The Affinity Bridge (12 page)

_{Chapter Nine}

They passed along a corridor that stemmed off from the main airships works and eventually led them to a small warehouse space that appeared to have been hastily converted into a production line. Two large, steam-powered presses thumped with reassuring regularity, pushing out components in a variety of shapes and sizes, from brass arm braces and finger joints, to shiny torso plates and elaborate cogs. Men stood alongside the rolling conveyor belts that fed out from the machines, each one picking up components and checking them for flaws before sending them on to the assembly teams on the other side of the warehouse. There, small groups of men were busy welding the components together, testing the articulation of the joints and assembling the frames of the automatons. The room was hot; bustling with people and filled with the smell of oil and steam.

Chapman paused in the doorway. “As you can see, the automaton production facility is still a relatively minor concern when considered alongside the main airship works, but in time,
I
have hopes that it will grow.”

Newbury paced alongside one of the presses, watching as the machine-head spun on its axis, pressing a new component from the mould on its fascia. He spoke to Chapman as they walked. “How many automatons does the facility produce in any given day?”

“Fully functioning units?”

Newbury nodded.

“One or two. They can actually make upwards of ten frames on a good day, but Villiers himself installs the internal control systems, and it’s delicate work. Any faster and we’d jeopardise the integrity of the machines or risk damaging the complex mechanisms that make them run.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him. Villiers, that is.”

“Let’s see if he’s here now. That’s the door to his workshop.” He waved to indicate the glass-panelled door up ahead. They approached, and Chapman rapped quickly on the glass before pushing the door open to reveal the workshop within.

The room was fairly small, after the grandeur of the airship hangers, and was cluttered with components and other mechanical ephemera: cogs, tools, automaton torsos, pages covered in elaborately scrawled designs, a model airship hanging from the roof. In truth, the room had as much of the feel of a laboratory as a workshop, the sort of place where scientific breakthroughs were commonplace and genius was taken for granted.

Villiers himself stood at his workbench, fiddling with a brass skull. He was wearing a brown leather smock, not unlike a butcher’s apron, and had a magnifier flipped over his right eye on a wire frame, the base of which wrapped around his head like the crude frame of a hat. His hair was coarse and black and he was unshaven, with a vaguely disheveled appearance.

He was fairly short, although taller than Veronica, and his only acknowledgement upon hearing them enter the room was to grunt at the automaton head he was holding and choose not to look up from his work.

Chapman waited for a moment to see if his business partner would remember his manners. When it was clear the other man intended to carry on working on the brass head regardless of their presence, he stepped forward, attempting to get Villiers’s attention. He cleared his throat. “Villiers. I’d like to introduce you to Sir Maurice Newbury and his assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes. They’re here on the business of the Crown, investigating the airship crash I mentioned to you yesterday.”

Villiers offered a half-shrug, before continuing to dig around inside the brain cavity of the brass skull. There was an awkward silence. Then, a moment later, something popped free from inside the device and flew into the air, before falling to the floor by Veronica’s feet. Newbury noted that it was a tiny gold lever of some sort. Villiers looked up, satisfied. “I’m sorry, what were you saying my friend? Hmmm?”

He seemed to notice Newbury and Veronica for the first time. “Oh, please excuse me. I was lost in the middle of a delicate operation….” His accent was thick, with a Parisian lilt. He placed the automaton head on his workbench, along with the tool he had been using.

Newbury stepped forward, his hand extended. “No need for apologies, Monsieur Villiers. I am Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes.” Veronica inched forward and Villiers took her hand, gently. “As your associate here intimated, we’re working on behalf of the Crown. We’d like to talk to you about your automaton devices and the airship crash that occurred yesterday in Finsbury Park.” He stopped for a moment, glancing around. “I must say, though, Monsieur Villiers. This truly is a remarkable workshop. A credit to you, I’m sure.”

Villiers smiled. “Thank you, Sir Maurice. I can spare a little while to talk, although I am sure my associate has already told you much the same as what you will hear from me.”

Newbury nodded. “Nevertheless, I do feel your opinions on the matter will be of use. Are you aware of the circumstances surrounding the crash?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “In as much as Monsieur Chapman told me yesterday.”

“So you’re aware that the automaton that was piloting the vessel appears to have gone missing from the wreckage?”

Villiers looked immediately uncomfortable. “Missing? No. Destroyed, perhaps? I know my creations, Sir Maurice. There is no way the unit could have gone ‘missing’, unless someone spirited it away from the crash site for their own devices.” Newbury glanced at Veronica. That was an option they hadn’t yet considered. Veronica was watching Chapman, trying to gauge his reaction to Villiers’s words.

