Beneath Ceaseless Skies #52 Read online

  Issue #52 • Sept. 23, 2010

  “The Guilt Child,” by Margaret Ronald

  “Invitation of the Queen,” by Therese Arkenberg

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  THE GUILT CHILD

  by Margaret Ronald

  Carla took the bundle her cousin handed her and tried not to think of ogres. All through the long airship journey, since her father had put her in line for the Central Circuit and walked off whistling, she’d been unable to think of anything but the story of The Boy Who Was Sold to Ogres.

  “You can hand your clothes to Roberts when you’re done,” Cousin James said from the other side of the curtain, his voice just audible over the steady thrum of machinery and departing airships. “We’ll have better for you at Vallom House, but these here are your working clothes.”

  Carla obediently shook out her new clothes: a dress washed so many times its original color had faded to gray-green and a pair of ratty old trousers to wear underneath, the way the beggar girls back home did. “Working clothes?”

  James sighed. “Had we time, I’d explain properly. As it is, though, we’re running too late even to go back to Vallom House to change. You should have told me you’d be on the later run; I’d planned on the four o’clock.”

  That was her father’s fault—missing the four o’clock run because he’d been arranging her brother’s transfer to a new school, now that they had money for it. She pulled on the clumsy shoes and waited, bundled clothing in hand.

  After a moment, her cousin pulled back the curtain. He, too, now wore poor man’s clothes, down to a stained neckerchief and a threadbare coat with patches on the patches. His face bore a light dusting of soot, creased into the deep wrinkles at either side of his mouth. His man Roberts wordlessly dented a hat and placed it on James’ thinning hair. “Good,” he said, looking her up and down. “Maybe some dirt... no, best not gild the lily. Give your clothes to Roberts and we’ll be off.”

  She followed him out into the street, turning to watch as Roberts, grave in Vallom House livery, went the other way with all of her possessions. An automaton trundled past, steam from its vents leaving a foggy trail across the street, its owner following on foot.

  “Damn,” James muttered, and Carla nearly ran into him as she turned to follow. The street that from the air had been an endless stream of people and animals and automata was now blocked by a crush of people.

  “What’s the holdup?” James asked the closest onlooker.

  “The Gestenwerke line’s Tram #41 woke up,” the man said, but an airship descending into the station drowned out his next words. “—headed east,” he went on, unperturbed. “They’re trying to get the passengers out before it leaves the city.”

  “Bah.” James rubbed at his chin with one gloved hand, then glanced down at her. “Come on, Carlyle. We’ll go around.”

  She craned to look, but all she could see was the edge of a carriage sticking up at an odd angle—maybe Tram #41, maybe one of the other automata that walked Admiral Street. “I’ve never seen a machine wake up,” she tried as they turned and walked down a side street.

  James laughed through his nose. “And why would you want to? Nothing unusual about it. Businesses get ruined every day like that.”

  A few skinny children watched them from a doorway. One spat; another made a rude gesture; two more ignored her in favor of their skipping game: went to the washer-man, washer said no....

  “Hurry up, girl. There’ll be plenty of time to gawk later.” James stuck out his hand for her to hold but didn’t slow, and Carla ran to catch up. “Once you’re properly introduced, you’ll have plenty of time to run around the city. You’d like that, right? A step up from living out on the heath. No one can say I’m not giving you the best, taking you in like this.”

  The oldest urchin ran up to James, a clanking bundle in his arms. “Parts, sir? Plenty of time left in them, not a one of ‘em close to waking—”

  “Piss off, scrapper,” James said. “Those are from the Gestenwerke scrapheap, aren’t they? You’ll have a hard time selling them to anyone after today.”

  The urchin made a face at him, spat again at Carla, and ran off. Carla turned to watch him go, uncomfortably aware of how her clothes were a ragged analogue of his. “Can’t stand scrappers,” James went on cheerfully. “Little bastards know they’re selling junk that’s too close to waking, so there’s not a one doesn’t lie like a crow.”

  Carla had to skip to keep up with him. “But I thought—”

  “Yes, Father—what, your great-uncle, would it be?—dealt with them regular. So I know what I’m talking about, don’t I?” He led her down an alley between two huge warehouses, one of which thrummed with the percussive beat of heavy machinery. “Right. Since you arrived too late for me to teach you the rules, just keep quiet for now. Quiet and—” He glanced back at her. “Pitiful. Try to look pitiful.”

