The Sensaurum and the Lexis

by Richard Dee

  “Then we begin,” said Fairview. He pointed to the board. “The others know this, Jackson, but for your benefit, these are the most important things about what we do.”

  “And what do we do?” asked Jackson. “I have heard many things but am none the wiser. You test inventions, I was told. It was hinted that I might go outside, but nothing more.”

  “Jackson, we are the watchers for Langdon, we see everything he needs to see in this city, yet we are not seen. And we perform tasks that aid in keeping Norlandia safe from its enemies.”

  All the words were a puzzle to Jackson. What did it all mean? He was about to ask when Jessamine whispered in his ear, “Worry not, just listen. I will take care to see that you have all the skill you need when the time comes. ’Tis all about hiding and watching, maybe a little light pilfering or disruption. We need to have no knowledge of what we see, merely the ability to report it to those who do.”

  “Thank you, Jessamine. Now, Jackson,” said Fairview, “those of us that are not working meet in this room every morning after fast-breaker. We are given our tasks for the day. Yours for today is to start to get yourself fit enough to be useful. Later, we will teach you what you need to know. Follow Sergeant Patching, he will see to it that you are toughened up and made ready.”

  “Come along then, Jackson,” said the man, marching off. Jackson followed as he went through a door and down a corridor. There were so many places in the orphanage that Jackson had never imagined existed, now they were in a room filled with strange objects. It looked like the chamber of tortures that he had read of, in one of the books from the library.

  “We will get you fit,” said Patching, taking off his jacket to reveal a singlet, through which muscles bulged. “But first, let’s see what we are starting from. Take off your shirt.”

  Jackson did so and Patching tutted in disappointment as he looked. He poked and prodded at Jackson with a short stick. “You have muscles,” he grudgingly admitted, “but they need some work. Get on the belt.” He pointed to one of the machines. Jackson walked over; it was little more than a strip of black material on a metal frame, with handholds at one end.

  “Climb on and hold the handles,” instructed Patching. When Jackson did, Patching started a clockwork at the side of the frame. Jackson felt his feet move behind him as the material moved. He grasped the handle more firmly and started to walk, gaining his balance. Patching increased the speed of the machine. Now Jackson understood why it was called a belt, it must be endless, like the belts that drove machinery. Except that this one was driven by a clockwork. He walked faster, breaking into a trot, then a run.

  He started to pant, his chest heaving at the unexpected exertion. Patching left him and went to the other side of the room. Jackson reached over with one hand; he could not quite touch the switch. He tried to bend down but the distraction made him stumble and he lost his balance. The belt deposited him on the floor in an untidy, breathless heap. Patching returned. “Lost your footing eh?” he inquired, holding out his hand.

  “I was trying to make it go slower,” gasped Jackson. He took the hand and felt the power in Patching’s arm as he was hauled upright.

  The soldier grinned. “It’s situated there, just out of reach, so that you cannot,” he said with a laugh. “Now, how is your breathing?”

  Jackson gulped air. “Better,” he said.

  Patching nodded. “Good. Fitness is about recovery, not exertion. You are sound, you just need building up a little. The extra rations will help. You will spend some of your own time here every day. I believe the rest of your group come down after supper. One of them will turn the belt on and off for you.”

  He showed Jackson the other devices; each was designed to exercise a different part of his body, the arms, shoulders, stomach and legs. Jackson tried them all. By the time he was familiar with them they had made him ache all over. He was glad of the extra food he had eaten at fast-breaker, even on a normal day the rations barely sustained him to luncheon.

  “Now,” said Patching, “we need to see how you can fight.” He stood relaxed. “Attack me,” he said. “Try and hurt me, in any way you wish.”

  Jackson was not a violent boy; he had no real idea of how to respond. Patching waited for a moment, then he leant forward with deceptive speed and slapped Jackson’s face. “Come on,” he shouted, “hit me.” Jackson balled his fist and swung at Patching’s face. The man rocked back, avoiding the blow easily. Before Jackson knew it, Patching had returned it with one of his own. Once again Jackson found himself on the floor. “Try again,” he suggested, helping him to his feet.