“So what do you believe happened, Monsieur Villiers? Did the automaton malfunction and cause the crash?”

“Impossible. There is no capacity for the units to malfunction. Physically, they can only function if their program is loaded correctly. They operate on a series of punch cards. If the card does not engage, the unit will immediately freeze. If that were the case with the pilot of
The Lady Armitage,
the vessel would have never even taken off in the first instance.” He stopped, stroking his stubble-encrusted chin. “My assumption is that the vessel itself was at fault. Perhaps one of the steering pulleys had come loose, causing the mechanism to lose tension? If that were the case the vessel would have been practically uncontrollable, and in high winds it could have easily been knocked off course.”

Veronica crossed her arms. “But as I understand it, Monsieur Villiers, the skies were calm yesterday morning. Otherwise the fog would not have settled on the city as it did.”

Villiers shrugged. “Then it is a matter for the police to decide what occurred. I am in the dark. Whatever the case, I understand it was a terrible accident, and for that I am truly sorry.” He paused. “I assure you, however, that the source of the problem is with the vessel, and not with the pilot.” He regarded them sternly.

Newbury decided to change the subject. “So, Monsieur Villiers. What of your exile from Paris and the claims that you experimented on wastrels? Is there any tru—”

“Come now, Sir Maurice, is this really necessary?” Chapman cut in, clearly trying to come to the aid of his friend.

“It’s alright, Joseph.” Villiers seemed unmoved by the question. He faced Newbury. “What of it? It was a long time ago, Sir Maurice, and very much a part of my past. I have spent the last decade in London, working to revolutionise the aeronautical industry with Monsieur Chapman. I no longer even think of Paris, and consider London my home.”

Newbury nodded. “Very well, Monsieur Villiers.” He noted that the Frenchman had chosen not to refute the claims. The man’s arrogance was obvious, but not without foundation. He softened his tone. “So what inspired you to begin developing a new type of automaton, after years of designing airships? Mr. Chapman tells me you worked day and night to achieve your goal.”

Villiers looked circumspect. “In truth, I have always dreamed of building the perfect automaton. For years I have strived to reach this stage, and it was only when the airship business had established itself and the manufacturing process had been automated that I found myself with the time and resources to realise my dream.” He glanced at Chapman. “Once my friend and I began discussing the application of these units—household servants, drivers, soldiers, clerks—we agreed it was time for our business to diversify. The added benefit, of course, was that the machines could be taught to fly the fleet of airships we had spent the last ten years establishing.”

“It’s an impressive achievement indeed, Monsieur Villiers. So tell me, are the units intelligent, self-aware?”

Villiers shook his head. “No, they are not sentient in their own right. They are simply machines that operate according to a complex set of algorithms and programs. Have you seen one operating, Sir Maurice?”

Newbury shook his head, and Chapman interrupted. “I was hoping that you would be able to give our guests a demonstration, Pierre?”

“Of course. Allow me to do so now.” He moved over to the corner of the workshop where, Veronica realised for the first time since entering the room, an automaton was sitting in a chair, its head bowed. Villiers stood before it.

“Rise.” His voice was a firm, emotionless command.

The unit’s head jerked up at the sound of Villiers’s voice, and it quickly rose to its feet. “Follow.” He turned and walked back across the workshop towards them. The automaton followed suit, stepping forward into the light. The two visitors looked on, transfixed with wonder. The automaton was about the size of a man, skeletal, with a solid torso formed from interlocking breast and back plates. Its eyes were little mirrors that spun constantly on an axis, reflecting back the lamplight. Its mouth was nothing but a thin slot and its remaining features were engraved into the otherwise blank mask of its face. In its chest a glass plate revealed, like a tiny porthole, a flickering blue light, dancing like an electric current. Its brass frame shimmered in the light, and it moved like a human being, fully articulated, as it strode across the room towards them. Its joints creaked as it walked and its brass feet clicked on the tiled floor of the workshop. It stopped about two paces behind Villiers and cocked its head to one side, regarding them silently.

Chapman clapped his hands. Newbury and Veronica looked on, feeling a little unnerved.

Villiers turned to the automaton. “Pick up that glass tumbler and pour me a brandy.” He pointed across the room at a small table which held the tumbler and a decanter, amongst other detritus. The automaton set to work immediately, crossing the room with a fluid gait, avoiding a pile of machine parts on the floor and approaching the table with the utmost precision. Taking care, it reached down and picked up the glass between its brass fingers—which, Newbury noticed, were affixed with little leather pads to prevent them from shattering the tumbler—and poured a measure of brandy from the decanter. A moment later it strode back across the workshop to offer Villiers his drink without ever spilling a drop.