Read Mainspring Online

Authors: Jay Lake

Mainspring (12 page)

Beneath it all, the rattle of the turning world. The sound seemed restored now, without that false note he had sensed back in Malgus' cabin.
But midnight was coming. Already the hour brought with it a louder version of the clatter than he'd ever heard before. Higher up in the pure ocean air and much farther south than his New Haven home, Hethor was closer to the sound. Eyes still shut, he found the interrupter on the adjustment face of the boxed chronometer. Hethor was ready to reset to midnight so Malgus could calculate how far the storm had thrown them off course.
The sidereal clatter approached a crescendo, less a chattering racket here, he realized, than the sound of true brass on true brass. He listened, waiting for the peak, knowing when it would come.
Hethor pressed the interrupter to set midnight at the proper moment. At his bidding the boxed chronometer did its job, faithfully recording the hours of their passage.
Only one thing was wrong. In his heart, in his head, wherever it was that he always knew the time, midnight was almost three seconds late.
The sun rising dark as a cinder could be no more horrible. This was not the way of the world. It simply wasn't.
The archangel Gabriel had been right. The world was winding down, slowing. The Mainspring needed to be wound. Hethor had proof now. It was no longer a matter of faith. The problem was, who could he tell? How could he make the truth known?
He didn't trust Malgus, or anyone else for that matter, but he could not find the Key Perilous on his own.
Hethor unlashed the boxed chronometer, stowed the
ropes, and slowly made his way back to the main deck. He would have to develop objective evidence independent of his inner sense before he could convince anyone else.
Simpler,
he thought,
had Gabriel come to Queen Victoria herself.
Her Imperial Majesty could have set whole armies and navies in motion to search for the Key Perilous.
Instead of just him.
APPROACHING SEVENTEEN
degrees latitude, Hethor saw the Equatorial Wall for the first time in his life. He and de Troyes were up in the navigator's rest, reviewing the basics of a sextant, when de Troyes stopped what he was doing, picked up a telescope, and pointed it south.
“Here,” he said after a moment, handing the telescope to Hethor. “Tell me what you see.”
“A line of clouds on the southern horizon.” Hethor swept the scope. “But it's a
huge
storm.”
“Biggest storm the world's ever known,” said de Troyes with a laugh. “A hundred miles of brass-topped rock, haunted by ghosts from every age. It will never blow over, not while God's universe yet runs onward.”

