The Havoc Machine (6 page)

Even now, Thad only vaguely recalled stripping the knife shop of its blades and digging out his old stage-magic trunk. He did remember posing as a servant to get onto the palace grounds where the mayor’s family lived and terrorizing a young maid into telling him where to find the nephew, who was already insisting that people call him Lord Power instead of by his birth name Henryk, a clear sign that the plague had taken his mind. Lord Power lived in cellars beneath the palace, another sign.

Fortunately for Thad, Lord Power still felt safe in his family home and hadn’t decided to build traps yet. Thad only ran across this habit later. Every step along the endless cellar corridors and storerooms was a nightmare.
Twice he got lost and had to backtrack. Another time his candle went out, and his hands were shaking so hard, he couldn’t relight it. A piping cry for help brought his head around. David’s voice! He followed the sound, terrified. Every delay meant more pain for David. Thad rounded a stony corner and the cry for help sounded right in his ear. Thad swiped at the sound by reflex and knocked a brass parrot off a wall perch. It clanged to the floor, knocking its beak askew.

“Danger! Danger!” the parrot squawked. “Master! Danger!”

Thad kicked it, and the parrot smashed into the wall. It lost an eye and several metal feathers. “Shut it!” Thad snarled.

In answer, the parrot screamed for help in David’s voice again. The sound turned Thad’s blood to ice. The bird was somehow reproducing David’s voice, and that meant Lord Power was probably somewhere nearby. A door just down the corridor showed a crack of light at the bottom. Thad smashed into it without hesitation. The damp wood gave way and he stumbled into the room beyond.

Small cages lined the walls. Each contained a bloody, mangled human corpse. Shelves of dreadful equipment took up one wall, and the top shelf was lined with enormous jars of clear fluid, each with a white label—O
IL OF
V
ITRIOL
, S
PIRITS OF
S
ALT,
A
QUA
F
ORTIS
. Near the shelves stood an operating table with a bloody sheet draped over it. Standing next to it was a tall man with a potbelly and a receding hairline. He was training a complicated-looking crossbow on Thad.

“Dante gave me plenty of warning,” Lord Power said
just as the mechanical parrot waddled into the room. “Don’t move, and don’t think about throwing that knife.”

Thad gripped the blade. He didn’t even remember drawing it. “I’ll kill you.”

“Not with that,” Lord Power said. “Don’t you know? I am a clockworker—smarter, faster, better than you. Throw that knife at me, and I will catch it in midair.”

The figure beneath the sheet whimpered. David! Thad’s heart twisted, but he forced himself to concentrate on the clockworker and his crossbow. Dante, for reasons of his own, jumped up onto the table beside David and cocked his head.

“How lucky am I?” Lord Power continued. “I take one subject off the street, and a second one follows him in. You know, I learned so much when I sliced this boy’s—”

Thad threw the knife. Lord Power warily watched it come, but it arced high over his head.

“My turn.” Power re-aimed the crossbow with a giggle just as the knife crashed handle first into the jar marked O
IL OF
V
ITRIOL
. Glass shattered, and the sulfuric acid inside cascaded over Power’s head and face. Smoke rose from his flesh, and he screamed in agony. The crossbow clattered to the floor. Lord Power screamed and screamed and screamed. The acid dissolved his hair and skin, revealing his skull. Power clawed at the remains of his face, but that only got the acid on the flesh of his hands, which also began to dissolve. Thad ran forward, snatched up the crossbow, and fired it into the man’s chest. Power stiffened, then dropped twitching to the floor.

“Bless my soul,” Dante said.

Thad flung the bow aside and tore the sheet away from the table.

In that moment, Thad understood how much he’d been hoping the figure under the sheet wasn’t David. That was how it worked in stories—the hero rips the barrier away, but surprise! The figure under the sheet is an animal or a dummy or another poor soul, someone you could feel sorry for even as you felt a guilty relief that it wasn’t your son. But the wreck on the table was undeniably his little boy David. The world closed around Thad’s heart like a rock and his knees buckled.

“Daddy?” David said in English. His eyes were shut and his voice was blurred, as if he were sleepy. “Daddy.”

Thad dropped the sheet back over David’s body with shaking hands. “I’m here. Daddy’s here, little star. The bad man is gone. Does…does it hurt?”

“I’m cold,” David whispered. His breathing was slow and it had bubbles in it. “I’m cold.”

