Brasswitch and Bot Page 8

  Plum showed her genuine interest for the first time that morning. “That’s the spirit. You’re coming around to my way of thinking.” He shuffled closer to her and held out his arm. “Take my hand.”

  Wrench grasped his fingers. The cold, clammy skin was how she’d imagined Octavia’s tentacles might feel, almost slimy, like holding a dead fish. She bit the end of her tongue, using the pain to keep the revulsion from showing on her face.

  “Feel the magic,” said Plum. Once more he froze the water and the coldness of his fingers intensified. A chilling ache spread from her hand through her bones to her brain. She shivered involuntarily and squeezed tighter. “Again,” she said.

  Plum melted the water and the ache intensified. Her arm trembled, the tightness in her muscles somewhere between pleasure and pain. She let go of Plum’s hand and focused on the glass. “My turn.”

  Her fingers contorted into the symbol for water and saliva pooled in her mouth. She remembered the sensation in her arm, recreating the feeling, the ache, the power. Magic was real. Like gravity or electricity, it obeyed physical laws; its effect could be reliably repeated, like a scientific experiment. She imagined the water in the glass becoming colder, bleeding heat into the air, and she convinced herself the tiniest of ice crystals were forming at the water’s meniscus.

  A knock at the door broke her concentration. Octavia breezed into the room. Behind her she dragged a large steamer trunk, which she deposited in front of Wrench’s wardrobe. “Bot doesn’t really care about clothes,” said Octavia. “Probably because he doesn’t wear any, but it’s important for us, so I’ve made you some things.”

  Wrench didn’t care about clothes either; however, she liked Octavia and didn’t want to offend her. She forced a smile. “Great. What have you got?” she said, faking interest.

  The tentacles on Octavia’s head quivered. “Limited extrasensory perception for a start, so there’s no point in pretending. Although, I do appreciate the effort, and who knows, once you’ve stripped off those overalls we may discover there’s a young lady underneath.”

  “ESP? You can read minds?” Wrench swallowed. All the time she’d spent with Octavia, what had she been thinking about? Nothing bad, she hoped.

  “I try not to. It’s ghastly what most people think.” Octavia opened the trunk and fixed her gaze on Plum, whose cheeks glowed red. “I can also tell that Plum is feeling awkward and uncomfortable and so perhaps he should leave now.”

  “Keep up with the practice,” mumbled Plum and scurried out of the door.

  Octavia winked at Wrench. “Although I didn’t need ESP to tell that, which is fortunate as he seems to be becoming somewhat resistant.”

  She removed a set of plaid dungarees from the trunk and held them up. “Not entirely regulator red, but oh so much more stylish.”

  Wrench took them from Octavia and flattened them against her body. Despite her initial reservations she had to agree. They did look fantastic.

  Octavia slid a shiny black shirt from a hanger inside the trunk. The sleeves and torso were patterned with chunky ribbed braiding. “This little number is both elegant and practical. Made of double woven silk from the kevlaris moth, it will deflect a sword blow or stop a bullet.”

  Wrench rubbed the material between her finger and thumb. The delicate fabric seemed fragile as a butterfly’s wing. She gave the sleeve a tug and the cloth pulled taut, the immense strength of each individual fibre becoming clear in her mind.

  “Your dungarees are lined with kevlaris too, as is your hat,” said Octavia, tossing a rather splendid black bowler to Wrench. On the front of the bowler, attached to the hatband was a brass star bearing the regulators’ crest.

  “You really expect me to wear all this?” said Wrench.

  “I heard about your near-death experience during the ambush of the Future Watch. You’re lucky to be alive, and I for one would like to keep you that way.”

  Wrench shrugged out of her overalls and slipped the shirt over her broad shoulders. “I’m fairly keen on it myself.”

  “That’s why I thought a little extra care in your defence wouldn’t go amiss. Especially as Bot tends to forget that everyone else isn’t bulletproof.”

  “He does seem to favour the ‘wade in guns blazing’ approach,” said Wrench.