That's
it,” Hethor breathed. Somehow he'd expected forests of monkeys, exotic crystal cities, wizards' palaces. Not just a smudge where sky met horizon.
“Keep an eye to the south,” said de Troyes. “The Wall grows closer day by day.”
BASSETT
CALLED
at Georgetown in Guyana to take on more fuel as well as undergo the dangerous process of
topping the hydrogen in the gas cells before striking east for the Cape Verde Islands. Everyone but the senior officers and the gas division were given a mandatory shore leave during the hydrogen work. The pumps and fittings grew brittle over time with exposure to the noxious gas, and so close inspection was critical at every operation. Hethor had been given to understand that results of error were spectacularly fatal. Every Connecticut schoolchild certainly knew about the
Hibernia
disaster, which had rained fire in the sky of New London.
He was glad enough of the chance to work on his ideas. Hethor took his notes and observations on the errors of midnight, hoping for a chance to collate them in private in some flophouse room. The Equatorial Wall had gotten quite large so far south, but little more definite, the curvature of the Earth's track even flatter here. Sometimes he thought he saw sunlight sparkling off the brass gear teeth high atop, where the Wall would mesh with the track. No matter how hard he looked, Hethor couldn't be sure.
Not yet.
Now he and a few dozen others were crammed in a small barge being rowed by brown-skinned natives who smiled and rolled their eyes at secret jokes but said nothing. The air was so hot Hethor thought he could have made stew with it. No one complained.
“Hey, boy, be y'goin' to Madam Fossiter's wit' us?” growled the big Scot from his press-gang, whose name Hethor had learned to be the somewhat unlikely Thread-gill Angus al-Wazir. Al-Wazir was the chief of the ropes division, the crew that handled the lines and shrouds, deployed the sails and steering paddles, and worked the outside of the gasbag as needed. The rest of
Bassett'
s crew called al-Wazir and his men the “airheads,” because they spent so much time with nothing more beneath their feet than a bit of rope, and often not even that.
“No, I believe I'll do a little exploring.” Hethor smiled. “I always wanted to see a monkey.”
“To be sure, Madam Fossiter has got some fewk-monkeys, too, if that be your taste,” shouted one of the other airheads. They all laughed.
Al-Wazir gave Hethor a somber look. “Feller shouldn't work too bloody damned hard on his leave day.” He winked.
“Oh, hard ain't in it,” said Hethor, which provoked another round of laughter.
There was more chatter about the merits of different girls, as compared by shade of skin, size of jugs, and other, more obscure criteria with which Hethor was unfamiliar. The barge finally thumped against a decrepit dock, pilings silvered with age and salt. The structure looked ready to fall into the ocean and strike out on its own. The dock could scarcely ask for greener shores, however, as the streets of Georgetown seemed to be nothing but whitewashed walls and vegetation denser than anything Hethor had ever seen.
Where Hamilton town had been scattered with palms, a tree previously unfamiliar to Hethor, Georgetown was host to an entire menagerie of plants, flowers, insects, even animals that all might have come from the Southern Earth, for all Hethor could make of them. This was as much a city of his imagination as anything he might hope to encounter up on the Equatorial Wall.
A large spotted cat padded by on a silver chain held by a gleaming black man, himself chained at the neck, though no one held that one in turn. Three white children carried a pole with a shaggy green animal hanging from it that looked like nothing so much as a taxidermist's mistake, except that one doleful orange eye turned in its socket to follow Hethor's progress. Gap-toothed women of some sun-browned race sold fruits from little trays, the brilliant, bilious colors of their skirts competing with the unnatural hues of their produce.
Hethor pushed his way through the crowded, urgent streets, slipping on mud and dodging carts—no electrick
taximeter cabriolets here—until he found a quiet park around an equestrian statue. He leaned against the statue's marble plinth, screened from the raucous streets by walls of bushes covered with bright flowers larger than his head, and spread his notes between the horse's iron hooves.
The day wore on in the street beyond the bushes while Hethor reviewed his calculations. Distant thunder rolled, announcing some afternoon storm on the way. People screamed and shouted, but he was lost among the seconds and the time.
Gabriel had come to him the night of May 21st, 1900. Hethor had left New Haven the evening of May 22nd, presented himself to the viceroy on May 28th—the day of the eclipse—and been hauled into service aboard
Bassett
on May 29th. During that sequence of days, something in the turning of the Earth had bothered him, though Hethor didn't know what.
They'd made Bermuda June 3rd, and his services had been taken up by Lieutenant Malgus starting on June 6th. June 7th was the evening that he'd become aware that midnight was late, and he'd had the nights from Bermuda to Guyana to confirm those readings under the bright light of the waxing moon.
The delay was slightly variable, not increasing much past three seconds. Hethor thought the relative stability of the error was probably good—as opposed to, for example, getting worse every night. De Troyes had shown him how to shoot readings with a sextant. Though he actually was able to establish
Bassett