Thad didn’t know what to do. His son was dying, and he could do nothing but watch. Why hadn’t he come a few minutes before? Why hadn’t he started searching just one hour earlier? When he sent David off to school that morning with a meat roll in his hand for breakfast, he’d had no way of knowing that this would be the last time he’d ever see David alive.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” David coughed, and blood spattered his lip.

The pain in his voice made Thad have to lean on the table, and tears choked the back of his throat. He smoothed the hair on David’s forehead. “Why are you sorry, little star?”
Little star
was a name Thad had
stopped using with David years ago, but he now found himself going back to it.

“I should…have…run…”

“No!” Thad couldn’t bear the thought that his dear, sweet boy would go into the afterlife feeling guilty. He hugged David despite the bloody sheet. “No, little star! It was my fault for not coming after you sooner. You are not to blame. Please believe me.” He was weeping openly now. He fumbled under the sheet for David’s hand and accidentally knocked Dante over. The parrot twitched.

“Recording,” Dante said. “Recording.”

“I…I…” David’s voice was growing fainter, and his hand was growing colder. “I…”

“What?” Thad pleaded.

“I love you, Daddy.” David exhaled once more and died.

Before he left the lab with David in his bloody shroud over one shoulder and Dante clinging to the other, Thad broke every jar and bottle he could find and dropped a candle into the mess. The liquid blazed up like a hungry demon. Thad didn’t stay to watch it burn. The last thing he saw was the flames licking the corpse of the clockworker. How many brothers and sisters in darkness did this creature have? How many clockworkers giggled behind their knives and needs, their machines and mechanicals?

“One less,” Thad spat. “And tomorrow, one more less. There will always be one more less.”

*   *   *

The tunnel under the castle widened into a dungeon. They always did. Thad did a quick check in the cells but found no prisoners in evidence. Strange. Usually he
found at least one. Perhaps they were kept somewhere else.

He found the usual spiral staircase and used his collapsible baton to poke and prod his way upward. Nothing leaped out, no stairs collapsed, no terrible liquids gushed down toward him. At least the clockworker had installed glowing lights of some kind, however meager. The entire place looked dirty and gray. He emerged at the end of a long corridor and almost stumbled into an automaton.

The automaton was human-shaped, but Thad couldn’t tell much more in the dim light. He rammed a shoulder into it without thinking, but he wasn’t able to get much force behind the gesture. The automaton staggered, but recovered. It punched Thad in the chest with a heavy fist. Thad’s breath whooshed out of him and he nearly went down. The automaton made a buzzing sound—an alarm?—and Thad jabbed the baton at its face. The metal end drove straight into the machine’s head. There was a wet snap and gears ground like bad teeth. The automaton clawed at the baton sticking out of its face for a moment, then slowed and stopped. Like a brass tree going down, it toppled backward to the floor. The buzzing sound died.

“Bless my soul,” Dante said.

Thad braced his foot on the automaton’s shoulder and yanked the baton free. The automaton looked strange, even in the bad light. He bent for closer look, then drew back with a hiss. Half the automaton’s metal head was flesh. One side of a woman’s head had been stitched unevenly to a metal one with staples or wire. The tip of Thad’s baton was stained with blood. The vodka in Thad’s pocket felt very heavy.

Thad forced a number of reactions to the back of his mind. Later, when he had taken care of Havoc, he would have a private moment of horror and anxiety. Right now he was busy.

The corridor opened unexpectedly onto a balcony that ringed a large hall. On the floor a story below lay yet another dreadful laboratory. Thad had seen so many now that they were blurring together. Clockworkers focused on different areas of science—mechanics, physics, automatics, biology, chemistry, even astronomy—but their labs tended to have the same equipment. They almost always had a forge, since they had to design and create their own machinery. They usually had a great deal of glassware, mechanical parts, medical equipment, and, sadly, chains, cages, and other restraints near some kind of operating table. Thad’s all-too-experienced eye ran over the similarities and picked out differences. A stack of barrels in one corner. A large cooking stove in another. Shelves lined with jars, each one containing a human brain in fluid. And on a worktable amid a jumble of half-built spiders, a very different spider, a large one with ten legs instead of eight and intricate wires and carvings all over its body. Havoc’s machine. Of Havoc himself, there was no sign.

