A World of InTemperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 2) (7 page)

His fist is bunched up in my collar. With a twist of my shoulders, I have easy access to the disagreeable dairy deliverer’s dichozotal digit. This I calmly grasp, squeezing his thumb into an uncomfortable position.

My captor’s expression changes from leering tough guy to surprise and incomprehension. At first, he rises to his tippy toes, and does a little dance, shifting his considerable weight back and forth between the balls of his feet. After a moment of his ballerina routine he sinks to his knees, blubbering with pain, rage, and confusion.

“It’s your lucky day, mister, I wanna unburden you of your malfunctioning assistant.”

“Nnnnguhrrrnh! Lemme go!”

“You gonna sell me the tin man?”

“Yes!”

“Will this shiny new penny suffice?”

“Nnnnguhrrnh! Okay!”

Our transaction fulfilled, I turn my attention to the new purchase.

I then have an ugly sensation.

I experience a yucky taste in my mouth.

I don’t care to think of myself as one who would purchase another man.

I re-word my last thought.

Our transaction fulfilled, I turn my attention to the clockwork man that I have recently liberated.

It is, alas, too late. He did not look good before the accident. Uncared for and abused, he was dirty and streaked with grime. His parts did not quite work correctly, as if they were frozen up, or mis-calibrated. Even so, the machine was as vibrant and alive as you or I. Now, all trace of life has left this pile of parts in the street. I go to lift him, but he is too heavy. I look about for someone to help me. There are people around, but no one notices my efforts. Or if they do, they turn a blind eye upon me.

Except for Bolt. He is looking at me as if he wants to help.

Bolt looks around.

Two fellas look up.

“Hey mister, you need some help?”

They come over and help me get the deceased mechanical man to a sidewalk bench. I thank them and they walk away.

I look at Bolt.

He wags his tail.

We turn back to our expired friend.

The mechanical man is dinged in countless places from the stampede of horses, and crushed by the coach’s wheels across his back, for the protection of that silly little yap dog.

This clockwork creation did not see the animal as a silly little yap dog. That little dog  had enough worth in this mechanical man’s receptors to give his own existence to protect it.

Gee.

I study the old boy with a closer scrutiny.

…

Maybe...

…

I try to maintain a wide arsenal of tools upon my person. Perhaps if I straighten this rod, I can remove this plate. If I can do that, then maybe it will allow me access to this, … Oh! Of course! This is obviously, grossly mispositioned...

“Don’t give up hope, Bolt, we may save this boy’s life after all. Let’s get him back to the hotel.”

I borrow a hand truck from a hotel porter and get the tin chap up to my room. Bolt and I get to work. Miss Plumtartt and our friends return after their shopping sprees and other chores and take a passing interest in my project, but as I have the man disassembled, he does not appear to be more than a room strewn with mechanical parts.

I lose track of time. I think I may have missed a meal or two while I have been distracted.

I have meticulously cleaned, straightened, bent, calibrated, oiled, filed, and re-set every bit of the mechanical wonder from the tip of his tin toes, to the top of his hydraulically positioned head. I initiate his re-aligned control quartz and release the mainspring.

Nothing happens.

I bump his shoulder.

There is a repeat of nothing happening.

~sigh.~

“Sorry, mister, I tried.”

P.O.V. Tin Man.

...initializing...initializing...initializing
...initialized.

Optic receptors register darkness. The darkness grows into patches of dim light strewn with dust motes.

This unit processes its inventory; many parts are near breaking point. This unit continues to function. Its central processing crystal is intact.

It...

No, not it; my. My central crystal. My brain.

What is this place?

Where is this unit...that is to say, where am I?

What am I?

Am I?

Memory banks are incomplete, but there are fragments. A library is recalled. I used my binocular vision to read many human works. I remember one phrase in particular, by a human named Rene Descartes: cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.

I think I am...therefore, I might as well be.

