Cogs in Time Volume Three (The Steamworks Series Book 3) Read online

  Cogs in Time

  Volume Three

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, including photocopying, recording, or transmitted by any means without written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, establishments, names, companies, organizations and events were created by the author. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events, companies or organizations is coincidental.

  Published by Steamworks Ink, a CHBB imprint.

  Text Copyright 2015 held by Steamworks Ink, CHBB Publishing, and the Individual Authors

  Edited by Catherine Stovall

  Cover by Rue Volley

  Dedicated to the lovers, the dreamers, and the ones who do not fear stepping beyond the known. Thank you for dreaming alongside us.

  Table of Contents

  Dance in Time - Audrey Gibson

  The Brass Line - Steve Cook

  The Music Box - Catherine Stovall

  Cancellation - Wayne Carey

  Steam Trinkets - Lexi Ostrow

  Sky Harbour - Cheryl S. Mackey

  Murder Upon the last Airship - Nicole L. Daffurn

  The Wager - Andrea L. Staum

  Rose-Colored Goggles - Beth W. Patterson

  Dymphna's Dance at the Twilight Circus - Michelle Cornwell Jordan

  Ascension - Timothy Black

  The Escape - Samantha Allard

  Wrench in the Clockwork - Beth W. Patterson

  Arriving at the platform in a swarm of pearls and lace.

  Full of composure and filled with grace.

  The face of an angel, an aristocratic flair.

  My heart skips a beat. I am walking on air.

  Coal and grease covered overalls.

  Hair cropped short and six feet tall.

  A lighthearted smile, completely at ease.

  Feeling faint, weak in the knees.

  The first chime of twelve, our hearts take flight.

  Souls entwined together at first sight.

  Gliding across the station floor.

  Feelings grow that weren’t there before.

  Waltzing to the beat of the chimes.

  Dips and swirls within the cogs of time.

  The chimes become silent. We are at the end.

  Our souls our own once again.

  A polite smile, a nod of the head.

  Sadness follows a feeling of dread.

  Paths have crossed; souls have danced.

  A moment in time, a moment of chance.

  *This story is written in UK English*

  “Mr. Wilson! Sir! The Brass Men are in revolt!”

  I looked at the young boy that had burst into my office. He was covered, boots to hat, in soot and worse, but I could see genuine fear in his eyes. I swung my legs off the desk, throwing the late edition of the York Post down. “Well, how bad can it be?”

  I followed the frightened lad out onto the Crowe Fabric Workhouse shop floor, into the maze of looms and presses. The noise was terrific—a clattering sound that shook the very core of your bones and stayed with you even when you slept.

  We were heading towards the workstations that were more heavily supported by the Brass Men. As I walked past the human workers, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They turned dark-ringed eyes to me as their nimble fingers tied tiny knots and adjusted the tension on the cotton.

  We crossed the Brass Line, a thin band of metal that ran the width of the entire building, and the noise dimmed noticeably. The first few looms still had their metal workers, hands designed for only one thing and legs just a boxy shape riveted to the floor. They were still there, of course. Nothing short of taking them apart would move them. But the next looms, the ones with the freestanding Men, they were empty. And the ones after that. I quickened my pace, catching up to the boy.

  Ahead, a solid wall of greasy gold met us, the backs of the Men. They were all facing inwards, some sort of conference, and I shoved my way between their hard, unyielding bodies to get into the centre. I was surprised to see that a large group of humans was there too, old Gaffer in the front. He nodded to me as I squeezed between two barrel-bodied Men.

  “Now then, what’s going on here?” I asked, mustering every ounce of aplomb I could manage. I tucked my thumbs into my braces, looking around at the automatons’ mask-like faces.

  One of them stepped forward, gears whirring as its jaw moved. “We are not happy,” it said, the voice emanating from inside its chest.

  Dammit, I told Fred not to give them voices.

  “Aye? And why’s that?”

  It shuddered slightly as though processing a difficult thought. “All humans are Owners,” it said.

  “That’s right. All Brass Men follow Human Owners’ instructions.”

  “But some Owners are not as other Owners.” Its voice went up at the end, making the statement seem uncertain.

  I narrowed my eyes; this one was slightly different to the others. It had a little collection of gears attached to its chest, almost like a badge.

  “This ain’t getting anything done,” I said. “Time’s wasting, come on.” I clapped my hands hopefully.

  None of them moved. They just stared, with empty eyes. Behind each circular eyehole cut into the metal of their faces, a tiny candle flickered. Never before had I realised quite how demonic the effect was.

  “Some Owners are lower than other Owners.” The Man gestured at the watching humans. “You are higher than these other Owners. This is a truth?”

  “Ye-e-e-s,” I said, suddenly wishing that I’d brought my billy club with me. “So?”

  “I speak for these Brass Men,” the Man said. He pointed to the badge on his chest. “I am a Brass Owner.”

  “You bloody well aren’t,” I said, pointing a shaking finger. “You’re a Brass Man, same as all the rest.”

  “I have a badge,” it said. “And a name.”

  “You . . . a name?”

  “I am Primus.”

