Tin Fingers: Book 2 in the Arachnodactyl Series

by Danny Knestaut

  His laughter died away, trickled to a stream of drool between his lips. What the hell would he do now? Working out restitution wouldn’t be so bad. It was something he was prepared for. But he had to find Cross and make sure he was all right, that he could return to Whitby and Rose.

  At the end of the hall, the automaton shoved Ikey through a doorway and into a dark room. He was then pinned face-first against a wall.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Ikey croaked. “I didn’t ask for augmentations. I didn’t make a deal. I signed no contract. Release me.”

  Iron clanked. Ikey was yanked back, and then shoved to his right where he stumbled over a step down. He fell a short distance to a wooden floor.

  In the darkness around him, others admonished him to watch out.

  Iron clanged again. The remaining scrap of light from the doorway was choked off.

  Ikey pushed himself up onto his right elbow. “Hello?”

  “Hello,” someone responded. “Welcome to the Regal Grand Hotel. If you’ll please sign the guest book, we’ll whisk you up to your room straight away, where you shall enjoy a complimentary champagne bath including a vigorous scrubbing with the perky tits of a virgin.”

  Laughter tumbled out of the darkness.

  “Where am I?” Ikey asked.

  “Hey, this one’s a philosopher,” another voice said.

  “Great,” the first voice said. “Another pauper philosopher. Just what we need.”

  Ikey pushed himself up and sat back on his heels. He reached into the dark and felt nothing. “What is this place? What happened?”

  “Not a real well-read philosopher, is he?”

  “Shut your bloody hole,” another voice said.

  “Oy! I see The Old Chopper put your new hand up your arse.”

  “Piss off!”

  “You piss off!”

  “Cross?” Ikey asked.

  “You bet I’m cross,” one of the voices said. “Anytime I go see The Old Chopper, I’ve had a right sour old day.”

  “Cross? Are you there?” Ikey asked.

  “Who the hell is Cross?”

  “I’m cross,” someone said. “Really damned cross.”

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine. His name is Cross. We were attacked. I’m—”

  Laughter tumbled from the dark.

  Ikey’s brow furrowed. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are.”

  “It’s not funny. We were attacked. And when I woke up, I had a new arm and a new eye but I never agreed to either and now The Old Chopper says I have to go work for the Marlhewn Workhouse until I pay them off.”

  “A new eye, have you? Oh, that sounds expensive.”

  “Expensive?” another voice asked.

  “Can they do new eyes?”

  “Why? You looking to better see the shit they feed us?”

  “Piss off!”

  “Ough! What a silver-tongued orator you are!”

  “I mean it,” the voice continued. “Shut the hell up or we’ll be finding out if The Old Chopper can replace a tongue.”

  Laughter again.

  “Please,” Ikey said. “I must find my friend.”

  “We’re all friends here,” someone said.

  “I don’t think your friend is here,” a voice off to Ikey’s left said. “If he survived the attack, he’ll probably be on the next wagon. Or maybe he was on the previous one, and he’s already at Marlhewn and looking for you.”

  Ikey turned to the voice. “I’m not supposed to be here.” He swallowed. A ragged, panicked tone rimmed his voice and scared him, let him know how close he was to standing up, to running forward and smashing into the first thing that stood in his way and tearing at it; punching, kicking, screaming until he got out of this hole.

  “All right,” the voice off to his left said. “I’ll help you look for him when we get to Marlhewn, but you have to sit down, shut up, and be quiet until we get there. Here. Where’s your hand?”

  “Oh, how sweet. They’re going to hold hands,” someone said.

  Ikey scooted around on his knees until he could reach out with his right hand. His fingers grazed cloth. A metallic hand clamped down on his wrist with a flurry of clicking escapements. He pulled back.

  “Easy, friend. Help yourself up here and sit on the bench.”

  Ikey pulled himself up and allowed himself to be guided forward.

  “Sit.”

  The hand let go. Ikey reached down. His hand found a wooden bench. He sat.