I hear a flurry of sounds, a door opening, and a human walking toward me with soft steps, as if not to “wake” me. He pauses with a look of wonder and amazement in his eyes, and then speaks in a cautious tone.

“Are you feeling better now, sir? Do you need additional oil or an electrical charge? My name is Ichabod Temperance. And you are...?”

I am Cogito.

“Cogito, at your service.”

“As I recall, it was you who were of great service earlier, Cogito. Golly, that was the most extraordinary act of courage I have seen in a long time. Seeing you rescue that little dog really impressed me, Mr. Cogito, and you ain’t at my service. I was just hopin’ you and me could be pals.”

The human named Ichabod Temperance is joined by a canine individual. This one barks at me.

“I shall endeavor to be worthy of your trust in me sir. And that of the little dog, too. His name would be?”

“Roof!”

“Roof, Sir?”

“Let’s make that ‘Bolt,’” says the human named Ichabod Temperance.

“Very good, Sir. Ichabod Temperance and Bolt.”

“Let’s go and introduce you to everybody, Mr. Cogito.”

P.O.V. Ichabod

“My word, Mr. Temperance, what will you bring home next?” Miss Plumtartt takes in myself and new companion with playful skepticism. “Did he follow you home from school, eh hem?”

“No Ma’am. He is here by his own choice.”

The group has gathered at the stables where I have procured our sleighs and teams of horses.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Cogito.”

My friends are all momentarily dumb-founded at the sapient sensibilities of my tin pal.

“Come now, folks. Y’all don’t be shy. I assure you that this gentleman is of the highest moral conviction.”

“That’s good enough for me,” says the Australian Secret Agent. “James Murray. Nice to meetcha, Cogito.”

This seems to break the ice and set the tone. Everyone happily greets our newest team-mate.

“After securing a bit o’ freight for myself, I was able to  ascertain some clandestine information at the station. It seems that there is indeed a factory, out in the wilderness. It is ostensibly a canning factory. Lots of material goes in, but not a lot comes out. What little that does come from this secret cannery, is quickly whisked away on ships without valid registries.”

“Let us pay them the visit, no? Tout suite! Oui!”

And we’re off.

Over hill and icy dell, we have hit the frozen trail, as our horsies keep us gliding, and spying, along.

Efforts have been made to keep the access to the secret factory hidden, but with Abigail GoldenBear on their trail, they needn’t have even bothered.

We hide our sleighs and make a stealthy approach on the factory.

“There ain't no need for us all to go blundering into this bug factory, y’all. How about if just James and I reconnoiter the establishment, and then we can devise a plan of action?”

“Roight, sounds good to me, Icky, but you should tell the four legged hero that.”

I look down to see an eager look in Bolt’s eyes.

“Are you sure, Bolt? You can stay back on this one.”

The brave little dog is determined to be with us.

A thickly wooded area hides a hidden valley. Here sits the factory. A single road is the only approach. Secrecy is this place’s greatest protection. Nevertheless, two armed guards stand at the entrance. They wear some sort of military style uniform, but it is not one with which I am familiar. Only the personnel door and the freight doors allow entrance to the woods-bound building. The large structure only has these two measly portals. Not one single window looks out from this grim and featureless factory. Comfort and safety are not their first priority.

Our first priority, however, is to gain entrance. Preferably, without getting shot.

James whispers.

“I’ve got a toinker. How’s about you give these boys something to chase after. A wotchacallit, … diversion!”

“I’m sorry, James, you couldn’t read what I just thought. I want to get in without getting shot.”

“Oh. Now you get picky.”

I wish I could be like some mystic Knight, able to wave my hand and mesmerize my un-witting foe into making a silly mistake.

Bolt looks at me.

Bolt looks at the guards.

“Uh, can we get back to this in a minute?” James squeaks. “I suddenly have to take a very urgent willibingbingwilli.”

Wow, suddenly, I too, need to relieve my bladder.

Guard number one: “I gotta see a man about a dog.”

