The Havoc Machine (30 page)

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.”

“I’m sorry,”
said Zygmund,
“but I don’t speak—”

Sofiya said, “Where did you find—?”

“The main problem lies in keeping the fluids fresh,” Mr. Griffin continued as if no one had spoken. “And at the proper temperature, with nutrients and oxygen and so forth. It takes a great deal of delicate equipment, and the fluid itself must be flushed and refreshed on a regular basis, which requires more volunteers.”

“Sharpe is sharp,” said Dante.

“How many more?” Thad said, thoroughly nauseated by now. Just when he thought he had encountered everything he could about clockworkers, he discovered something even worse. That brain was floating in the fluids of…dozens?…hundreds?…of dead human beings.

“Not a subject you need concern yourself with.” Griffin’s impossibly smooth voice was difficult to read. Thad couldn’t tell if he was calm or annoyed or testy. Through it all, his machines continued to pump and puff and grind while fluids rushed through the pipes. “As I predicted, the benefits were immediate. The progress of the clockwork plague slowed to a near crawl. No clockworker lives longer than three years, but I contracted the disease twelve years ago.”

Here Thad did stare. This entire conversation was unsettling beyond measure, made worse by the fact that he
was talking to a brain surrounded by a pile of machinery. There was no face, no eye contact, no body language, nothing but a voice that came from hidden speaker boxes. It was like hearing a demon in church. The news that Mr. Griffin had lived four times longer than any known clockworker only made it worse. Clockworkers were mad geniuses who could create incredibly destructive machines, but at least they died within a relatively short time. This one, this extremely dangerous one, had found a way around that. Thad cast about, trying to keep his desperation under control. He didn’t understand the machinery, and it was heavily guarded by the spiders, in any case. If he tried to damage any of it or shut it down, the spiders would be on him in moments. An explosive would take care of Mr. Griffin—and the other clockworkers—in a trice, but that assumed Thad could find the parts for one, and in any case, the room was also occupied by normal men. Thad couldn’t stomach that idea. Mr. Griffin had chosen his situation well.

“I speak Polish and Russian and some Lithuanian,”
Zygmund spoke up again.
“Perhaps we could carry on in one of those languages?”

“No!”
shouted the clockworker surrounded by plants.
“That can’t be wrong! I compensated for the chlorophyll transposition, but the plastids are falling apart at the microscopic level.”

“Shut up,”
snarled one another clockworkers who was scribbling equations on a blackboard.
“If I hear another word about plastids, I’m going to build the maximal bombardatron pistol and blow your bloody balls off.”

The first clockworker raised a fist, and one of his plants extended a number of thorny tendrils.
“Then I’ll—”

“Gentlemen!”
A spider raised the volume on one of Mr. Griffin’s speaker boxes.
“That will do!”

“Yeah? Maybe this will do!”
The equation clockworker picked up a sledgehammer with easy strength and threw it across the room. It struck Mr. Griffin’s jar and bounced off without a scratch.

A sound burst from Mr. Griffin’s speaker boxes. It was a pair of musical notes played together, not quite minor, not quite major. Thad, who knew nothing about music, could only tell it was ugly. The clockworkers howled and clapped their hands over their ears, even though the sound lasted less than half a second. To Thad’s surprise, Sofiya did the same thing, and screamed. The sound ended.

“Don’t make me do it twice, gentlemen,”
Mr. Griffin said icily.

Both clockworkers immediately fell silent and went back to work. Sofiya uncovered her ears. She was panting, and her eyes were wide.

“What was that?” Thad demanded.

“Tritone,” Mr. Griffin said. “It’s the only musical interval that has a vibration ratio of one to the square root of two, an irrational number. As a result, clockworkers find the sound…uncomfortable. I, fortunately, no longer experience this difficulty.”

Thad had never heard of this aspect of clockworkers, and it surprised him. A bit of music that hurt clockworkers would be very handy, and he filed the fact away for later with a guilty, sideways glance at Sofiya.

“A tritone does have its use, though as a tool it is rather blunt, which is a reason I’ve brought you here, Mr. Sharpe, and one we’ll discuss later,” Mr. Griffin continued.
One of his machines gave a shrill whistle, and a trio of spiders rushed to make adjustments to the dials and switches. “But I was saying that removing my body has brought about a certain…calm. I am not sure why this is. I no longer have adrenal glands to stir up my chemistry, that is certain. I no longer feel pain, nor do I fear tritones, nor do I fall into fugues.”

“So you are able to function in a society,” Sofiya breathed. She smoothed her hair. “This is why you are able to hire me, and bring in these men and these other clockworkers.”

“Exactly.” Here Mr. Griffin sounded extremely pleased. “I am superior to other clockworkers in every way.”

With those words, an analytical wheel clicked in Thad’s mind, and he had to stop the relief from crossing his face. Mr. Griffin did have a weakness, and despite his protestations to the contrary, it was the same one that plagued most other clockworkers.

“Or even French,”
Zygmund put in.
“I might manage French.”

“I’m impressed,” Thad said aloud. “I’ve never come across a clockworker as advanced as you, sir, and I know clockworkers.”

“I must apologize, Mr. Sharpe. You were outmatched from the moment I learned of you, though I know you had to try to outmaneuver me. I bear you no ill will.”

Thad flexed his brass hand. “Indeed. But your plan, whatever it is, couldn’t possibly be
that
brilliant. You can’t outwit an entire country. The tsar and his army are quite—”

“You have no idea!” Mr. Griffin boomed, and Zygmund
scurried back to the other men at their tables. “The tsar is nothing! I will have my way with Russia, and everything will change because of me!”

