by Claire Bott
Title Page
TIME HUNTER
THE CLOCKWORK WOMAN
by
Claire Bott
Publisher Information
First published in England in 2004 by
Telos Publishing Ltd
17 Pendre Avenue, Prestatyn, Denbighshire, LL19 9SH, UK
www.telos.co.uk
Digital Edition converted and distributed in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Telos Publishing Ltd values feedback. Please e-mail us with any comments you may have about this book to: [email protected]
The Clockwork Woman © 2004 Claire Bott.
Cover artwork by John Higgins
Time Hunter format © 2003 Telos Publishing Ltd
Honoré Lechasseur and Emily Blandish created by Daniel O’Mahony
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
For my parents, who are, without doubt, the two best, wittiest, kindest and most loving people in this or any other space-time continuum.
Acknowledgements
So many people, so little time. A few of the most important: Clare and Kate, my posse, who provide ever-reliable backup. Dez Skinn, best first boss a person could have. All the old Bunjies crowd, Windmills people especially. Team PN – go guys! Most of all, my parents. Who believe in me even when I’ve stopped believing in myself.
The Time Hunter
Honoré Lechasseur and Emily Blandish... Honoré is a black American ex-GI, now living in London, 1950, working sometimes as a private detective, sometimes as a ‘fixer’, or spiv. Now life has a new purpose for him as he has discovered that he is a time-sensitive. In theory, this attribute, as well as affording him a low-level perception of the fabric of time itself, gives him the ability to sense the whole timeline of any person with whom he comes into contact. He just has to learn how to master it.
Emily is a strange young woman whom Honoré has taken under his wing. She is suffering from amnesia, and so knows little of her own background. She comes from a time in Earth’s far future, one of a small minority of people known as time channellers, who have developed the ability to make jumps through time using mental powers so highly evolved that they could almost be mistaken for magic. They cannot do this alone, however. In order to achieve a time-jump, a time channeller must connect with a time-sensitive.
When Honoré and Emily connect, the adventures begin.
Quote
‘She was created to be the toy of man, his rattle, and it must jingle in his ears, whenever, dismissing reason, he chooses to be amused.’
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft
The Clockwork Woman
The man and the girl walk through the streets, jostled by the passing crowds. They do not speak, knowing each other well enough to be comfortable with silence. It is a day like any other.
And yet... something is wrong. The man feels a faint sense of unease, an unplacable disquiet. He twists his head from side to side, trying to find its source.
There. That woman, the one in the blue coat. Her life... feels wrong. Different.
The girl is looking up at him now, confused by his behaviour. ‘Honoré?’ she asks, then again, ‘Honoré? What’s the matter?’
He shakes his head, as though trying to clear it. ‘Her life,’ he mutters, ‘It’s the wrong shape, Emily. The wrong shape...’
The woman turns, as though she has heard him. Looks him in the face. Seems startled, as if she recognises him. Opens her mouth to speak.
And her life rushes into his head like an express train, all muddled and far too long and the wrong shape... He stumbles. Catches the girl’s hand.
– Timeslip –
When I hold my hand close to my ear and move my fingers, I can hear the whirring of tiny cogs. My eyes are enamel and ivory, overlaid on steel. My skin is carefully painted silk. I am, in short, a mechanical woman, cunningly made and perfect in every detail.
For a long time, I did not think there was anything strange in this. After all, I was surrounded by similar mechanical contraptions; the squat, androgynous maid who dressed me in the mornings; the housekeeper who squatted in its bare, empty room, and could be communicated with through the speaking tubes in the corridors; and, of course, the attack dogs.
I was just one of these marvellous contraptions, set aside from them only by being the most extraordinary, the finest and most exquisitely made. I knew this was so, because Sir Edward Fanshawe had told me it was. Sir Edward would come to me from time to time, undress me or tell me to undress myself, and require me to perform certain acts. I would comply, deftly, competently, and without any emotion or physical sensation at all. I have no sense of touch, you see. Sir Edward did not think it necessary to provide me with one.
Afterwards, he would lie beside me, stroking my long, dark hair that had been bought in a shop and attached to my head with strong glue, and murmur how marvellous I was – the greatest of all his creations, bar none.
When Sir Edward was otherwise engaged – in his workshop or his library, or tinkering with the glider up on the roof – I would usually sit in one of the window-seats and stare blankly at the view, or pace the corridors, my skirts swishing quietly along the carpet. I cannot say I was unhappy, but neither was I happy – nor angry, nor restless, nor fulfilled. I simply was. I suppose I must have felt contentment, for certainly I made no attempt to change my life.
I remember the day it all changed. The day the strangers came.
I was in the library with Sir Edward, re-lacing my bodice and adjusting the disarray of my hair, when the speaking-tube above the doorway coughed into life.