  Three more times Jackson attempted to strike his opponent, with fists and a kick from his new boots, each time his blow was easily avoided and he was returned to the floor. He had the impression that Patching was holding power in reserve, the blows he received were enough to unbalance him but not too much as to render him incapable. Jackson was growing angry with his failure to land a blow, but determined to carry on trying, the last thing he wanted was a return to his old life.

  Once more, Patching held out his arm. “Again,” he said wearily, as if he was tiring of this one-sided contest.

  As he rose, Jackson had an idea, something he had seen one of the boys do. He held on to Patching’s hand and used the momentum it gave him to his advantage. As his legs straightened, he pulled Patching toward him, ducked his head and butted the soldier’s face as he moved forward, hitting him on his nose. There was a crunch and the soldier reeled back, blood pouring from his nostrils.

  “Very good, Jackson,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t expecting that one.”

  There was the sound of hand-clapping from the door. Jackson turned to see Langdon standing in the entrance. He suddenly felt guilty; how long had he been watching? Would he be in trouble? “He told me to attack him, sir,” he blurted.

  Langdon stopped clapping. “I’m sure he did,” he said. The words were warm but again, there was no emotion on the face. “You’re getting old, Philias, or were you just over-confident?”

  “He’s a revelation, sir,” Patching replied, his words distorted by the fact that he was gripping his nose to try and stop the blood. “He might not be strong yet, but he’s game enough and can clearly think on his feet. I’d never have thought of doing that.”

  “Get yourself attended to, Mr Patching,” said Langdon. “I wish to converse with Jackson for a moment.” Langdon sat on one of the benches, up against a lattice of bars that covered one wall, Jackson took a seat on a green mat, facing him. He avoided the blood on the floor, sat cross-legged and leaned forward.

  “What can I do, sir?” he asked.

  “Do not worry, Jackson, your situation hasn’t changed. I just need to know a bit more. Mrs Grimble has vouched for your character, I need more practical information.”

  “Whatever you wish,” Jackson replied.

  “Where did you live before you came here?”

  “In Cobblebottom, sir,” Jackson replied. “It’s—”

  “I know where it is,” interrupted Langdon, in a voice that suggested the knowledge was sufficient. “And when did you see it last?”

  “It must be six years, sir, since I was outside these walls.”

  Jackson remembered Cobblebottom very well; he could understand Langdon’s meaning, it was not the sort of place for one like him to visit. If he did so after dark, he might not return. Even the Watch operated in pairs in Cobblebottom.

  Langdon thought for a moment. “There has been much change in the world in six months, let alone six years. Very well, I expected as much. In addition to your training, we will have to get you familiar with the town as it is now, a few visits might be in order.”

  Jackson cheered up a little at that, this new game might yet provide the means of escape. “Now to your parents,” continued Langdon. “Where did they work?”

  “At the Prosthesium Company works,” replied Jackson. “But they are both dead.”

  “I know,” said Langdon, “and I’m so
rry. Do you know the details?”

  Jackson gulped; the memory was raw and undimmed by the years: his happiness as he arrived at the factory gate as usual and the sad face of the overseer. The looks of the factory girls had told him all he needed to know.

  “I do, I used to go into the factory, the floor manager welcomed me at luncheon and after my lessons; he would let me sit with them as they worked. My mother was in charge of a moulding machine and my father inspected the quality of the pieces that she and her workmates made. One day the great drive shaft, spinning in the ceiling and driving all the machines in the room…” he paused, close to tears and Langdon waited for him to continue.

  “Well, sir,” Jackson continued, “it broke loose and with all the spinning leather drive belts cut through the room like a knife through butter. Every soul in the room, more than thirty people, were killed as it flailed about. The factory floor was destroyed, all the machinery wrecked. When everything was finally still and rescuers entered the place, it was impossible to tell what was man and what was mechanical, they were so mangled and entwined.”