  “Thanks,” Ikey said. He gripped his knee. The weight of the iron arm left him feeling unbalanced as he sat. He wished for light enough to examine it in detail.

  “Name’s David,” the voice beside him said.

  “Ikey.”

  “Glad to meet you, Ikey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You seem to know the story. You and your friend were attacked. You woke up with augmentations you didn’t ask for, and you were told you had to go to the workhouse until they’re paid off. It’s not any more simple than that.”

  “But I didn’t ask for the augmentations. There was no contract.”

  “I’m sure,” David said, “But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re here all the same.”

  “The thing with the mule’s head…” Ikey started.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “I’m from North Yorkshire.”

  “What’s a Yorkshire lad like yourself doing down here? Leave home to find work and missed the turn at Leeds, did you?”

  “No. I came down here to find someone to augment me with an arm and an eye. But we had money. We were going to pay.”

  “Money? Who the hell are you? You’re not some duke’s son, are you?”

  “A friend of mine married well. I saved his life, but it cost me an arm and my eyes. He was going to get me augmented in order to return the favor.”

  “And now your friend, the one with the money, is missing?”

  “Indeed.”

  David let out a low whistle. “I don’t know, friend, if we’ll find him after all. Men with money tend not to make good laborers. They have a way of demanding humane treatment.”

  Despite himself, Ikey chuckled. “I’m ready to make some demands.”

  “Make all the demands you wish. If they don’t fall on deaf ears, you’ll be treated to broken bones and further augments for your trouble. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Ikey leaned back and found a wall of wood to rest against.

  “How did you end up in here?”

  David snorted. “In here today, or in this situation?”

  “Both.”

  “Same as anyone. One day I was accused of filching bread. Got into a bit of a scrape with a constable. Broke my hand. The magistrate said my broken hand made me unfit for service in the military, so he sentenced me to three years in the workhouse. A new hand added three more. Two years later, caught my other hand in a stamper. Now here I am. A matching set.”

  Metal clanged to Ikey’s right. He started, then realized David had clapped his two metallic hands together.

  Ikey gritted his teeth.

  “Wait. You broke your hand, and they replaced it? With mechanism?”

  “A man with a broken hand doesn’t make for much of a laborer, now does he?”

  “But,” Ikey continued, “they wouldn’t let you heal?”

  “This is a muddle-headed one, ain’t he?” one of the voices asked.

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, man?” David asked. “The Lord of Kerryford needs cheap labor. Get nicked or bent, and they soon replace your bits slick as fitting a new machine. Once you’re augmented, you never leave. It’s a life sentence.”

  “This is prison?” Ikey asked. “I thought workhouses were voluntary.”

  Chuckles fell out of the dark around Ikey. “He’s a daft bugger, all right,” someone said.

  “Welcome to Kerryford,” David said. “Our workhouses reflect a different set of prioritie
s. The days of the union workhouses and Poor Law are done here.”

  “But The Old Chopper said I could work off my augmentations in two years,” Ikey said.

  Someone across the aisle laughed. “Did he now? And he struck you as having an honest face and all?”

  “You don’t ever make it,” David said. “No one does. They see to it. Even if you manage to go your whole sentence without injury, they make sure you take some kind of damage as your reconciliation date approaches. A broken finger. A smashed hand. Something to get you before a chopper so that you incur a new bill.”

  Ikey ran a hand through his hair. The bottom fell out of his stomach.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “That’s enough,” David said. “And it doesn’t matter. Because the fact is that you and me and every man in this wagon is nothing more than a lump of coal. Each of us is but black fuel for the fires of industry, and no one outside of Marlhewn gives a toss about you, me, or any lump of coal at all as long as his feet are warm and his head is dry.”

  Thoughts drained from Ikey’s head. Somewhere in the dark, he heard the familiar sound of someone holding back a sob, his breath ragged and hissing through his nose, a groan stifled in his chest.