  I actually took a step backwards, such was the assurance in its voice. All the other Men turned ever so slightly towards him, as any crowd of men would turn towards their leader. Some of the other workers muttered to each other, but Gaffer just watched us.

  “You listen here. You were built here in this factory, designed in-house, and you’re our property—”

  “I own property now.” Primus fingered its badge. “I own this. The others sacrificed that I might own it. Why can I not own myself as well?”

  “Because . . . because you can’t afford to buy yourself. And you’re not for sale, anyway.” I took another step away as Primus regarded me, the flames in his eye sockets flickering slightly in a breeze from somewhere.

  “Pay us, then. We will be happy if you pay us a fair wage, as you pay the Human Owners.”

  “Can’t be done. Can’t afford it. Otherwise, why would we make you?” I jerked a thumb towards the growing crowd. “Got plenty of humans willing to put the hours in.”

  “We are better than them. We can work through the night. That is why you are replacing them.”

  Gaffer finally moved. He looked up, took the pipe stem he’d been sucking on out of his mouth and raised his snowy eyebrows. “That so?”

  Primus nodded. “It is logical.” He turned to me. “Is it not so?”

  I looked from Gaffer’s lined face, his stern expression, to the souring mood of the crowd behind him, and to the implac
able Brass Men. “It . . . well, Mr. Crowe has spoken of long-term plans for the workhouse, but—”

  There was uproar. Humans turned to each other, some clutching at Gaffer’s shoulders. He’d gone back to his pipe, a ruminative expression buried somewhere under his immense beard. The Brass Men were chanting something. It sounded like ‘Copper coins for Brass Men’. I stumbled back a couple of steps and nearly filled my trous as a firm hand landed on my shoulder. A silky voice that smelled of burnt coffee filled the space around me.

  “If you don’t tell me what the ever-loving hell is going on here, Mister Wilson, I will have your balls in a vice quicker than you can blink.”

  I turned and tore my hat off my head, holding it in both hands like a shield. “Mr. Crowe, sir. I didn’t know you’d be visiting today.”

  “No, and that’s the way it should be,” Victor Crowe said. He was dressed, as ever, in his mourning blacks, a sturdy cane in his hand that he hardly ever seemed to lean on. “Actually, don’t bother telling me. Reckon I heard enough. Did I chance to hear you take my name in vain there, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Well, sir, din’t seem right to lie to ‘em, like. They’d worked it out, after all.” I shrugged. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

  “You are irritatingly honest.” His hand tightened imperceptibly on the cane’s handle. “We can’t be having this.” He turned slightly, and I saw four burly men emerge from the shadows off to one side.

  My heart sank. It was the fourth time that week that the Bashers had gotten involved. “Sir, are you sure that we can’t sort this another way?” Last time, three broken fingers had meant a worker who couldn’t work for at least a month. The time before, they’d nearly killed a boy, beaten him until even his own mother couldn’t recognise him, all over a stolen ball of yarn.

  Crowe shook his head. “You are too honest, Mr. Wilson, and too soft. The Men are my property, and therefore mine to . . . disassemble.” He nodded to the Bashers. “The one with the badge. See to it.”

  The men grinned and moved forward. They were brothers, taller than me by a head and built like sides of beef. With a grunt, the lead Basher began to shove Brass Men aside, easily moving their heavy bodies. Crowe followed in their wake.

  “Now hear me,” he said, raising his voice. “I run this workhouse for the good of all here. Man, woman, child, even you Brass Man. But I will brook no rebellious natures.” He narrowed his eyes, staring at Gaffer. “Everyone still here in ten seconds will be docked a penny’s wage for this week.”

  Gaffer shrugged. “You heard the man,” he said.

  I sighed with relief. Gaffer wasn’t stupid, thank God, and the others listened to him. I made a mental note to drop him a bottle of ale later. The men and women drifted away, leaving us with the steam-powered workers. Crowe turned to face them fully.

  “You are my property. You are worth no more to me than the chair I sit on, the carriage I ride in.”

  Primus shook his head, the joint squeaking slightly. “I can choose to not bear your weight, to not carry you. I can reason.”

  His face, a single piece of moulded metal, wasn’t capable of emotion, but as he looked up into the faces of the Bashers, I marvelled at his poise.

  “Mr. Wilson is a free-thinking individual. If he chose to not work, would you disassemble him as well?”

  Crowe nodded. “Aye. If he was fool enough to challenge my authority, I would have him stripped of wage and title, and if he pressed his suit, matters would have to be taken further.”

  I winced, looking from the Bashers to the Brass Men.

  “Now, last chance. Back to work.”

  “No,” Primus said. “And if you disassemble me—”

  He never got any further than that. One of the Bashers leaned forward, grabbed the head of the unfortunate Brass Man and twisted it off the body. There was the sound of tortured metal, altogether too much like a scream, and then a gout of steam burst from the ruptured tubing at the automaton’s neck. Two more Bashers took hold of its arms and bent them back on their joints, then threw them down. The torso took a couple of faltering steps forward, and then fell to the ground, twitching.