  Octavia’s tentacles squirmed. “Bot’s certainly offensive.”

  “Yes. That too.”

  “No. I meant he believes the best form of defence is to attack.”

  Wrench flushed. “Sorry. I thought you were referring to his rudeness.”

  “I can see how you’d be easily confused. It’s really just another form of armour. He was particularly close to Pippa, and I can tell he’s hurting at her loss.”

  “Your ESP works on Bot?”

  “No. He’s got magical protection, so I get nothing.”

  Wrench remembered the force that had pinned her to the carriage when she’d tried to reach inside him. Presumably that was the magical protection repelling her.

  Octavia seemed to sense her thoughts. “Pippa managed to find a way through. I think that’s why they were so close. He’d spend hours sparring with her on the range.”

  An odd sense of jealousy built in Wrench’s chest. She’d only known Bot for less than a week, but she somehow felt threatened by the other Brasswitch’s memory. Did Bot view her as an impostor, a substandard replacement, a temporary part bolted on to the engine, so the train could limp home? She bit down on her tongue again, feeling cold inside.

  Octavia encircled Wrench’s hand with a tentacle. “Oh, there’s nothing substandard about you, girl. It was a year before Bot took Pippa to the Artificer. You’re going this evening.”

  “Who’s the Artificer?”

  “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.” Octavia caressed the plaid dungarees. “Even with Bot the Shambles are dangerous, so please wear your new clothes.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Octavia pushed the door open to leave, then turned back towards Wrench. “Why’ve you got a glass of ice next to your bed?”

  Wrench looked at the glass of water she’d been practising on with Plum. It was frozen solid.

  With Plum nowhere to be found and having no other commitments until her evening visit to the Artificer, Wrench found herself at a loose end. She’d spent an unproductive hour failing to freeze a fresh glass of water, achieving nothing more than to give herself a splitting headache. Now in a stinking mood to match her stinking head, she kicked about the lower decks of the train.

  She paused at the iron gate forged with complex sigils that secured the stairs leading to the “the magic department”. It was one of the few areas of the train she’d not been encouraged to visit, Plum always seeking her out for their lessons. Her desire to investigate what lay at the top of the stairs was tempered by the inadequacy she felt at her failure to perform magic. Could it be that everyone was mistaken in their belief that she was a Brasswitch? Yes, she had an affinity for machines, but did that of its own right truly make her so special?

  Carrying on further down the train, she continued walking until she came to what she now realised had been the object of her meanderings all along. She had reached the final carriage, beyond which lay only the locomotive and tender, and what a locomotive it was. The Robinson four-six-three with dual turbo-underboilers was a beast of a machine. Her father had referred to it as an iron stallion and she knew it had heavily influenced his design of the Drake.

  With a flick of her mind she unlocked the door that led to the tender and snuck inside. Her back pressed against the water tank, she squeezed through the dimly lit passage then eased open the door to the footplate and peeked out. In front of one of the Robinson’s dual fireboxes stooped a stockily built engineer dressed in regulator red overalls and cap. Slinging a shovel of coal chunks the size of house bricks into the firehole, the muscles on the engineer’s bare arms pulled taught, warping the elaborate tattoos that covered them into strange patterns. Other than the ink, t
he engineer’s skin was surprisingly unblemished, bearing none of the burn scars and blisters Wrench normally associated with working on a great locomotive’s footplate.

  “I wondered when I’d be seeing you.” The engineer turned and beamed a white-toothed smile that lit up a face radiating elegance beneath the smears of oil and coaldust. “I’m Darcey Jones,” she continued, holding out a hand. “And you must be Wrench, or do you prefer Brasswitch?”

  Wrench stepped onto the footplate and took the offered hand. The skin was rough and calloused, not unlike her own. “Definitely Wrench.”

  Firm and friendly, Darcey pumped Wrench’s arm up and down like she was pumping water into the locomotive’s boilers. “Good to meet you, Wrench.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to see the Robinson up close.”

  Darcey beamed again. “Of course you did. I’d expect nothing less. I’m firing up the second boiler. You can give me a hand if you want?”

