“What are these things? What’s it trying to build?” said Olivia Armstrong, eyes straining at a particularly thick set of cables that led out through a window and into the city beyond.
It was Faisal who answered. The tiny body of the Debussy Mark Twelve stopped, eyes like flashlights following her gaze. “Itself.”
“Mouse, apparently you’re very clever,” said Olivia Armstrong, “but that’s hardly an answer.”
The little frame of Ned’s beloved old mouse looked up to Olivia Armstrong.
“These cables go out to the rest of the city. It’s spreading its reach. If it hasn’t already, it will eventually become Gearnish.”
Terry and Olivia Armstrong both stopped dead in their tracks.
“Why? It’s been controlling the factories for years. Why does it want to be it?”
The Debussy Mark Twelve’s vocal cords strained and clicked. “Cloud computing. It’s a josser term, but it does apply. By linking computers over a network, a single machine becomes a hive mind, its power only limited by the number of connections that it makes.”
As Faisal explained, Olivia followed the lines of cable back from the window. They seemed to be converging at a single point, out through a large doorway ahead.
“That’s how it stole the Twelve’s ticker spies. That’s how it controls the Guardians. They’re all connected to its code and, looking at this lot, I’d say its power has expanded at an alarming rate.”
Terry Armstrong got down on one knee. “Faisal, Tinks – you’re telling us that this creature’s code is becoming part of an entire city?”
“Actually,” said the Tinker, “I’d say the city is becoming part of it.”
Terry gave the Tinker an eye roll and the diminutive minutian quietened. “Our son, my wife’s ward of twelve years, every man, woman, beast and wonder of the fair-folk, as well as the agents of the BBB, are all about to charge into a forest, relying on us to take over this thing with a … a mouse, a thing that has grown considerably in size!” As he said it, Terry’s voice was shaking with both anger at the two scientists and utter terror at the thought of what would undoubtedly become of his son and Lucy should they fail.
But before he could answer, his wife spoke. Though not one for drama or effect, her voice wavered. “I know where it is.”
Her arm pointed directly ahead.
Tock, tock, tock.
The sound they now heard was not from some wind-up toy, or even an actual ticker. It was too deep, too slow and pensive, to be anything but the Central Intelligence itself. As they followed its sound, the smell of oil and grease, pig iron and steel filled their noses. Steam gushed from grates and pipes, and the heat steadily rose.
“I don’t understand – where are his Guardians? We haven’t seen any since we stepped through.”
“I have a theory, ma’am,” said the Tinker. “If he’s connected to the whole city now, well … these aren’t corridors and passages, machines and cables – they’re him. We’re just germs – no more important or threatening than a common cold.”
A few feet ahead of them, the Debussy Mark Twelve stopped, its tiny torch-like eyes flashing at the next doorway.
Tock, tock, tock.
“Great-uncle? Great-uncle, what have you …”
As their small party walked into the next chamber, the Tinker’s voice fell away. What they found there was not what Ned or Lucy had described. The Central Intelligence filled the entire factory. It was hundreds of feet high and wide, a great monstrosity of machine-designed building. All over its vast structure, an army of crablike tickers walked and welded in a never-ending endeavour to build on to the already dizzyingly complex structure. Though now hundreds of times larger than Ned or Lucy had described it, it still bore at the top of its spidery torso the grotesque and ill-fitting attempt at a human face, now vast from its own making. Its eyes were shut as though quite without life but for the constant tock, tock, tock of its metal heart.
Olivia Armstrong’s face turned white as she stepped to her husband’s side.
“What was it Tinks said?” asked Terry.
“I think he said we … we were germs.”
Terry Armstrong could not pull his eyes away. As an Engineer he had a love of all machines, however evil. Whatever the Central Intelligence was, it was a feat of construction the likes of which he had never seen.
“It’s … it’s sort of beautiful, in its own ugly way.”
“Yes, darling, I’m sure it is. Now, how do we kill it?”
Terry looked down at the Debussy Mark Twelve.
“I need to get in its head,” croaked the mouse.