‘The attack dogs have captured intruders, Sir Edward,’ reported the gruff voice of the housekeeper. ‘What should be done with them?’
Sir Edward sat bolt upright. ‘Have them brought here,’ he snapped. ‘I shall deal with them personally.’ He was furious, I could see; and with reason. Had he not told me many times that he had secluded himself in his family’s ancestral home precisely to avoid the impertinent attentions of the kind of ill-educated numbskulls who had once plagued his youth? And so far, his efforts had been successful; so much so, in fact, that I had never seen any living human but him.
When the attack dogs (walking on their hind-legs, with their claws extended to grip the intruders by the arms) brought them in, I looked at them with interest. There were two of them: a tall, dark-skinned man in a long, leather coat and a slim, frail-looking dark-haired girl. That was amazing in itself. I had not been aware there were men who were not Sir Edward, or women who were not me. But the thing that made my cogs whirr a little faster was not that. It was the evident fact that these two had no cogs at all. I listened intently when the attack dogs marched them in, but I could hear not the faintest sound of machinery that didn’t come from the dogs themselves; and I knew their sounds well enough, after many years. They were people of skin and bone and muscle and blood – like Sir Edward was. Until I saw them, I had thought, if I thought at all, that Sir Edward was the only non-mechanical person in all the world.
Sir Edward did not share my interest. He only glowered at the pair, and demanded, ‘Well? Have you anything to say for yourselves?’
�
�We didn’t mean to trespass,’ said the man. He had a surprisingly gentle voice for one who looked so hardened and battle-ready, and a soft drawl to his tones. ‘We’re here by mistake. If you’d just let us go –’
‘You’re lying! You came to spy, didn’t you? You wanted the secret of my devices! Well, you’re not getting them, do you hear?’
‘Like I said...’ the man began mildly, but Sir Edward had worked himself into a passion now, and was listening to no-one.
‘Put them in the old wine-cellar!’ he stormed. ‘They’ll see how we treat spies! Put them in there and lock the door!’
‘Hey, wait a minute!’ the man protested; but the attack dogs were already hustling him and the girl out of the door. As they passed, the girl (who had been standing with her head bowed, frowning as though she was trying to work something out) suddenly looked up at me. I saw a flash of surprise cross her face, and she opened her mouth, as if she would have said something to me. But the dogs did not pause, and she had no chance to say a word before the door slammed shut behind the intruders, and they were gone. Sir Edward snorted, and left the library, heading in the direction of his workshop, doubtless to calm his troubled nerves by working on one of his projects. I was left sitting where I was, staring at the closed library door. These people, that I had seen so briefly, were going to be put in the old wine-cellar, which had walls and floor and ceiling of stone, and a door of strong, thick wood. Sir Edward had made no provision for feeding them. They would die – and I had never even spoken to them! And the girl; she had looked at me, and wanted to speak to me. What might she have said? I felt I could not bear never to know.
I should make it clear that I did not, at that point, care about them for their own sakes; only for mine, that I would never get to speak to these, the first two real, breathing humans I had seen, other than Sir Edward. But why did I want to speak to them at all? I was built to serve Sir Edward, and I had never needed any other purpose to my life before. Perhaps I had already started to malfunction, even then; perhaps their arrival, breaking in on the smooth rhythm of my days and nights and days, had shaken loose some bolt, slipped some vital cog.
In any case, I found myself reasoning that there could be nothing wrong with going down to the old wine-cellar, only to listen at the door. Sir Edward had said nothing about my not listening to them, had, in fact, given no orders to me on the matter at all. Telling myself this, I slipped out of the library and, glancing swiftly in both directions to ensure that the dogs were truly gone, crept down the stairs. Down to where the wine-cellar was.
In the gloom by the door, I stopped, and bent my head closer.
‘I think you’re right,’ the man was saying. ‘It looked like the same woman – but how could anyone live so long – or be so unchanged? She looked the same age, exactly the same age! And you say you think we’re... when? Early 19th Century?’
The girl answered, speaking too quietly for me to make out the words. Frustrated, I stepped closer. My shoe scraped against the flagstones as I moved, and both voices fell abruptly silent.
I craned my ear to the door, and a voice – the man’s voice – right on the other side of it, said gently, ‘Is there someone there?’
I answered without thinking. ‘Yes. I am.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the girl. She too had moved closer to the door, for her voice came louder than before.
An easy question. ‘I am Sir Edward’s possession.’
‘You’re the woman from the library, aren’t you?’ the man said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Name?’ I faltered.
‘Yes, your name. Who are you?’