  Telling the tale again had reduced Jackson to sobs, Langdon had listened without sympathy on his face, he made no move to comfort the boy. He knew that no sign of emotion was permissible in the times that lay ahead. Inside, he was relieved. His information had been correct, this was the boy he needed. He had his confirmation in what the boy had said; he possessed the lever to control Jackson, it was just a case of pulling it at the right moment.

  “Again, I’m sorry, Jackson,” he said, rising to his feet. “Get yourself back to the classroom; there is much that you have to learn and little time to learn it.”

  When Jackson arrived back in the classroom, they had already broken for luncheon. There was a platter of bread, cheese and fresh tomatoes, the first of the red fruits that Jackson had seen in a long while. There were mugs of tea, with sweetened milk and lump sugar. And there was enough for everyone, with no need to fight for your share. Jackson was ravenous from his exertions and he filled one of the plates and ate quickly, sitting alone. He noted that several of this morning’s attendees were absent, only Vyner, Jessamine and Capricia remained. They were huddled in a corner in deep discussion. They seemed so close a group, and he an interloper, he felt unable to join in.

  Then he was noticed, by Vyner. “Come on over and join us, Jackson,” he shouted. “We are all one now, and we want to hear how you bested Philias.” The group stood and moved chairs. Jackson went over and soon they were talking and laughing together as Jackson told of his morning in the exercise room, or Gymnazien as they referred to it.

  They laughed as he described how he had fallen from the belt, nodded approvingly at his tale of breaking Philias' nose. “I have never got near his face with a blow,” confided Vyner, “a tap on the shoulder occasionally.”

  “Nor I,” added Jessamine. If Jackson was surprised to find that the women also trained in fighting, he had the sense not to say anything.

  “I just got lucky,” he mumbled, around a mouthful of cheese.

  “I think you will be a wonderful addition to our group,” gushed Capricia in a trilling voice that reminded Jackson of a small equine, lost and searching for its mother. “Enoch was boring… oh.” She stopped talking as the realisation of her words silenced her.

  “Enoch is in dire straits,” said Vyner in a voice that told of his guilt.

  “Oh Vyner,” Capricia said, “I didn’t mean… you did your best.” She flapped her hands as she spoke.

  Jackson knew of a boy called Enoch; before he could ask about his connection to the group, Fairview returned and lessons resumed. Fairview made a joke about Patching being unable to poke his nose into everyone else’s business, then sent Jackson back to him. Patching was sitting in the Gymnazien with black bruises on his face. The blood on the floor had been cleaned away; the room now smelt more of soap than sweat.

  He stood and walked towards Jackson, who flinched. Then he saw that Patching was grinning and he relaxed. “Well done, Jackson,” the soldier said, clasping him by the hand. “You won’t catch me out like that again, I hope. Now let us progress; I will show you some methods for street-fighting, no rules and no quarter.”

  The afternoon was spent improvising defence against weapons; a book was used against a knife, a table made a shield. Then they turned to attack. Patching showed how even the most innocent of items, such as the wire from a speaker, could be turned into a strangler’s rope and how many other innocuous objects could be made lethal. “Always do what they will not expect,” he was told. “When they think you should step back, step forward. View everything in sight and measure its potential. Watch your opponent’s eyes; they never fail to give away the intended stroke.”

  They sparred for most of the afternoon, then Patching sent him away. “You should go and rest, do some book-learning, allow your muscles to recover. We will start again after fast-breaker.”

  On his return to the classroom, Jackson found that Alyious had returned and the others were absent. “They have gone to change for supper,” he said. “I have this report to write on my day’s work, for Langdon.”

  Jackson saw the pile of papers, covered with scrawling lines of handwriting. Alyious looked up. “You weren’t expecting this eh?” he said. “Nobody does. ’Tis bad enough to go and do what we have to, then we must return and write it all down. Where we went, what we did, who we saw, what they said and did. Goodness knows what becomes of it all.”

  “I can’t do all that,” Jackson said. “Do you have to write it all out by hand, could you not do it by machine?”