“Just like that?”
“Well, it does appear to be asleep.”
The room glowed suddenly. Through vents along the creature’s casing, orange fires burned and its great metal eyes opened.
“Not asleep, Faisal. I’ve been – tzsk – thinking. So many things – bzdtz – to think upon.”
Its voice was a grinding of metal on metal. As the Central Intelligence spoke, the heat from its inner furnaces washed over them in a stifling wave.
The Debussy Mark Twelve looked up, a tiny speck under the gaze of a metal leviathan.
“You know my name?”
Vents blew another gust of broiling air, and the Tinker and Armstrongs recoiled.
“You are my – bzdtz – creator, yes?”
“I designed your code. I did not make you.”
The machine-mind quietened, its great iron-lidded eyes closed in thought. As it did so, small spider-like tickers drew up from the metal grating, their sharp limbs reflected by the machine-mind’s orange glow. They approached as a small army of sentinels, each and every one focused on the mouse.
The Debussy Mark Twelve now controlled by Faisal quickly turned to the Armstrongs and Tinks, its tiny eyes flashing with Morse code.
“D -I -V -E -R -S -I -O -N,” spelled out Ned’s dad.
Terry and Olivia looked at each other, trying to think of the best course of action.
“The cables!” whispered a crazed and sweat-drenched Tinker, screwdriver in hand. “They’re feeding it. We cut the cables.”
The factory’s walls shook and once again the machine-mind stirred, eyes looming on the mouse.
“PROBLEM – dztsk – kill creator? PROBLEM – ethic – grdzt. YES – brrdt – NO. BUILD MORE – drtz – FIND ANSWER.”
It wasn’t so much addressing Faisal now but talking out loud, struggling with the moral dilemma of what it should do.
“LIVE – brt – DIE. YES – grttz – NO, one or zero?”
The Tinker finally understood. “By the gears, it’s gone mad! That’s what it’s been doing in here. It thinks that by growing it will solve its problem.”
Terry looked at the frenzied machine as it struggled and steamed. “The problem of whether or not it should kill your great-uncle?”
“Oh no, Mr A. The problem of why it’s right or wrong. But life can’t be figured out with ones and zeros. It’s trying to solve it with maths, with raw computing power, when what it really needs is a—”
“SOUL! CREATOR – brdzt – made no soul. KILL CREATOR.”
Charging into Darkness
eorge raced ahead of them, at his heels the Circus of Marvels’ bravest and best. Ned’s breath was stuck in his chest, as though he was strapped to some roller coaster, some great galloping frenzied wave of the Hidden and the BBB. Faster and faster they sped till the wall of trees loomed tall and dark.
“Brace!” roared Benissimo.
In a blur of breaking branches and frenzied limbs, Benissimo’s army leapt at the forest. Lucy gripped Ned’s hand so tightly he thought it might break, and all as one, their giants, their dwarves, the men of the BBB, crashed into the undergrowth, waiting for the counter-attack. Gorrn reared up behind Ned and Lucy, his surface rippling and ready, as Ned closed his eyes, and to their front and sides he produced ice-heavy corkscrews of spinning daggers, ready to fire, expecting the clash at any moment.
<
br /> But when Ned opened his eyes again, there was nothing but darkness. There were no screams, no clashes of sword against flesh or bark, just an ominous stillness to the air, mixed with the dank smell of rotting mushrooms, iron and peat. George slowed, and little by little their great charge came to a confused and clumsy halt, the only sound the snapping of twigs and the heavy breathing of Alice beneath them. Under the trees’ canopy, it was so dark that Ned could barely see even their closest allies.
A voice called out in a whisper. It was Mr Fox. “Bene, what’s going on? Where are they?!”
“Lights!” ordered Benissimo.
One by one their forces turned on torches, some of the magic casters even summoning balls of light to their aid. A great shimmer of yellow spread in a broken line to their left and right. It was eerie and cold. Ned could see the air from his heaving chest come out of his lips in great puffs of cloudy breath. But there was little else, just the tall sentries of black, sickly trees standing quiet and still.
