Steven Harper - The Havoc Machine

Light glowed from around a bend in the tunnel ahead, and unintelligible voices echoed against the stones. Thad also heard other familiar sounds-the bloop of thick liquid and the hiss of steam and the clatter of metal on metal, the same sounds he had heard from Mr. Griffin’s boxcar. Truly excited now, Thad put a finger to his lips, and the four of them-two humans and two automatons-proceeded cautiously forward. Adrenaline zipped through Thad’s veins and he had to force himself to stay slow. He drew his pistol. Sofiya produced her one-shot energy weapon. Maddie crawled around to Sofiya’s other shoulder. Slowly, carefully, they slid around the bend.

The tunnel ahead of them opened up and looked about fifteen feet down into a chamber that had clearly been enlarged recently to the size of a ballroom. It was lined with new stone and brass plating. Spiders of all sizes, from pocket watch to Saint Bernard, scuttled across all surfaces. But it was the center of the room that drew Thad’s attention. The hub of the enormous space was occupied by an impressive apparatus of copper, brass, and glass. Pipes and cables snaked in all directions. Closed vats sat above quiet fires tended by watchful spiders. Banks of dials and switches and levers were everywhere. In the middle of it all was a high platform, nearly on eye level with the tunnel Thad and Sofiya were spying from. On the platform was a large bell jar filled with viscous fluid. Multiple pipes and wires were connected to the glass and the base it rested on. Inside the jar floated a pink, convoluted human brain.

A number of thoughts rushed around Thad’s mind and crashed together like explosive meteors. It couldn’t be. The idea was utterly impossible, but it wouldn’t go away. All the clues had been there from the beginning, but Thad hadn’t seen them-the boxcar filled with strange equipment, the difficulty in travel, the communication by distance, the need to have others act on his behalf, that strange ability to work with others.

“That brain,” Sofiya breathed, echoing his thoughts, “is Mr. Griffin.”

There were other people in the room. One section sported tables and chairs, and several men were having an animated discussion over papers and diagrams spread over a desk. Others helped the spiders tweak the machinery. A number of large alcoves ringed the room, each outfitted with laboratory equipment, though one was stuffed with plants growing under an electric light. Some of the plants moved. Both men and women worked away, one to each alcove, six in all.

“Clockworkers,” Thad whispered, not sure whether he was shocked or disgusted. “Those are clockworkers.”

“Are you sure?” Sofiya touched the spider on her shoulder.

“Of course I’m sure,” Thad snapped. A large group of people was the last thing Thad had expected. No clockworker he had ever encountered operated this way. The surprise both startled and angered him. “The question is, how does he-”

“Mr. Sharpe! Miss Ekk!” It was the chocolate-smooth voice of Mr. Griffin. “I know you’re up there. Please come down.”

Sofiya made a small sound. A pang of fear stabbed Thad’s chest. He tensed to grab Sofiya’s arm and run, though he was also aware that he had drawn his pistol. All the men in the room turned to look up at the mouth of the tunnel, which was about fifteen feet off the floor for them. The clockworkers, for their part, ignored the exchange.

“Don’t bother trying to fire that weapon,” Griffin said. “It won’t break my dome. Come down, please. No one will hurt you.”

Thad’s instincts still told him to run, but where would he go? Mr. Griffin knew where the circus was, knew Thad was here, so why bother? Carefully, he holstered his pistol and climbed down the rungs below the mouth of the tunnel, his brass hand clinking on the metal. Sofiya came next, and he helped her to the floor. The men, perhaps twenty in all, approached with serious looks on their faces. There was no consistency to them-some were young men, perhaps students, some were older, one was even elderly. Two wore well-cut suits, and others wore blousy peasant’s clothing. One had a soldier’s bearing, though he was in a plain shirt and trousers. They looked concerned, but not alarmed.

“All right,” Thad said, “we’re here. What are you going to do?”

“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Sharpe, and you, Miss Ekk.” The smooth voice seemed to come from everywhere, and Thad’s eyes darted about, trying to find the speaker boxes. He finally settled on looking at the brain on its platform, but that was unsettling. “I would have had to send for you soon if you hadn’t arrived on your own. Might we offer you some tea? Or vodka, perhaps?”

“Thank you, no.” Thad’s mind was scrambling to keep up. He was still tensed for a fight. “Who are these men? What is happening? Why are you…in a…jar?”

One of the men, a dark-haired student in checkered trousers and a brown jacket, thrust out a hand. He was in his midtwenties, and had a mustache that didn’t begin to disguise his baby face. “My name is Zygmund Padlewski. You are Thaddeus Sharpe and Sofiya Ekk, true? Mr. Griffin has spoken well of you.” His Russian had a Polish accent.

Thad shook his hand in confusion. “Has he?”

“Very much. My colleagues and I were just discussing the best way to approach you, in fact, but now you are here, and will save us a great deal of time.”

“What is going on?” Sofiya exploded.

Silence fell across the room, broken only by the drip and bloop of liquid through the pipes.

“Yes, of course,” Zygmund said at last, clearly embarrassed at such an outburst from a woman. “We must explain. Tea? Vodka?”

“Just. Explain,” Thad hissed.

Zygmund coughed and turned to the other men. “I can do this. Perhaps the rest of you could return to our work?”

The men dispersed with reluctant looks at Sofiya. Thad shifted. He had forgotten how beautiful she was, doubly so to men who spent their days in a sewer. “Please be quick,” he said.

“We are the Reds,” Zygmund said. “We are dedicated to making Russia a better place.”

A minor explosion puffed from one of the clockworker alcoves, filling the air with the smell of sulfur. Thad gave it a wary look. He had been wrenched around from being in control and in his element to feeling like a lost child. This entire place, with its machines and inventors’ alcoves and a brain in a damned jar was so far beyond natural, it made a circus parade look commonplace. He could barely breathe, and he wanted nothing more than to get away. The brain in the jar had no eyes, but several of the spiders had turned their attention toward Thad. It was like being at the center of a knife thrower’s target.

“Your goal sounds very nice,” said Thad, “and I’ll want to hear all about it, but first I need to speak with Mr. Griffin. I’m very sorry, but a brain in a jar rather snares my interest.”

“It was an obvious choice, really,” said Mr. Griffin in English. “Once I realized I had become a clockworker and I calculated I had less than two years to live, it seemed to me the only option. I say with some immodesty that my spiders are the most advanced in the world, and once I set up the proper apparatus, they were able, at my orders, to extract my cerebral tissue and suspend it in cerebrospinal fluid I extracted from a number of volunteers.”

Thad’s skin crawled. “Volunteers?”

“Of course. They had to be volunteers. Fear and anger taint the fluid with too much adrenaline and other hormones that give a…bad taste. Every one of them was properly persuaded.”