  Now it was Wrench’s turn to smile. Rolling up her sleeves, she said, “What do you need?”

  Darcey handed Wrench the shovel. “You can stoke the firebox, for starters.”

  Delighted to be doing some hard, physical labour for a change, Wrench slammed the shovel into the coal spilling from the tender’s chute. Lifting the laden shovel, she threw the contents into the firehole. Only then did she realise something was wrong. “The firebox, it’s not lit,” she said, surprised.

  “Things work a little differently on this footplate,” said Darcey, winking at Wrench. “Just like you and Octavia, I was recruited by Bot.” She knelt down and took a sizeable breath, filling her lungs to bursting. Placing her mouth by the firehole, she exhaled. A roar filled the cabin, orange flames shooting from Darcey’s mouth into the firebox.

  A wave of heat washed over Wrench, the coals in the firebox now burning brightly. She tightened her grip on the shovel, trying to hide her surprise.

  Darcey stood. “To be honest, I think Bot had wanted to use me as a weapon. Only I’d never hurt another aberration, or indeed a person, so he put me to work on the footplate.”

  Wrench shovelled another load of coal into the firebox. “Does Bot rescue many aberrations?”

  “I’m not sure he rescues any of us. If an aberration is useful he may recruit them, which comes with its own chains attached, otherwise they end up in prison, or if deemed too dangerous, executed.”

  “Executed?” In the carriage Bot had said he didn’t believe in murdering aberrations. Was that a lie?

  “Bot’s not like the rest of us. He’s seen more of the horror caused by the Rupture than anyone. I’m not sure I believe the rumours, but some even say he’s faced down the old gods.”

  How was that even possible? The old gods had been beaten back by Sir Dereleth hundreds of years ago at the time of the original Rupture. Unless that wasn’t true, like the fact that the Rupture wasn’t closed. Was this another secret, the real dangers of NIAs and the old gods being kept hidden from the public?

  “Do you trust him?” asked Wrench.

  “I was twelve when he saved me. I’d been bedridden and coughing up blood for a week. They thought I had tuberculosis, then I coughed up a jet of flame and set fire to the poorhouse. The nurses left me inside to die and called the regulators.” Darcey stared into the firebox, the flames reflecting from the glossy sheen of tears that welled in her eyes.

  Wrench placed a hand on Darcey’s tattooed arm. The skin was hot beneath her fingers, like a freshly baked loaf. “But you didn’t die.”

  “I was fortunate that it was Thirteen that arrived first. Bot stormed into the burning building and rescued me. Although undamaged by the fire, I was struggling to breathe. He brought me back here and with Octavia’s help I learned to control my aberration.” Darcey grabbed the locomotive’s regulator lever. “I love my job here; I have a good life. I owe that all to Bot. He can be a bit like a tempest at times – he’s like a whirlwind – and sometimes it’s best to just go with the storm and see where it takes you.”

  “It’s taking me to see the Artificer,” said Wrench.

  Darcey smiled again, her face pulled taut, accentuating high cheekbones dusted with soot. “Then you’re in for a most wonderful surprise.”

  The Shambles were the meanest, roughest, most villainous maze of streets and snickelways in the city of York. It was a place where for their own safety the muggers went around in pairs and the constables just plain went around, avoiding it entirely. The buildings were old, even by York’s standards. Twisted and bowed, they leant across the cobbled streets so their eaves nearly touched.

  “Never come down here without me, Brasswitch,” said Bot.

  “Why on earth would I want to?” Wrench tugged at her collar. Despite fitting perfectly, the new outfit Octavia had tailored felt peculiarly uncomfortable. Her clothes no longer helped her blend into the background; instead they screamed “look at me”.

  “You’re a Brasswitch; the Artificer is going to have a natural appeal to you. It’s the way of things.”

  “I’ve met craftsmen before, and engineers. What’s so special about this one?”

  “Everything.” Bot ducked into what passed as the main street of the Shambles. He’d taken no more than twenty steps when a couple of shadows detached themselves from a doorway, blocking his path.

