knew why, Mr. Nobel started to back away.
Then he froze.
A brassy line that certainly hadn't been there before gleamed down the middle of Bartholomew's face. It was widening, as though it were splitting along a seam. The skin down the cat's sides rippled, and something long and slender probed out from the tear. Then another, and another, like the legs of a spider creeping out from under a rock. They spread apart to force the flaps aside as whatever lay behind it began to stretch and unfold. Hinges creaked, extensions telescoped outward, and that guttural chugging like a motor revved.
It stretched outward and upward from the furry cocoon, and two glass lenses on separate metal eye stalks swiveled to focus on Mr. Noble's pallid face. The furnace-fire danced in them.
He barely had time to scream before it pounced.
***
"AUNTIE RHONDA, AUNTIE RHONDA!"
Miss Gates was already out of bed with a candle out when her nephew barreled into her in the hallway. It took a moment to steady herself and realize what had happened, but once she did she raised the light to better see the boy. He was white as a cauliflower and trembling terribly. One of his hands clenched in the skirt of her nightgown as he stared over one shoulder into the gloom behind him.
"What's the matter Daniel?" she asked.
"There's a banshee in the house!" he squealed. "I heard it screaming just now, and I just can't go back to bed all by myself Auntie, it's too dark!"
The crease in Miss Gates's brow smoothed over, and she took little Daniel's hand. "Now don't be silly," she said kindly. "There aren't banshees in the house or anywhere else for that matter. You can come stay in my room if you like though."
Daniel nodded reluctantly. "Except there is a banshee, I heard it."
"Did you now? And what did this banshee sound--"
She was interrupted. A muffled wail broke the silence, desperate and pleading, before it was cut short.
"There it is again!" Daniel huddled close to his aunt's side. He had both hands clamped tight around one of hers.
Miss Gates stood as though frozen for a moment. Then an odd little smile crossed her face, and she ruffled her nephew's hair.
"Oh, don't worry about that dear. I'm sure it's only the cat."
Ours is not the only world driven by steam…
Guardian of the Pit
© 2013, Evan O’Connor
Water dripped from the ceiling onto the blue rock beneath Owen’s cold bare feet as the chain-gang he had been hooked to dragged him deeper into the dark depths of the world. Owen suspected that he would never see the surface again. The men before and behind him were all the same. Cold, shivering, starving. Most of them were malnourished and skinny as twigs,
dressed in nothing but sodden, shredded rags.
Owen was a native, a local of the city of Quet. The city, stretching for miles around the empty desert wasteland itself was about four or five miles north from The Pit. The Pit was just that, a pit, a deep, dark hole in the dirt that went down deep. It was Hell, or the next closest thing, where every faction, religion and even community would dump the worst of its ilk.
The others were obviously not from around these parts. Quet was a nice town, as far as desert cities went. No, the majority of these folks were either desert raiding barbarians or pirates and scum of Daggerton, to the east. Owen had heard too much about Daggerton, the scum of the desert. Nothing but traitors and cutthroats and turncoats there.
They were nothing, nothing like Owen. He was a good man, and by all accounts, he should not even be here. In this damned pit.
“Hello lovelies.” the guards, dressed in turbans and masks of brass carrying assault muskets brought them to a halt. There stood a man upon the giant cog-shaped elevator wearing combat boots, pinstriped pants and a brown leather trench coat. His gloved hands gripped two chain railings at the edge of the lift. He was also terrifyingly skinny and pale as the moon at night. “New batch then, eh?”
“Yes sir.” spoke one of the guards, “From all around.”
“Any good stories? I like good stories… Just the other week I met a man who done attacked an Imperial convoy en route to Pleatou in the savanna lands,” he said excitedly as the prisoners began to file out onto the elevator, “The bastard used guerilla tactics. Ended up running out of dynamite early and made it all the way to the Devil Jungles forest edge. The imperials shot off his foot and dragged him back here, wailing. I nearly felt sorry for him.”
“One of them is the bandit king. A real bastard, that one.” a guard muffled through his mask’s respirator, before adding, “We are here to deliver the mud, not play in it…”
“Ahhh, but that is the interesting thing about running a prison, my friend.” The man, whom Owen guessed could only be the warden, grinned sheepishly, taking a step away from the railing as the last of the chain-gang boarded the lift, “Toodles!” he called out to the guards as the mechanism began to lower.
“As you were…” the guard grumbled tiredly, and they turned to go back down the tunnel the way they had originally come. Light shimmered down upon them, reflected in several tiny drops of water. The prisoners desperately opened their mouths in order to catch whatever drops that they could. This made the skinny man in the coat smile and laugh. The light above began to disappear, and they were clouded in darkness. And then they began to pass the deep red lights, turning the tunnel the color of blood. It hurt Owen’s eyes.
* * *
Owen reckoned they were in the lowest tunnels. The deepest parts of the world, where so many unknown terrors dwelled. Orcs, Schwarz-tunnel wurms, and goblins to name a few of the myths and legends. Goblins were nothing, all they could do was stab a man in his sleep. Orcs were brutal, bipedal canine-like beasts that would bring a victim to their lairs to be feasted upon, raw. Schwarz-tunnel wurms were the worst legends of the Deep. Immense worms, with great maws full of razor-sharp teeth as long as a human arm. They were said to dwell in the deserts and in the dwarf country to the east. Yet all of them were purely legends and stories. At least to the working class people of Quet, like Owen had once been.