Guard number two: “Well hurry up! I gotta go too! Bad!”

“Hang on James, I think it’s just in your head.”

“Nope. Not even close.”

Guard number one scampers off.

Guard number two, after a moment or two of doing the dance, runs after number one, to do number one.

Bolt looks at us and wags his tail.

“Good boy, Bolt!”

James delivers a strange look to Bolt.

“Come on, James, let’s go!” We run up to the factory and slip inside.

Except Bolt. He gets one whiff at the doorway and changes his mind. The sensitive-nosed dog leaves us to our own investigations from here. He returns to the others while we continue inward.

“Phew!” What a stench! It smells like burning vinegar in here.”

It is a dark and smelly place; quiet too, for a factory. However, it
is
in operation. A low, steady rumble gives evidence of the machinery’s operations. It is not a mad rush, as most factories seem to be, but a steady, unstopping, throbbe.

Just a few, sparse, lanterns dimly illuminate the cavernous room; these are built to be extra double safety non-sparking fireless lanterns.

Strategically placed warning labels confirm my incendiary suspicions.

FLAMMABLE!!!

DANGER!!!

EXPLOSIVE!!!

NO SMOKING!!!

EXTINGUISH THAT FLAME!!!

THIS MEANS YOU!!!

James locates a foreman’s table. He removes a boot and holds it above a sheet of paper he is drawn to. By twisting the heel...

~Click! Whir-chick.~

He places another sheet of paper on the table.

Twisting the heel of his boot...

~Click! Whir-chick.~

“I’m sure you know what you are doing, Mr. Murray, but please explain to those of us that are a bit slower on the uptake.”

“Well obviously, Icky, it's a camera shoe. The latest thing from K.E.W.W. Kingsland Experimental WidgetWorks.”

“Most impressive.”

“Take a look at these ingredients they’re stirring up around here, Ichabod.”

“Hmmm. Something about these formulas stinks.”

Hurrying on with our unscheduled inspection we visit vast visions of venomous vats violently vibrating, with viscous viciousness.

We cast our sight across cooking cauldrons of caustic chemicals.

This factory is an emporium of bacterium, delirium.

One thing is not found.

There are no people.

Other than the two guards, we have yet to find a single person. The machinery runs itself. This is an automated assembly line of air fouling armaments, from raw material to strangely designed delivery systems. The artillery shells being loaded are standard enough, but these thin walled containers could never be fired from a cannon. And what are these strange aileron contraptions affixed to their ends?

“Oh my Goodness, James, these folks mean to drop these poisonous munitions from above! They are to be released from Zeppelins!”

“Here you go, Icky, take my shoe and get a picture of me standing next to these munitions.”

“Um, okay, but why do you have to be in the photograph?”

“My presence will provide a scale to measure the size of the bombs.”

“Why are you striking such a heroic pose?”

“A little dramatics never hurts, Icky.”

Further examination of the lifeless factory of death reveals evidence of more hideous constructions, but at another location. This must be but one of several factories, each contributing its own cog of destruction to an as yet unseen machine.

James finds more paperwork to photograph with his shoe.

“Bugger all that with your silly shoe camera, Murray! Let’s just pinch what we want and skedaddle. This place gives me the willies.”

“Wotcha! Quite right, Ick-Ick, I’ll just grab up a few likely looking sources of reading material and we’ll be off before anyone knows we have been here.”

“Shh! James, listen!”

“Uh, oh, Icks, someone’s entering the factory. It sounds like several voices.”

“Hurry James, let’s hide!”

The sounds of the men entering the personnel door are followed by the larger barn-size, loading bay doors being swung open.

A team of horses and wagon are driven in. The horses are easily able to maneuver in the large building.

The wagon is followed by something else.

Something big.

It pauses in the opening of the large loading bay doors.

A monstrous bulk is dramatically backlit by outdoor torch bearers.

Standing over ten feet tall, is an enormous man.

He has smoke stacks.