I wrenched myself away from the door. The question had set something in motion within me. I walked quickly away, up the stairs, back to my seat in the library, where I sank down in confusion. Name? Why should I have a name? Sir Edward had one, but that was different. The housekeeper had none, nor did any of the attack dogs, nor the maids. It made no sense for me to have a name. But then, why did it suddenly distress me not to have one, when I had never so much as thought about it before? The man had sounded so certain, so sure that I was going to be able to give him an answer, as though names were things that people ought to have. That I ought to have. But then, why had Sir Edward never given me one? Why had – no! I would not criticise Sir Edward, not even in thought. It was wrong to do so, it was wicked. I would not do so, nor would I go back down to the cellar. I would stay up here. I was not in the least curious about them, not any more. I had no desire to go down there again. None at all. None. I was quite content.
My conviction lasted two hours before I went down to the cellar again. I stood in front of the door, and rested my forehead against the wood. Inside, they were talking.
‘But why won’t it work?’ the man was saying. ‘Why can’t we just time-jump out of here?’
‘I think you need a timeline to read,’ the girl replied. ‘And we know you can’t seem to read mine.’
There was a pause, then the man said, ‘I guess we’ll just have to hope that she lets us out, then.’
‘But do you think she’ll come back, Honoré?’ the girl asked.
‘I hope so, Emily,’ the man answered.
So, they had names then. Honoré. Emily. But who was the ‘she’ they were talking about, the one who might come back? After a moment, it dawned on me that they were talking about me. I was pleased – unreasoningly, ridiculously pleased. So much so that I called out to them.
‘I did come back,’ I whispered loudly. ‘I’m here.’
I heard footsteps stride quickly across the room, and Honoré said, quietly, ‘We’re glad you did. Now, will you let us out?’
‘No,’ I replied simply.
‘Why not?’
‘Sir Edward ordered you locked up. It was his express wish.’
‘And can’t you go against his “express wish”, then?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He built me that way.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Emily whispered, ‘He built you?’
The man named Honoré murmured, ‘Sweet Jesus.’
‘But what did he build you for?’ Emily asked.
I began to tell her; but she interrupted after the first sentence, saying quickly, ‘Yes. All right. I understand now.’ There was a short silence, then she murmured, ‘Good God, how... how degrading. Poor girl.’
‘But what an amazing engineer that guy must be,’ breathed Honoré, ‘To build something like that. In an age like this.’
‘“That”? Honoré, she’s right outside the door, she can hear you!’
‘Emily, don’t you see, it’s just a robot – a machine. It’s got no feelings to hurt. It’s only there to take instructions. In fact – hey, you out there!’
‘Yes?’
‘Let us out. Open this door, and let us out.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Look, I’m giving you an order – a direct order, don’t you understand?’
‘Why are you so angry?’ I cried, stepping back from the door. ‘Why are you angry with me? Are you angry with the lock, for keeping you in? With the door, for being what it is? I am Sir Edward’s possession – nothing more! Let me be what I am.’ I turned and fled up the stairs, my hands over my ears to shut out the sound of Honoré’s voice calling me back.
That night, I sat in a padded window-seat in the library, looking out into the night. Needing no sleep, I usually spent the hours of darkness watching the moon slowly rise and set. But this night, it had scarcely cleared the horizon before I found myself growing restless, and realised I could sit still no longer. I rose to my feet, gathered my skirts into my hands, and set off through the sleeping house. The corridors were silent, save for the rustling of my skirts and the faint humming of my gears. When I passed a window, the moon peeped in at me as though wondering what I was doing – I, who was always so serene, now pacing t
he corridors in the middle of the night because I simply could not sit still. And indeed, I was wondering myself. This, I think, was when I first began to suspect I was malfunctioning. What part had gone wrong, I wondered, to make me feel so strange? Would I need to be mended?
Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t realise I was heading for the housekeeper’s room until I stood on the threshold. I hesitated there a moment, then opened the door and slipped inside.
It was a large, bare room, and sitting in the middle of it was the housekeeper, a huge, fat cylinder of metal with pipes springing out at all angles and a dull red pilot light glowing at its apex, like a malevolent eye. The maids were lined up against the walls, silent, dormant, waiting to be called into action. I felt oddly vulnerable, standing in the housekeeper’s own room – I had been here only once or twice before, and then only for a moment. But I knew that the housekeeper was not aware of me. It could see or hear only through the maids and the attack dogs; and the maids in here were all turned off.
After a moment, the uneasiness left me, to be replaced by an odd sense of glee. How strange it felt, and yet how wonderful, to be in the housekeeper’s room in the middle of the night. I had never been forbidden to be there, so I was not doing anything wrong, but certainly I was behaving unusually. I had never behaved unusually before, had not realised how enjoyable it could be. I began to walk around the room, reaching out a finger every now and then to lightly touch one of the static maids. It was, as I have said, a bare room, and had only one thing in it that could have been in any way regarded as decoration. This was a hook jammed into the wall, at a height at which the maids could easily reach it. On the hook was hung a large ring, from which there dangled the keys to all the doors in the house.