“Unt?” asked Ned’s familiar.
“Quiet, Gorrn. Something’s wrong,” whispered Ned.
Benissimo’s whip coiled nervously in his hand and the Ringmaster lowered his cutlass.
“Have you noticed, Fox? The forest is darker than on our last visit. No light to speak of at all.”
Ned felt Lucy shuddering beside him, her eyes closed in thought.
“Lucy, what is it?”
“They’re everywhere.”
“Who are, child?” asked the Ringmaster.
“Demons and Darklings – and the forest, it’s … it’s trying to hide them.”
Ned looked up and saw only black, till he squinted his eyes.
“Mr Fox, can I borrow your light, please,” asked Ned.
The agent reached up and Ned took his torch, then shone it directly above them. At first he could only see a pitch-black darkness, but through the halo of light from Mr Fox’s torch, he picked out lines against the wood. The further they were from the forest’s edge the more the lines converged. Every branch and twig was woven together like the insides of a giant bird’s nest, criss-crossing back and forth from one tree to the next to form a solid ceiling, high enough above their heads for even their giants not to have to stoop.
Finally he understood. “Demons hate direct sunlight, Bene. It’s not just hiding them – it’s protecting them from the sun.”
“Blood and thunder …” mouthed the Ringmaster.
Mr Fox called up again in a whisper. “Your orders, Mr B?”
“Orders?” Ned could hear the smile in the Ringmaster’s voice. “You’re taking orders from me, Mr Fox?”
There was a noticeable silence.
“Yes, you old goat, and you don’t need to sound so happy about it. Now, what do you want us to do?”
“Use those clever night-vision goggles of yours and scout up ahead with your men. The rest of you, slow.”
Ned could feel the forest watching them as they walked. He had never known such suffocating dread. Pace after pace they moved, ever mindful of the vines and branches that surrounded them. Ahead he could see the large silhouette of George leading the way; on the ground beside him, Abi the Beard and Rocky in his troll form, moving like ice-clearing juggernauts. His mind drifted back to the horse riders and their smiling faces as the taiga turned on them. Any moment now it could do the same to them, and yet it held back and kept on holding back – what was it waiting for?
Suddenly there was a snap of branches, first one, then another, powerful and loud.
“B-Bene,” stammered Lucy, “they’re coming.”
Above their heads there was more snapping, and the clear sound of limbs on wood. Like drums in some foul orchestra, the thick trunks of the taiga reverberated with the footfall of creatures making ready to pounce. Louder and louder the forest awakened, behind them and above. Finally there was a great rushing as countless birds filled the air from their web of woven branches. But they did not attack. They flew in a dizzying wave of beak and metal-boned wing, startling Benissimo’s great line like a tidal wave.
And just as suddenly – they were gone.
“Bene?”
“Pup?”
“They didn’t attack. I think they were just getting out of the way.”
“Dear Gods of Old – MOVE!” ordered Benissimo.
And what had once been a glorious charge became a desperate stampede to escape. The Hidden and the BBB’s great line broke at a pace, the forest roaring at their rear.
“Go, Alice, GO!” urged Lucy.
Confusion and terror gripped the line as they stumbled and fell over rotting trunks and branches too dark to see even by torchlight. What had started with the snapping of a twig became a great surge of bellowing rage. The forest had awoken and let out its dogs of war.
On and on they ran, poor Alice’s panting rasped and strained, when up ahead Ned saw the unmistakable figures of Mr Fox and his men. For once the agent looked startled, as the fair-folk’s line came at him like a stampede of frightened cattle.
“THEY’RE BEHIND US – RUN, FOX! RUN!”
As one they passed through a river, sodden and soaked, spurred on by the waking wood and the invisible jaws at their heels. Whoever fell was left to the forest and Ned turned to see one of the dryads being swallowed whole by angry branches, all about her the glow of yellow eyes and the lashing of Darkling limbs. Through bogs, up and over hills they ran, till Alice reared from the cuts at her legs. Then, just ahead, they saw it – light, piercing the woven canopy.