's location with reasonable accuracy, Hethor hadn't yet been able to figure if that would give him more effective, objective proof of the time slippage. The orbital track was so uniform, flawless as anything crafted by God should be, that even with the help of
Bassett
's most powerful spyglass he couldn't locate a usable distinctive mark on it and monitor the apparent motion of that mark as Earth approached.
They'd also been heading almost due south, toward the Equatorial Wall and all the mysteries that it entailed.
With that thought, Hethor glanced up at the dark line looming farther along their course, visible even above the swaying, bright-flowered trees. He was still too far away to make out details, but the bulk was as real as Earth's bones now.
Reflecting on
Bassett
's unspecified mission against Chinese adventurism and empire building along the Wall, Hethor wondered if some Oriental sailor was even now looking north into English lands and pondering the strange thoughts of white people.
“Hethor.” It was Malgus. The navigator had stepped through the bushes into the park behind Hethor while he was staring at the southern horizon and thinking of the enemy.
Hethor whirled, startled as if caught in some misdemeanor. “Sir?”
Malgus walked to the base of the statue, pushed Hethor aside with the arched tips of his fingers, and began to flip through the loose sheets of Hethor's calculations. He read for a few moments, glanced up at the sky, then turned his gaze to Hethor. Malgus' sharp brown eyes glinted like knives.
“You've been shooting your own observations up on the navigator's rest.”
It wasn't a question.
“Yes, sir,” said Hethor. Should he now tell Malgus about Gabriel and the Key Perilous, and the slowing of midnight? The man had been recommended to him, after all. “I was curious about some things.”
“Curiosity does not become the common seaman.” Malgus picked up the papers and folded them, pinching the edge tight, before slipping them inside his linen blouse. He seemed curiously unemotional, neither angry nor passionate. “I'm reassigning you to the deck division. You can work your curiosity out sanding spars, or whatever task Chief Lombardo sets you to.”
“Sir—”
“No.” Malgus' eyes narrowed. “Stay away from all of
this.” He patted his shirt where the mass of papers bulged. “For your own thick head's sake, if nothing else.”
Hethor's back itched, the still-healing wounds in sympathetic anticipation of another lashing. “Yes, sir.”
“Go have a quiet drink somewhere, sailor, and meet the barge when it shoves off at dawn.”
Hethor couldn't face al-Wazir and other sailors, people who were almost his friends. Instead he eventually found some of the ship's marines busily wrecking a bar that had earned their disfavor. He pitched in to the effort, not even slightly drunk, but just for the pleasure of breaking glass and sheer, howling lawlessness, something Hethor had never before experienced in his life.
Afterward, the marines bought him gin and a monkey. Hethor drank all the gin and gave the monkey to a one-eyed slave who tried to bow down before him.
TWO HOURS
out of Georgetown the next day, heading east along the jungled coast, Hethor nursed a headache that hurt more than his healing back. In quiet agony he scraped paint off the fo'c'sle chaser gun mounts when a shouting went up among the ship's company. He looked over the rail to see the trees along the coastline swaying, as if a titanic breeze were passing, while the brown ocean slopped like water in a basin.
“Earthquake, by damn,” someone called. Hethor looked up, south past the curve of the gasbag toward the gloomy shadow of the Equatorial Wall. Brass glinted high above it, so many bright diamonds in the sky.
What could he hear? Himself, the men, the ship, a grumbling groan from below—was that the ocean?—and underneath it all, the world stuttering.
The groan turned out to be an enormous wave. The height was hard to judge from above as the ocean swept the jungled coast, biting acre-sized chunks right off the shore while it flooded far inland. Clouds of jewel-colored birds were set to panicked flight, like stars flaring within
the green depths, as the faint screams of monkeys echoed from far below.
An explosion rumbled in the west.
Hethor looked back across the mid deck of the ship, past the poop and the helm, to see a burning flame in the western sky. The hydrogen stores at Georgetown must have caught fire, he realized.
He tried to remember if there had been another airship at mast when
Bassett
had cast off to pull away, but his own misery had kept Hethor from paying much attention this morning. He imagined jumping from a burning airship to the water below, clothes and hair aflame, only to have the gasbag settle from the sky like a hot canvas cloud.
Hethor terribly missed Master Bodean in that moment, the cool simplicity of his clocks, the counting of the hours, and his own narrow attic bed.
THEY CROSSED
the Atlantic in the face of two more storms, over two weeks' air time to the Cape Verde Islands and the way station at Praia, counting in the lost headway from the adverse weather. Everyone who moved on deck was lashed with a line, which did little to reduce the frightening dangers of the wind. Deep in one of the storms, the number six starboard gas cell sustained a hairline slit, some fault in the reinforced silk wall. Two sailors in the gas division died of the bad air before the problem was discovered and repairs effected.
Hethor was just as glad he was not climbing topside to take his sightings in such foul weather. But in turn, he felt guilty for not doing his part to help de Troyes and Malgus. He would
have
to find a way back to that work. The navigation was what brought Hethor closer to Gabriel and the mission for the Key Perilous and the Mainspring.

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