Clockwork Souls (16 page)

“Well, then.” He glanced at her gray linen dress with
concern. “It seems useless to attempt to protect your gown, when the risk goes
so far beyond a layer of fabric . . .”

Risk? Suddenly, the room of automaton corpses might be
explained.

“But at least put this on.” He held out a heavy canvas coat
that would cover her almost to her ankles. She turned efficiently so that her
arms were reaching straight in, with the coat covering her front. She would
attempt to save the gown, as she had no spare. She reached behind her neck,
buttoned a single button, and then dropped her hands. “Is this adequate?”

“Not at all.” But he threw up his hands and said, “I’m being
foolish. But I do wish you did not look quite so human.”

She wished she didn’t have a very human need to swallow
hard, and once again prayed he could not see her pounding pulse.

He took a different coat down from a wall hook. It was
leather, but the way he hefted it indicated it was lined with something very
heavy. He removed a brass helmet from a shelf, buckled it under his chin, and
adjusted it to completely cover his head, leaving only his face open. Finally
he replaced his spectacles with multi-lensed goggles. Catching her watching
him, he said, “You can never be too cautious.” He then seemed to think better
of what he’d said, looked embarrassed, and carried on with prophylactic efforts
so extreme that her heart threatened to start missing beats.

But there was a thick-looking wall complete with glass
window that appeared to be a wire mesh sandwiched between panes so thick and
rippled, surely anything observed through the mess would be distorted beyond
the most general use. Which was certainly not a problem for her. Whether he
directed her to or not, she would find a way to retreat to safety while he
did—whatever he planned to do. She had been willing to allow him the use of her
body if necessary, but not the harm of it.

Except.

To her horror.

He retreated to the wall, and before taking his place behind
it, pointed to the work surface on the far side of the room. “All I need you to
do, Miss Eglan—” He broke off, looked away. “Nova-model.” He swallowed thickly.
“Using the tongs provided, take each of the small glass cylinders from the
compartments where they currently rest—”

There were five of them, each appearing to have a dark mist
settled at the bottom.

“Carefully reverse each cylinder’s poles without stirring
the mists within.”

The mists suddenly appeared ominous.

“And seat them precisely in the indicated notches awaiting
them.” He attempted to mop his brow, but it, too, was covered with protective
devices. “You will note each one has a copper seal on either end. Using the
utmost precision, you must take this copper wire and wrap it around each one,
starting at the top anti-clockwise, until they are all joined one to another.”

“And finally—using the leather-protective device provided at
your left—”

A
glove
. A leather
glove.

“Slowly close the hatch. Very slowly. At no time must you
jar the instrument or its individual parts in any way. To do so will produce—”
He audibly gulped. “Most unfortunate results. That is how you always fail. You
automatons.”

Yet his own hands trembled uncontrollably. Clearly he did
not trust his own abilities to carry out the task.

Images of the room filled with pieces of automatons ripped
asunder, scorched and blasted, and air filled with the stench of grease, coal
smoke, and electrical ozone by attempts at this very same procedure assaulted
her.

And yet, of all the threats to her safety at this point when
her escape from certain death was mere hours away, one possible injury horrified
her beyond reasoning. The only aspect of her mother she possessed was that of
dark eyes, so dark they appeared almost black. Her eyes. Not her eyes.

“Professor, I must stress that my ocular devices are very
sensitive and deserve protection. If they are not protected, and you destroy
them with your experiment, my creator will charge you a most stunning penalty.”

My eyes. Please. Not
my eyes
.

He laughed wildly, hysterically. “Your oculars are the least
of the risk to your structure, Miss Eglan—”

But he ripped the goggles from his face and thrust them
toward her, dangling them from trembling fingers.

She took them and, hoping he did not detect the trembling of
her own hands, managed to seat them on her nose, and tighten their leather band
at the back of head.

The world was a wavy ocean that sickened her stomach.

“Here,” he said, standing before her and adjusting them
almost . . . tenderly. “Oh, wait.” He flipped a lens high on her
forehead. “You don’t need the ectomorphic gel for this procedure. I’m sure it’s
distorting your view beyond repair.”

“Ectomorphic . . . ?”

“Corpse gas. It provides the ability to see in the darkness
of night. I really wish . . .” He scowled.

“That I did not look so lifelike. But you see, it is the
Courtesan model that by design, must look most lifelike. And by demand, must
have the highest skill level of all automatons. So you must endure, Professor.
It is what one does.” She caught herself short before she went too far. “And
again, I assure you, my creator will be most gratified to know that you thought
me almost human. It is something he pondered himself on many occasions.” With
pride, she noted the absence of bitterness in her tone.

“There are societies in England that believe automatons have
souls,” he said.

“How remarkable.”

“I finally understand why.” Shaking himself, he backed away.
“The clock ticks . . .”

“Tick,” she said coldly. “Tock.”

“If the Confederacy is to stop General Sherman before he can
destroy my family’s textile mill in Atlanta, this device must be secured,
protected, and ready for the hot air balloon that will set down briefly on a
roof platform in the early hours of this very morning. I cannot impress upon you
enough with how important this is to my brother and our family.”

She did not care about the war. She certainly did not care about
this man and his family and of all things, she did not care about their
financial welfare. Wasn’t it the price of gold put on actual human flesh and
the belief that those with that dark flesh had no souls that was the root of
this wickedness?

She could not care. She could not let herself care. She
could only protect herself. Anything beyond that was beyond her ability.

The professor’s eyes were blue.

She despised blue eyes.