“Go on, girl, just a little while longer!” commanded Benissimo.
And as suddenly as their fumbling line had started, it came to a stop. Ned winced as he adjusted his eyes to the sky. Grey and heavy with cloud as it was, its light now felt blinding. Miraculously they were out of the forest, or at least in a clearing. It was miles wide, thick with mud and perfectly circular, and at its centre was a great metal tooth.
Barbarossa’s iron fortress dwarfed them all. Ned, Benissimo and the rest of the fair-folk stared at it in dumbstruck horror. The fortress walls rose hundreds of feet into the air. Like the butcher’s fleet of Daedeli, it had not been built for beauty. The scar of metal sat like a cruel and ugly jailer, its single purpose to protect what lay within. There were few windows along its walls. In their place were jagged metal shards like spears and loaded cannon ready to fire.
It wasn’t just the fortress that had silenced them, but the sight of the Guardians at its base – row upon row, formed in a great protective circle. There were thousands of them, gleaming with burnished metal, their eyes glowing and red. As he watched, Ned’s world shrank around him. These creatures, every one, had come from Gearnish, and his parents were there now! How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let them go?
“Odin’s beard!” spat Benissimo. “The forest was herding us like sheep. They aim to crush us between two lines!”
What came next was louder than any roaring giant, louder even than a horde and its forest, or the ticking and whirring of a thousand gears.
“YyEEsSSsS!”
Hearing its call, the Guardians broke into a run and, as they closed in on the petrified alliance, the forest behind it came alive with renewed vigour. From in front and behind came the ticking and whirling of metal hearts, the snarling of hateful teeth.
Tick, Tock
o sooner had the words left its metal lips than Terry and Olivia Armstrong sprang into action. Olivia turned and drew her rapier, lashing at the nearest cable. Terry in kind drew great spikes of metal from the ground in a blur of bursting atoms and launched them at a wall of its coiled, snake-like limbs. The Tinker, bright red and shaking with both excitement and fear, ran headlong, screwdriver at the ready, and stabbed at a knot of wires.
“KILL – crdtz – KILL!”
Crabbish, spidery metal arms unfolded from behind the machine-mind. They were the size of crane arms and pointed like blades at their ends. It wasn’t until the rest of the factory came alive that they unde
rstood what the Tinker had meant – the entire factory, every bolt, every pipe and steaming vent, was the Central Intelligence, and it now rose up in fury to destroy both Faisal and his companions.
A great drilling spike struck down at Olivia, but her keen reflexes fired and she cartwheeled away. Two more went to strike at Terry, and he pulled more metal from the factory floor in a shield of spitting atoms.
Crash!
Metal struck metal and he was flung to the ground, Olivia rushing to his side.
“Get up, you lump, get up!”
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
They both turned in horror to see six large Guardians coming out from openings in the walls and rushing towards the Tinker.
The tiny minutian dropped his only weapon in terror, his screwdriver clunking to the floor, and just stood there dumbstruck, waiting for their inevitable strike.
“Here, you monsters, HERE!” yelled Olivia.
And the monsters turned. More and more of the Central Intelligence’s Guardians poured from walls, rudely awakened with eyes gleeful and red for slicing.
Terry fired a blast of frozen air at the tickers, and they all stopped, their arms and mechanisms locked in place.
“That’s it, you brilliant man, that’s it!” yelped Olivia.
But even as she said it, another ten knocked the frozen tickers to one side and descended on the Armstrongs. Olivia lunged, stabbing and thrusting with her sword, only to have it bounce from their casing like a toy.
Terry and Olivia Armstrong now stood back to back, surrounded by Guardians. Above them the crablike arms of the Central Intelligence were poised to crush and skewer, with one of its horrid extensions pinning the Tinker to its factory wall. On the ground and writhing like snakes, the machine-mind’s smaller cables coiled about their ankles.
“Livvy?”
“Yes, my darling?”
“I love you.”
Olivia turned to her husband, their son and her old ward Lucy’s very existence hanging in the balance, the same existence they had spent over a decade trying to protect.
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