  “You mean, like the scriber?” said Alyious. “I cannot use that mechanical thing, hitting those keys for any length of time is no fun, and if you make a mistake, there is that awful smelling white ink and that ridiculous brush. These are just rough notes, ready to be processed. Oswald has a new device, not unlike the Fenesh that the islanders used to control Drogans, at least according to legend.”

  Jackson listened to Alyious’s words, understanding perhaps one in every three. He had never heard of such things especially the last. “A machine to control Drogans?” he said. “Is that some sort of a jest?” He also had not heard of the name Oswald, he must be another of Langdon’s retinue. One thing at a time.

  “Perhaps control is the wrong word,” said Alyious. “Of course, you would have been inside when it was all the news, with Horis Strongman and Christoph Leash. It was a way to understand the beast, reason with it, using sound and a pen. Oswald has adapted it to turn speech into text. Anyone merely has to read these notes into it; it writes the words as they do. He calls it the Lexiograph.”

  “I see.” Jackson was not sure that Alyious was not playing a game, it all sounded so preposterous. But then, he had been out of touch for six years, who knew what might have occurred?

  “Who is Oswald?”

  Alyious smiled. “You will see, he is the genius behind much of what we have.” He looked at his timepiece. “And that is suppertime.” He gathered up the notes. “Time to eat, I can pass these to the secretaries, they will do the rest.”

  The two boys returned to the common spaces. “You were supposed to be moving to our dormitory after supper,” said Alyious, “but Enoch’s room has not yet been cleared.”

  Jackson already knew of Enoch, he had also been mentioned by Capricia at lunch. Was he another of Langdon’s men then? He had been an irregular presence in the orphanage, the word was that he had escaped and been injured outside, two nights ago. ‘And serve him right’, Skies had told them gleefully.

  “Is Enoch one of us? I thought him to be an escapee?”

  Alyious shook his head. “He was on a job for Langdon but got a bit close for comfort. He was stabbed by foul anarchists; Vyner was his partner that evening and managed to get him back to us. He lies now in the infirmary, more dead than alive. That story was concocted to quiet the rumours. As Fairview said, you are to be his replacement.”

  “I cannot stay in the d
ormitory tonight,” Jackson protested. “Two boys were punished because of me this morning.”

  “They will probably have forgotten,” Alyious assured him confidently.

  They took their places in the line for supper, Alyious in front. Jackson had just collected his meal, a bowl of stew with a fine aroma, when he was pushed in the back. He and his meal fell to the floor. As he landed he felt a kick in his ribs and was about to curl into a ball, when he saw a booted foot swinging toward his face. Remembering his unexpected victory over Patching, how he had not retreated, he decided to see if he had learned anything else from his encounters.

  ‘Do the unexpected’, Patching had said. Jackson brought his right arm across his face, the boot hit him just below the elbow, numbing his arm but protecting him from any more serious injury. Now he rolled, sliding through hot stew; bringing his other arm up, he grabbed at the foot that he could see in front of him and heaved. There was a cry and Morgan, one of this morning’s tormentors, was now on the floor next to him. He must have cracked his head on the edge of the servery as he fell; he lay still as death.

  Jackson rolled back the other way and started to get to his feet as he took another kick, no doubt that was from the other boy. The others in the dining hall were cheering and banging a rhythm on their metal bowls with their spoons.

  “Fight! Fight!” they shouted, as Jackson gained his feet and faced his assailant. The boy, who he recognised as Erastus Crabb, had a dark-bladed knife in his hand and waved it in front of him.

  “Come on then, Mr Clever, Skies’ new friend,” he said. “I missed my breakfast and spent half a day in the latrines because of you.” Jackson was momentarily unnerved by the sight of the blade; the boys backed away, Alyious included. He could expect no help there, which was fair, he had to learn to stand on his own and face this danger down. Again, it would be an unexpected thing for him to do. In any event, Jackson had nowhere to go, behind him he heard the other boy groan, he had to act quickly, before he was outnumbered.