There it was: the clockworker ego. Even Mr. Griffin wasn’t immune to that. Thad merely had to find a way to exploit it.

“How are you changing Russia, exactly?” Thad asked reasonably. “Even the tsar himself is encountering opposition, and all he wants to do is free the serfs.”

“My men—that is, my
colleagues
—and I are working to support the tsar in his campaign to free the serfs,” Mr. Griffin replied, more smoothly this time. “We are also working to change the way Russians treat clockworkers.”

This statement got Sofiya’s attention. “Please explain this.”

Another of Mr. Griffin’s machines abruptly went
poot
and puffed a noisome cloud of brown smoke. Instantly it was surrounded by spiders that set to work on it with quick claws.

“Mr. Padlewski.”
Griffin’s voice had a metallic note to it now.
“Perhaps you could explain our plan for the serfs while I am…indisposed.”

Zygmund bowed, looking eager as a puppy.
“In Polish or Russian?”

“I’m happy with Polish,”
said Thad, trying not to be too obvious about watching the spiders repair the machine. Every scrap of information he could glean about Mr. Griffin was worth having.

“You want to help both the serfs and the clockworkers?”
Sofiya prompted, also in Polish.

“Not all the landowners want to keep the peasants as
serfs,”
Zygmund said brightly.
“Several of them would be happy to let the serfs go, provided the mortgages are forgiven. Others want to be paid for their loss. The tsar is still deciding how it will happen—assuming he is not assassinated first. We also have the support of many intellectuals. The Russian Academy of Sciences supports emancipation, as does—”

“Yes, yes,”
Thad said.
“What does this have to do with clockworkers?”

“Clockworkers are treated worse than serfs,”
Zygmund said.
“Surely you have seen that. They are worked to exhaustion, and then tortured to death for the amusement of the court. We have rescued a few and brought them down here. They help as best they can.”

Again, Thad found himself split down the middle of his own sword. He had no love for clockworkers, but no one deserved to be treated the way Russia treated its clockworkers. At minimum they deserved a quick, painless death, which was what Thad worked to give them.

“The peasants in Russia and in the Polish-Lithuanian Union are ready to revolt,”
Zygmund said.
“It will come very soon, probably this winter, when the army has a harder time moving about. We are working to whip them up with speeches and demonstrations. If we can overthrow the tsar—”

“Wait!”
Thad held up his hands.
“Wait a moment! You want to overthrow the tsar?”

“Of course.”
Zygmund looked puzzled.
“There is no other way. He wants to free the serfs, yes, but that will come through one of two ineffective methods. Alexander might free the serfs and give them their own land, in which
case the landowners will simply increase taxes to make up for the loss, or he might free them but leave the land in the hands of the landowners, in which case the serfs will be forced to work for the landowners or starve just as they do now. And, of course, no matter what the tsar does with the serfs, he and the court will continue to hate and torture clockworkers. No, the only way to create lasting change is to remove the tsar and his court entirely and replace it with a new government, an elected parliament that answers to the people, not a despotic tyrant.”

Thad was deeply shocked by this. He wasn’t a subject of Tsar Alexander, and felt no loyalty for him, but these men were talking regicide.

“So Thad was wrong, and you
did
place the bomb!”
Sofiya exclaimed.

“Certainly not.”
The spiders backed away from the device, and Mr. Griffin’s voice had returned to normal.
“That was a terrible complication, and you, Mr. Sharpe, both helped and hindered us. It is, in fact, why I was planning to send for you.”

“You’re confusing me again,”
Thad said.
“Your brilliance is simply beyond me. Please explain slowly, so I can understand.”

“Bless my soul,” muttered Dante.

Sofiya gave Thad a sharp look, and the spider on her shoulder tapped its feet. Thad returned her look blandly.

“I am happy to oblige,”
Mr. Griffin said, now in Polish.
“The bomb would have killed the tsar and many members of his court, true, but a number of our supporters were present among the latter, and we would not want them to perish. Besides, a bomb is terribly blunt. Any fool can cobble together an explosive.”

Now Thad gave Sofiya an arch look, which she returned blandly.

“Plastids! I have the plastids!”

“That’s it! I’m going to stuff that microscope up your—”

“Tritone, gentlemen.”
Mr. Griffin’s machines made a noise that came across as a sigh.
“In any case, we aren’t ready to move yet, and the tsar’s death at this juncture would be inconvenient. Unfortunately, your attempt to save his life only made everything worse, Mr. Sharpe.”

“I can’t say I would have done anything differently,”
Thad replied with a stiff jaw.
“Not with all those children in the room, and my own self.”

“My spiders were there, Mr. Sharpe,”
Griffin reminded him.
“You did see them in the Winter Palace. We—the Reds—had heard about the bomb and I sent my spiders to find and disarm it. They made themselves obvious to you along the parade route to warn you. They had just located the bomb when you interfered. If you had just kept your hands to yourself, none of those people would be sitting in prison right now.”

A heavy hand of guilt pressed against Thad’s back.

“I fail to follow your logic.”
Sofiya crossed her arms.
“The people at fault are you and General Parkarov. Parkarov placed the bomb, not Thad. He ordered those poor people brought in, not Thad. Your spiders failed to find the bomb earlier. You failed to inform us of your plans so we could remain aloof. Don’t try to blame us for your shortcomings, Mr. Griffin.”