They passed other passageways lit by red florescent lamps dangling loosely from the cave’s ceiling. The skinny pale man who was leading them stopped for a moment, leaning on his iron pipe that he had been using as a walking stick. He listened for a moment and sniffed the empty air.
“We’re getting closer to your sector, lads,” he growled. “You’re all going to be sharing the same cell tonight, and we’re going to split you all up first thing in the morning.” He started down a side passage and the chain-gang followed in solemn silence. They came to a heavy oak and steel bulkhead covered in scratches. The gaunt man pulled out a long iron key, pushed it into the heavy brass lock, and twisted it ever so slightly until the portal creaked open.
The cell block here was just one long cell, bars of steel lining one entire wall. The chain-gang was filed into it slowly.
“Sit down, all of you.” They did so, collapsing after having walked so far on blistering, bare feet. Owen felt as though he would burst into tears at any second. “Water and food will be brought down soon enough. Oh, and if any of you escape, there are no guards. Not here. Hell, I could give you a map to the surface, along a route that’s entirely unguarded. You won’t make it. You’re all here for a reason.” He spat at the blue clay on the floor of the cell. “Welcome to Hell. But, more specifically, welcome to The Pit.” he turned and left the way he came.
* * *
The cell they were transferred to on the following night was further away. How far away, none of them knew.
The guard, a soldier in a black leather coat with a gasmask that was connected to a brass tank carried upon his back. He was clutching a sawed-off shotgun loosely in his left fist, and hissed quietly as he led them to a bulkhead and slid it open, having to place his weapon down and use both of his hands. The large gate grinded furiously, the rust refusing to allow passage.
“Even the prison itself does not wish to cooperate…” a solemn voice whispered behind Owen, who was drenched in cold sweat. He dared not speak. The guard looked over, a glare appearing on the green lenses of his mask from one of the overhead lanterns. The emotionless leather face was enough to threaten the prisoners into submission, and they all turned their eyes to the dirty ground as though they were dogs.
The gate slid open, and the guard snatched up the front chain and pulled them on through. The next chamber was gargantuan, and went on for miles from left to right. Cells lined the walls and immense pendulums swung heavily back and forth, hanging from the ceiling like great, blunt stone axes. There was barely any light in here, and the masked guards patrolled like drones along the walls on every floor. Their guard turned to them, staring the front prisoner directly in the eye, his breathing raspy. The guard pulled out a finely-crafted wooden hilt, and thumbed a switch to allow a razor-sharp blade of black steel slide out and lock into place. A clockwork sword, Owen presumed. They were a standard issue weapon amongst the guards of the pit, and around the desert realms. The guard raised the blade, thumbing a smaller switch that caused the blade to emit a low, droning hum and then proceeded to bring it down upon the chain, cutting through it like butter. One by one, he chopped the links between the several prisoners. The humming ceased and the warrior sheathed the blade back into its hilt and hooked it back up to his belt.
“This way, scum,” he said barked to them. “You will each be assigned a cell to occupy. This is the Pendulum block, and if you think you are ever going to breathe natural air ever again or see a sky, think again.” He chuckled, the laughter dulled by the dirty mask.
Owen thought he would go mad about five minutes after being locked behind the black iron bars of his cell. The only noise he could hear was the constant swoop of the great pendulums that lined the center of the corridor.
“Jim. That’s my name…” grunted a bald man with a long brown dirty beard across the cell from him. Owen looked up through his own matted, unwashed grease ball of hair to get a better look at the guy. An iron rod, thick with rust replaced one of his legs. He was naked from the waist up, and his body was crisscrossed with hundreds of scars and burns. He tilted his head back a bit, “I’ve been kept here for twenty years, boy. For what, I don’t even bloody remember. You know what they do to people, down here in the Pendulum Block? Look at me, boy. They-” A guard appeared at the door. After a moment that seemed like eras passing by, he droned on past to continue his patrol. Jim leaned forwards a bit, “They harvest from the prisoners.” Owens eyes went wide, and he slumped against the wall, the rock cold against his bare back and spine. The breath had been sucked from him. Why am I here? He thought. “I just wanted to warn you, boy… Don’t worry, if you’re lik
e me, then you can… endure every last moment… I will see you in the afterlife, unless this is it… How long have I been here… a decade? Two? Four? Haha…” He started a short conversation with himself and soon after fell asleep. Owen lay with his eyes open, completely unable to sleep, completely aware of what was going on, completely conscious. Should he just end himself? Should he just spare himself the punishment that these people had in store for him?
He stood, grabbing a hold of the cold bars with his grimy, skinny hands. The mighty pendulums continued sweeping through the air. He slammed his forehead against the middle bar. A bruise appeared and he fell back, rubbing the wound. Owen could not do it, he could not take his own life, and he was just a coward in the end. He was too afraid of the great unknown expanse that waited for them all at the end of the road of life. What was it? Was it more terrifying than being harvested? If the babbling maniac slumped in the shadowy corner could be a reliable source of information.
* * *
The next few days were all the same. Owen would awaken in a sitting position in the cold darkness to the rocking of the swaying pendulums, and a few hours later he would be dragged out along with Jim to a vast mess hall a mile down the immense corridor.
Goggles, Gears, and Gremlins (SteamGoth Anthology Book 3) Page 4