  Ikey closed his eye, and it made not a difference. He thumped his head back against the wall and tried to will himself awake, find that he was still in the hospital, blind and one-armed and hearing the quiet, restrained suffering of a sick man several beds down. He reached over to clamp his arm against the ribs of his chest, but instead, he found the iron rods that made up his augmentation. His fingers traced along the contraption, followed it up to his shoulder and the coarse canvas yoke.

  A great breath unwound itself from Ikey. He had his arm, his eye, but what of Cross? Would he wake and find himself with a mechanical arm as well? A leg? All because Ikey had to have his own. Couldn’t leave well-enough alone, settle down, live a quiet, proper life full of humility and gratitude for everything that Rose and Cross had offered him. Damn him.

  His fist clenched. His entire body clenched against an urge to roar in anger and frustration over what a damned fool he was. In the dark, gears turned and clicked. The trouser leg tightened across his left knee.

  Ikey reached over to his left knee. A mechanical hand clutched at the fabric. He followed the rays of the hand back to the wrist. He followed the rod of the forearm a few inches further, though he knew it was his arm.

  Damn.

  His breath stopped. He shook his head. To hell with himself. How could he dare think of his arm as long as it came with such an incredible cost? He tried to release the grip on his trousers, but the hand continued to clutch.

  “I have to find my friend,” Ikey said. “Are you sure he went to this workhouse?”

  “It’s the only one that still houses men. Those who are able-bodied are spared the workhouse and sent off to the trenches on the Continent. Consider it a call-up. Frankly, I feel the constable did me a favor by snapping my hand.”

  Ikey’s heart stuttered, pumped as if his veins had returned a bolus of rust. Had he a thing in his stomach, he’d have lost it to his lap at that moment.

  A door opened with an iron clang. Dingy orange light fell into the back of the wagon. Half a dozen faces turned to the light seeping from the end of the room. Ikey glanced at the man seated beside him. He had hollowed, pale cheeks, and a sharp face that would have been round if it had been fed properly. A mop of dark, stringy hair fell off his head. It was a man who had seen hard times. And as Ikey peered around the wagon, he saw more of the same; lean faces and sharp features. A few men sported uneven, spotty beards. Many of the men sat bowed, shoulders curled over. Few had both arms. One man had half a face—the other half covered with plates of tin that chewed on the light as it struck him.

  The thundering footsteps of the automaton approached the platform’s lip. Back-lit in the light, Ikey saw the silhouette of the mule-headed creature again. It stopped before the cage, opened it up, and shoved a man in. He hit the floor and rolled over with a grunt followed by a few sharp breaths. The scent of urine seeped across the wagon.

  The cage door clanged shut. The automaton stomped away.

  “Is that you, Saucy?” someone asked as darkness enfolded them again.

  No one spoke. A rapid, ragged breath that verged on panting lapped the dark. A low, grating moan leaked from the man.

  Ikey started to stand when the wagon jerked forward. He fell sideways onto David, who pushed him back into a sitting position.

  Ikey leaned over to David. “Is he all right?”

  “Best leave it be,” David said.

  “But he sounds injured.”

  “Leave it be,” David said. “We know our own, and you best leave it be.”

  “Why?”

  A chuckle peppered the dark. “Yeah, David, why wouldn’t you let this one not help a man in need? Go ahead, man, give him your hand. Your good one.”

  David snatched Ikey’s sleeve.

  Ikey sat still and swayed with the rocking of the wagon. It felt wrong to wish injury and augmentation on Cross, but it seemed the better option. At the very least, he didn’t deserve to die in the war like Ikey’s brothers for simply wanting to help Ikey. May he be augmented. May he have taken injury in the scuffle and found himself sent off to The Old Chopper. Better that pieces of him die, rather than all of him.

  Ikey ran his hand through his hair, then realized his mechanical hand still clutched at his knee. He wiggled a finger into the fist and attempted to pry the fingers loose. He gripped the wrist and shook it.

  “What are you doing?” David asked.

  “My arm. The mechanical one. It’s stuck. It won’t let go of my trousers.”

  “Relax,” David said. “Clench up all the muscles in the wall of your chest, and then let go, like going limp.”