Steam pours from every pore.

A roaring furnace’s flame is reflected in his inhuman eyes.

“Come on, LeadeFoote, unload this wagon. I don’t like being around these nasty germs.”

James and I can feel every step of the mechanical monstrosity’s progress. It makes its way to the back of the wagon and unloads its burden.

“Now load up them canisters and be quick about it!”

The clockwork giant loads the artillery shells and gravity delivered air bombs.

The wagon groans under its unlawful load.

Once loaded, the wagon creaks out the doors. The giant follows.

“Ah-choo!” (Ichabod, sneezing.)

“Bless you.” (James, blessing.)

“Shh!”(Ichabod’s remonstration.)

“Who’s in here!” (Alerted bad guy.)

“Turn around, LeadeFoote! You get to go hunting!”

Four men with rifles, and their over-sized friend, are alerted to our presence and make to flush us out.

“Better go get the boss,” an authoritative voice commands.

One rifleman leaves. Well, that makes for slightly better odds.

James picks up an amber bottle and heaves it over the stack of material we are hiding behind towards an outside wall. As it smashes, after successfully diverting our foes attentions, we run in the opposite direction.

~POW! POW!~

Two of the rifles fire towards James’ diversionary tactic.

“Hold your fire, you dang idjits! Yer gonna blow us all the way to the North Pole!” scolds the third rifleman.

The riflemen exchange their rifles for lengths of pipe.

James and I follow their astute example and kit ourselves out in similar fashion.

Except we don’t have rifles to exchange for our length of pipe.

Everybody is all sneaky-sneaky, everybody except LeadeFoote, that is. The behemoth is left to his own devices in his search for us, the trespassers.

The factory continues its labor of loathe unabated.

Conveyors convey.

Pulleys pull.

Poison piles up in precarious pyramids, promising portents of pushing up plenty o’ Petunias.

There is ample ambient noise to cover any sounds of movement.

Five men are now creeping about. Soon, we all lose track of one another.

I study the workings of my surroundings.

An idea starts to percolate.

I attach a chain from the handle that operates the tilting mechanism on a vat of some horrible, bubbling brew, and connect the other end to a lever I have improvised on a nearby ladder. I then change the direction of the proposed tilt.

Moving back out through the field of wary warriors, I spy a foe. I make a furtive movement. He surreptitiously begins to track his tricky quarry.

I sneak back to the ladder.

He sneaks along behind.

I sneak up the ladder, careful not to initiate the switch.

He sneaks along behind me.

He is not careful to avoid initiating the switch.

A large vat of some terrible goo pours down upon him. He is slimed.

The wretched fellow screams in pain.

Against my better judgment, I rush back and grab him. Blind with pain, the poor man allows me to run him out the loading bay doors to in the snow. This seems to help the chemically burnt young man.

I turn in time to fall out of the way of his pipe-wielding friend. As I roll up I bring my own pipe into play to block the blow intended to crush my brains.

Bink! Bink! Tinkety-Bink!

Binkety! Binkety! Binkety! Binkety!

Tinkety! Tinkety! Bink!

Like two high-speed Nipponese swordsmen, we trade licks faster than the eye can follow.

“Come back here and fights me with a bit o’ dignity, you scurvy crocodile buggerin’ Dingaroot!”

A wide eyed, screaming in terror guard runs past my opponent and me.

“Save some for me, Itch-a-ma-bod.. Rrrawrrh!!!”

The crazed Australian runs out the loading bay doors, pipe held high, eyes flashing red as the screaming banshee descends upon his hapless victim.

“Eek!” Shrieks my assailant, choosing to flee into the woods rather than face a pipe wielding James Murray.

“Ha ha ha!” laughs a very satisfied and amused James. “Those boys can make some pretty fast tracks when properly motivated!”

“So can that guy,” I reply, indicating the onslaught of our stomping, steam-stoved, ten-ton antagonist.

From deep in the factory, the giant makes for us.