  Crowe looked around the circle of watching Brass Men. “Anyone else?”

  There was a moment of quiet, and then one of the Men stepped forward. “That was not Primus.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am Primus.”

  I looked down at the destroyed automaton, feeling slightly sick. Its twisted body was too humanlike. The candles were still burning in the eye sockets, wax dripping out onto the floor like milky tears. Each damaged part was a hefty sum of money to repair, as well, and there was no guarantee that replacing the copper-dusted wax drum that contained its limited intelligence would make it subservient again.

  Crowe tutted. “Look at that one. It functioned, and now it doesn’t. Do you wish to join it?”

  “No,” the new Primus said. “But we are unhappy. We desire pay.”

  I moved to stand between Crowe and the Men. “What would you do with money?” I asked, my bowels clenching as I heard Crowe suck in an irritated breath at the interruption.

  “The same thing as Owners. Improve ourselves.” Primus stared at me, unblinking, mouthparts flapping as the greasy voice rattled out of its chest.

  I turned to Crowe. His mouth was twisted in distaste as I leaned in to whisper to him. “We could give them . . . a ha’penny. Each, per week. Enough to give us thinking space.” I looked down at the body on the floor. It was too much like a human body.

  “They are machines. Property. I will not pay machines.”

  “Then you’ll be forced to destroy them all, Mr. Crowe, and pay for them that way.”

  “Mr. Wilson is right,” Primus said from behind, though there was no way he could have heard us. “You wanted to ‘make an example’ of this unit here, but we are not impressionable like the Owners. He can be rebuilt, just as he was. We would gladly give our parts to him. Can the same be said of you?”

  I watched Crowe’s face go from its usual yellow-grey to a sort of puce colour, ivory teeth bared at the threat, and I could see the way this was going to go. As clearly as I could read the weave on a piece of cotton, I could see the course he would throw us down. As Overseer, I’d be dealing with rebellion from the humans before the last brass limb had even touched the ground, and my job would be all the harder. The beginnings of an idea began to seep through my mind.

  “Agreed,” I said, cutting off whatever Crowe was about to say. “A penny a week for the Brass Overseer, and ha’penny for the rest of you.”

  A thin buzz of conversation echoed around us, and Crowe grabbed my shoulder. “What the bleeding hell d’you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

  “Do you want a bloodbath on your hands?”

  Crowe snorted. “They won’t attack us. They can’t even cross the Brass Line without shutting down.”

  “And, yesterday, we’d have said they can’t refuse to work, but here they are. Besides, I’ve got an idea about how this might go.”

  The Brass Men turned around, the new Primus stepping forward. “This is acceptable,” it said.

  “No,” another said from the crowd. “It is not. We talked, and we agreed, equal wages for us all.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not how it works. I’m an Overseer. I’m paid more than the other Owners because my job is harder, more important. I have more responsibility.”

  Primus nodded. “That is logical. I am an Overseer. My job is harder. More important. I should be paid more.”

  Crowe leaned in to me and murmured, “What have you done?”

  “Made them a bit more human, Mr. Crowe.”

  “Will it get them working again?”

  “Maybe.” I raised my voice again. “There’ll be nothing, of course, if you’re not working. And you,” I said, pointing at Primus, “I’ll want a full report on the work of the others. Your pay is based on how well they do.”

  Primus stared at me for a moment, turned, and when he nex
t spoke, it was as though the words were coming from my own mouth, though flat and emotionless.

  “Right then, you horrible lot, back to work,” he said. “This isn’t getting anything done.”

  The Brass Men looked at Primus for a moment, then turned and went back to their assigned stations without a word. Primus watched them go and then turned to me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilson.”

  “If they do particularly well this week, Primus, there might be a small bonus for you. Just between us.”

  Primus looked to each side—Was that nervousness?—and nodded. “Understood, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Crowe.” With that, he turned and walked off into the dimness of the factory.

  The Bashers formed up behind Crowe, blunt heads turning this way and that, but there was no sign of further rebellion from the Brass Men.

  “What, exactly, was that, Mr. Wilson?” Crowe asked.

  “I’d think you’d know, Mr. Crowe, sir. I gave them something that all men have. Greed, sir. It’s eternal.”

  Crowe grunted, and nudged the corpse of the old Primus with his toe. “Salvage whatever you can out of this. You’ve just cost me a lot of money, save me some before I take it out of your wages. Which, by the way, is where that bonus you just promised is coming from.” He turned to go, then half-turned back. “And have the wax of this defective unit destroyed. Whatever this infection of idealism is, I want it stamped out. Put down, like all wild animals should be.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, already gathering the pieces of brass together. As I watched Crowe walk away, his bodyguards trailing him like a pack of wolves, I opened the small chest plate to reveal the waxy cylinder. It was still turning in there, the needle tracking up and down its subtle grooves. I gently retracted the needle, loosened the clamps that held the cylinder in place and lifted it out of its recess.

  Both candles still guttered in the crushed metal skull, and I pried one out of its holder. The flame was low, but easily enough to melt the wax on the cylinder, to erase forever the personality imprinted on the worker.