  The pressure around Ikey’s knee released.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Silence fell over the wagon, except for the soft moaning of Saucy, as well as a restrained, muffled weeping that faded in and out of the dark. Ikey thought of getting up and trying the walls, pushing and prodding at them for a weakness to exploit. But he didn’t want to escape if he’d miss his chance at finding Cross in the workhouse. Instead, he remained next to David and pitched with the rocking of the wagon until it came to a stop and remained still for a short while. The doors at the back were thrown open, and in the gray light that pushed at the back of Ikey’s repaired eye, two men in top hats and coats greeted them.

  Chapter Eight

  “Welcome back, gentlemen,” one of the men said as he planted his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat.

  The other man clapped his hands together. “If the newcomers will please follow me, we will proceed with your introduction to Marlhewn Workhouse. Let’s go.”

  David nudged Ikey. “That’s you. Go.”

  Ikey stood. No one else stood alongside him. Ikey glanced at David again and committed the man’s features to memory.

  “Is there a problem?” the second man asked.

  Ikey shook his head and proceeded to hop down off the back of the wagon. One of the men in top hats peered into the wagon with a furrowed brow and squinted eyes, searching for something. After a few seconds, he then introduced himself as Superintendent Barrett. He swept a hand up at the large, gray brick building that loomed over them with high, slotted windows underneath a double smoke stack leaking black smudge into the dark, Kerryford sky.

  Superintendent Barrett bid Ikey to follow him. As he turned away, Ikey stepped forward.

  “Sir?” Ikey said.

  The superintendent turned around and arched his eyebrows.

  Ikey wasn’t sure whether it was concern, or surprise. “There’s been a mistake. I don’t belong here. I was attacked, and these…” Ikey gestured at his mechanical arm. “This was given to me by mistake. I didn’t ask for it.”

  A smile spread over the superintendent’s face as his eyebrows low
ered. “Is that so?”

  Ikey nodded.

  “How terribly dreadful. I’m to understand that someone forced you to take an augmented arm and an eye at great cost to himself without seeking your consent?”

  Superintendent Barrett hooked his thumbs into the lapels of his coat. “What a dastardly world we live in when a poor, crippled man can’t be left alone to leach off the charity of society. My! What unspeakable horrors that a pauper would be given a serviceable mechanical arm and a new eye, and then be asked to return the favor granted him by society. Indeed!”

  A few clicks sparked through the air. Ikey glanced down to see the fingers of his mechanical arm twitch and curl.

  Superintendent Barrett snorted. “Did you not come from The Old Chopper’s shop?”

  Iron clanked on stone behind Ikey. He glanced over his shoulder. Two of the mule-headed automatons approached.

  “I’ll come along,” Ikey said to the superintendent. “No trouble.”

  Superintendent Barrett shook his head, then waved a hand at the automatons. Their clanking feet stopped.

  “Insolence will not be tolerated here, young man. You have a debt to repay, and society will see you repay it in full.”

  Ikey nodded.

  The grin returned to Superintendent Barrett’s face. He resumed his course for an iron door. As Ikey fell in behind him, the clanking of the automatons followed. When Ikey stopped and glanced behind himself, the automatons stopped as well.

  “Never mind them,” Barrett called. “They’re along simply to make sure you don’t lose your way.”

  Superintendent Barrett led Ikey into the building and down an ill-lit hall studded with closed doors. As they walked, Ikey rolled his left shoulder through a variety of motions and tightened and relaxed the muscles in the wall of his chest to elicit motion from the mechanical arm. It stirred a few times, even lifted an inch or so before slipping back to his side. A stirring pain nestled into the walls of Ikey’s chest.

  He returned his attention to the surroundings. Between the echoes of the automatons’ footsteps, the hall throbbed with the hum of large machinery punctuated on occasion with clangs and an occasional, distant shout. The scents of copper and leather and dust tickled Ikey’s nose. They wove and rippled through more acrid, bitter scents that he couldn’t identify.