Her father had blue eyes. Her half-sister had blue eyes. And
in that twisted terrain of the human heart, she loved them both. Even though
she knew that they, too, considered her almost-human.

She blinked away tears, no longer caring if the professor
noticed. Secure behind her goggles, she turned toward the worktable on the
farthest side of the room, as far away as possible from the protective wall.
The professor stood staring at her, confused, but she could not think about
him. She could only think about surviving the few hours left here, if she had
any hope of surviving beyond.

The mists in the glass cylinders stirred gently, and a spark
flashed.

“It appears to be—” she began, worried.

“Hurry!” he said. “Before it degenerates!”

If putting the cylinders in the notches was going to keep them
secure and protected, she intended to do just that. She looked at the first
diagram he had drawn. It was done with extreme precision, and was easy for her
to follow. She took the tongs and lifted the cylinder. She simply had to do
that single thing that had become imperative to her.

She held the first small cylinder at arm’s length and
slowly, afraid to breathe, tilted it and switched the poles.

She braced for disaster.

But disaster did not occur.

She lowered the cylinder ever so slowly toward its notch.
She must not tremble or shake.

She repeated her actions almost perfectly, four more times.
And despite the nerves twitching beneath her skin, she had to continue until
the wire was wrapped five times anti-clockwise and its end secured.

She froze in place. She could do nothing but stand rigidly,
for if she allowed herself any sense of relief she would collapse. She jerked
the leather gloves—
protective devices
, she corrected herself—onto her
hands.

Finally, without a whisper of a tremor, she eased the hatch
closed.

She stared at the device, at what she had done, and all that
it would mean.

She had survived, where the automatons had failed.

She had . . . survived.

But she had also doomed his endeavor with such delicacy he
had not even noticed.

She took a breath, but held it. She couldn’t show panic,
relief, or desperation. Not now.

And when the professor would have embraced her in an
exuberance of triumph, she stood coolly and glared through glassy eyes. It was
incredibly nerve-wracking, glaring at someone considered her better, but she
found herself relishing the thrill.

He backed away, once again discomposed, but not for long.
His features transformed by jubilation, he fastened the buckles that held the
box closed. The device now looked like merely a small leather case, other than
the black skull and crossbones burned into its smooth brown lid.

“I thought it best to remind them most diligently that this
side must stay up,” he said, grinning.

And when, just before noon, she stepped into the lead-lined
trunk that awaited her in her room, its address an abolitionist society in
London, and took a dangerous dose of laudanum to sedate herself for the
beginning of a voyage across the sea to freedom, she prayed to a god whose
presence had never revealed itself before. She prayed that the lead-lining
would indeed block the tracking button that had held her enslaved for her
entire lifetime.

She curled her body around the mechanical dog, finding its
oily fur oddly comforting beneath her fingertips.

And she drifted into sleep, knowing that she would either
awake to a long, horrifying death . . . or to a new life,
without the white father who had given her to her half-sister as a gift.

Either way, she would leave slavery behind.

If the professor eventually discovered that she had
fulfilled his directives with only
almost
-perfection,
well, surely that is all that could be expected of an almost-human? One twist
of wire clockwise instead of anticlockwise surely wouldn’t be noticed quickly.

He should have never entrusted such a vital task to her,
whose appearance from first sight had advertised her real identity.

He should never have entrusted to her his act of war against
those who sought to free slaves.

She, whose plantation-owning father viewed her as only
almost human.

And now, an escaped slave.

Return to Table of Contents

Brenda W. Clough

From the journals of James Laurence, lately of Concord, MA
Catania in Sicily,
August 1868

Oh, my boy! My boy!

A suicide. He killed himself. That accursed girl! Her last
letter to him, rejecting his proposal of marriage, was in his traveling desk.
May she burn in Hades, along with all the other March girls. Oh! But not little
Beth. No, no. I must not let bitterness overwhelm me. No hand but his own was
responsible for Theodore’s death. I should have intervened years ago.

Would that I had died for thee, Teddy—my boy
!

The provincial carabinieri traced his journey up Mount
Etna to the top. But to retrieve Teddy’s body was beyond their simplicity. The
resourceful American consul here in Catania, one Samuel Whiddimore, came to my
aid. “Be of good cheer, sir,” he said. “In the consulate gardens my staff uses
a steam plow—have you ever seen one? I modified the German design extensively.”

His kindness brought tears to my eyes. “God bless you,
Whiddimore,” I choked, wringing his hand. “If you can help me—I will recompense
you. Anything!”

“Never in life!” Mrs. Whiddimore’s tears of sympathy did not
slow her tongue at all. “My Samuel will not accept a cent. That darling, curly
lad! I cannot think how you bear it, Mr. Laurence. Your only grandson! It is no
more than a Christian should do, to lend a hand in this calamity.”

It took them all day to load the massive device onto an ox-drawn
sledge, and haul it up to the top of the mountain. The following morning, Mrs.
Whiddimore helped me into her own pony trap, and we set off up the mountain
road. Above us the terrible peak loomed dark against the brightening morning.
Only one skein of pale smoke twisted from the summit.

As we ascended the baleful influence of the volcano became
plain to see. Gradually all vegetation ceased, and we plodded uphill through a
gritty and barren desert. Gray as mummy powder, the ashy dust was kicked up by
our wheels and the pony’s hooves. The road ended where the foul belchings of
the mountain had last halted. Jet black stone, still hot from its forging in
the belly of the earth, rippled uphill to the ultimate verge, which was haloed
with a fiery glow.