  “Got to pay the toll,” said one of the shadows, his voice filled with menace.

  Bot’s mechanics emitted a growl. “My young associate here is wearing brand-new clothes. I would be in most bad disgrace with her tailor were they to get blood on them.”

  “Best you pay the toll then. Cheaper than new threads,” said the shadow.

  “You miss my point. More specifically your blood. I’m giving you an opportunity to beat it.” Bot’s hands clenched into fists the size of footballs. “Before I beat it for you.”

  The second of the shadows produced a large truncheon, one end of which was ringed with copper coils. He powered on the Tesla club and the flickering light of arcing electricity filled the alley. Blue sparks crackled along the stack of coils, the harsh glare emphasising the shadow’s rat-like features.

  “That’s the problem with you mechanoids. You don’t know your place,” said Rat-face, brandishing the club.

  The pulse of electricity filled Wrench’s senses. The surge of the capacitors inside the club rapidly charging and discharging thrummed in her mind. It was a simple task to stop the flow of electrons, keeping them stored in the metal plates, letting the charge build.

  The sparks of electricity dwindled to nothing. Rat-face frowned at the weapon. He shook it but to no avail, then whacked it against the palm of his hand, as if hoping to jog a loose connection.

  Wrench released her control and the electrons burst free, into the head of the club, into Rat-face’s hand. A white flash of electricity filled the alley. Rat-face flew backwards and slammed into the street wall.

  His colleague fled into the dark. “See ya, Rex,” he shouted, his voice drowned out by the slap of his feet on the cobbles.

  Slumped in the gutter, Rat-face groaned. “I’ll let you both have a free pass this time.”

  Bot stamped on the Tesla club, crushing it beneath his considerable weight, then marched past the prostrate robber. “I could have handled that, Brasswitch.”

  “Would either of them have walked away if you’d handled it?”

  “Not so much walked away, no. More carried away in several buckets.”

  “My way’s better then,” said Wrench.

  Bot shrugged with a mechanical whirr. “Only for them.”

  The Artificer’s workshop was along a snickelway so narrow that Bot had to turn half sideways to walk down it. Damp brick walls towered overhead, a network of cast-iron drainpipes climbing them like an industrial ivy. There was no sign or nameplate marking the shop, just a low, tar-tarnished door, but Wrench knew it was the place. From inside she could sense machinery of such awe that it glowed gold in her mind.

  Bot pushed the door open
and, squatting awkwardly, manoeuvred inside. Wrench followed the mechanoid into the low-beamed room. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls. Secured behind the lead-crossed panes gleamed devices so fantastical that even with her abilities Wrench was at a loss as to their purpose. A workbench occupied the centre of the room, scattered with tools nearly as marvellous as the gadgets they created. At the workbench sat a man tinkering with the clockwork engine of what looked like a tin tortoise. He had rosy red cheeks, a bulbous nose and a long white beard that tapered to a point over his rounded stomach. The thought gnome immediately sprung into Wrench’s mind and she blushed guiltily, hoping the man didn’t have ESP like Octavia.

  “Brasswitch, this is Mr Todkin.”

  “Another Brasswitch?” said Todkin in a high-pitched, melodic voice. He pulled a platinum gizmo the size of a pocket watch from beneath his leather jerkin and flicked it open. Viewing Wrench through a crystal in the device’s lid, he said, “And this one has real power. I can see it in her aura.”

  “Auras? I thought I was supposed to be the witch?” said Wrench.

  Todkin snapped the device closed. From a chest of miniature drawers he took a compass and placed it on the bench next to a thick copper wire. “Observe.” He connected the wire across a battery and the compass needle twitched then spun.

  Wrench could sense the magnetic field created by the flow of electricity pushing the needle. “That’s science, as explained by Maxwell’s treatise on electricity and magnetism,” said Wrench.

  “Galvani tells us of animal electricity. Is it so hard to believe we don’t emit a similar field?”

  Wrench cocked her head to one side. “Volta disagrees with Galvani, but point taken.”