Thad narrowed his eyes. What was this machine and why did Sofiya’s employer want it so badly? It crossed his mind that the employer might be another clockworker, a rival, but Thad almost as quickly discarded the idea. Clockworkers didn’t work well with others. They became more and more self-centered and narcissistic as the plague progressed, and when they went into a sleepless fugue of inventing, they were singularly unpleasant
to be around, which was one reason they built so many automatons—machines were the only beings that could withstand their abuse. The idea that an advanced clockworker might work so closely with normal people like Sofiya or Thad, even at a distance, seemed unlikely in the extreme. In any case, perhaps he should “accidentally” destroy the invention. Secret reasons for wanting it couldn’t be good reasons. On the other hand, he’d given his word and taken the money.

Thad gave a mental shrug. He could decide later. First, he’d have to kill Havoc.

As if on cue, a door in the lab below opened and a man emerged. He looked perfectly ordinary—nearing forty or so, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, the long mustaches favored in this part of the world. His right arm was elaborately mechanical, though, and nearly twice as thick as his left. Steam even puffed from the joints. Thad wondered what surprises it contained. Havoc—Thad assumed the man was Havoc—was trailing a chain, and with it he towed into the laboratory another figure. Thad’s stomach went cold and his hand stole automatically up to his shoulder where it gripped Dante hard. The figure at the other end of the chain was a child, a boy from the look of it. He was wrapped in ragged clothing from head to foot, and a tattered scarf covered his face. Even his hands were wrapped in rags. He was shivering, and his size put him at the same age as David when he had died.

The gut-wrenching memories threatened to drag Thad back into the past, and he fought to stay in the present as Havoc dragged the boy onto the operating table. A bear made of rage roared to life inside Thad, and he trembled with the effort of holding himself in check.
Nothing else mattered now, not the machine, not the money, not Sofiya, not even Vilma and her sister Olga. Havoc would be dead before the sun rose. He looked around for a staircase so he could slip down to the main floor. Havoc bent over the boy on the operating table.

“Bugger this,” Thad said, and leaped over the edge.

T
had landed on the foot of the operating table intending to deliver a solid kick to Havoc’s face. Unfortunately, he lost his balance. Fortunately, he fell straight into Mr. Havoc. The two of them went down in a struggling bundle of arms and legs, brass and iron. Too late, Thad remembered the pistols under his coat. His anger had gotten the better of him.

Havoc’s thick metal arm shoved hard, and Thad skidded halfway across the floor on his back. The clockworker sat up. Dante peered down at him from the operating table with his one good eye.

“Who the hell are you?”
Havoc boomed in Lithuanian. It would have been more impressive if he hadn’t been sitting on the ground with his legs open.
“Have you come to steal my work?”

In answer, Thad pulled the pistols from beneath his jacket and took aim.
“Olga,”
he said.

Havoc blinked at him.
“What?”

“Olga. She was one of the women you took from the
village.”

“Oh. I take a lot of women. Sometimes dogs, too. Dogs are nice. I don’t remember a woman named Olga but I do remember a dog named Sunis, but a dog wouldn’t steal my work like you are trying to do.”

Thad fired. Havoc’s metal arm moved so fast, it blurred, and the bullet ricocheted away.
“It seems stupid to name a dog
dog,
but he wasn’t mine and he didn’t live very long. It looks like you’re trying to kill me, so it would be prudent to kill you straightaway, though I would like to know why you didn’t fall into my pit so I can fix the problem, and it would have been interesting to save your brain for my work, the work you want to steal, and I do not take kindly to thieves.”

With a series of clicks and whirrs, an enormous pistol emerged from Havoc’s forearm. Thad scrambled to his feet and dove behind the worktable with the ten-legged spider on it just as Havoc fired. A spray of bullets chittered across the floor right behind Thad and pinged off the equipment piled on and around the table. Thad glanced up. The ten-legged spider sat on its pyramid of junk, just another piece of paraphernalia. Thad could almost touch it. Glass shattered as bullets zipped around for several seconds like deadly hummingbirds. Then they stopped. Thad risked a peek around the table. The fluid jars near him had been shattered, the gory contents pulped. Thad smelled sharp formaldehyde. Havoc, still sitting on the ground, was feeding bullet cartridges into his arm. Thad whipped his pistol around, then realized that from this angle, the boy on the table was partly in line of fire.