  Carla stared at him, and he nodded. “That’ll do. You’re what, eight? Nine?” Eleven, Carla thought, but James didn’t pause for her to answer. “Young enough. Come on.”

  The alley ended in a heavy door, iron bound with brass. Flaking letters above the door read VALLOM PARTS AND PRESS. James took out a set of heavy keys and unlocked the many locks. “Go on in. I’ll follow.”

  Carla stepped inside, pausing as a cold wind blew past her and set off a cascade of tiny metallic noises in the darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the dim gold glow of werlight, she could just make out a nest of machinery, thick with the scorched scent of thaumic ore. The competing stamp of presses came together in a united heartbeat, and under her feet a webwork of tracks and pipes rumbled and purred.

  James locked the door behind them and gestured for her to follow him—past rods and hoses and cables, grease-stained steel fingers that sorted through the material coming off the presses and packed it away, great arms of tarnished brass that picked up scrap and ferried it toward the furnace at the heart of the machine.

  It was here, where the gold light gave way to the sparky blue of condensing thaumic ore, where the spring chill evaporated off the boilers, that her cousin stopped. “Stamper!” he called, pitching his voice above the din. “Stamper!”

  The pounding paused, one press after the other, some of them halting in mid-blow. A mass of cables shifted, its fittings turning and locking into place. “Jamie,” said a low, titanic voice, the kind that the pantomimes gave the Stone King. “You came.”

  “Aye,” said James. “I didn’t mean to be so long away, Stamper. Honest.” Carla stole a glance at her cousin; he wore a sheepish, unaffected smile like a boy’s, entirely at odds with the dignified middle-aged gentleman who’d met her at the station. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

  “So I see.” The closest press shifted further, parting to allow an arm to swing forward, this one with a thick patina of green over the brass. The end of the arm folded and refolded, shifting into something new.

  Carla caught her breath as the shape came clear: a face of pipes and fittings and gears, its eyes glowing faintly with the sheen of werglass. The mouth was only an expressionless line of cable, but when the voice spoke again there was no question whose it was. “Who is she?”

  Machine, Carla thought. The machine is talking. But that isn’t— The face leaned close to her, and she shrank behind James.

  “Here!” James snapped. “That’s no way to behave! This here is Stamper, what’s been a friend of our family for years!”

  “I’m sorry,” Stamper said, retreating a little. “I’m a bit scary like this.”

  I’m not scared, Carla thought. I’m con
fused—you don’t see talking machines, because once they’re smart enough to talk they’re smart enough to leave—

  How did the rhyme go? Went to the trainyard, train said no, I’m going to the east where the mighty walkers go.

  Her cousin’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Hello,” she squeaked.

  “Hello,” Stamper said gravely.

  “You remember my wife’s sister Nina? This is her girl Carlyle. Named for her pa’s mother’s family.”

  Carla bit her lip; it wasn’t quite true, but certainly her father hadn’t bothered to check on their blood ties after getting James’ letter.

  “Her pa was healthy,” James continued, “we all thought so, but you know how it is in the south, the sick comes on you fast—”

  Why was he speaking of her father as if he were dead? But the emotion in his voice was real, as real as the warmth with which he greeted Stamper, and contagious enough that her own eyes began to prickle even though she knew her father was alive.

  “I see,” Stamper said. “And now you are all she has.”

  How could a mechanical voice sound so sad? How could it sound sincere? Carla hid her face, and James patted her shoulder. “There now. Hush, look, it’ll be all right.”

  The automaton—the factory itself—was silent a moment, though werglass glittered within its face. “She looks like Etta,” it said.

  James started and stepped back from Carla, regarding her at arm’s length. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, she does.” And then, to her utter shock, he too began to blink back tears, his lips pressed tight together as if suppressing some great grief.

  “I’m sorry, Jamie. I didn’t mean to bring it up—”

  “No,” James said. “No, it’s all right. We’d better get on home—if I catch the butcher in a good mood, we might have meat tonight. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Carlyle?” He drew a shaky breath and managed a smile. “You’ll not mind if Carlyle here comes to visit, will you?”

  “Not at all,” Stamper said.

  James led her out, clamping his hand on her shoulder when she started to speak.

  They walked for quite a while in silence, through the falling dark of late spring, slush seeping into her shoes. Automata and their owners passed by, and the drone of airships above faded as night came on. Finally, as the houses around them began to take on a polished, high-class look, James relaxed his grip. “Good girl. Very good. The tears were a nice touch.”

  “Cousin James,” Carla began, “why—”

  “Ah! Only ask why when you’re more than a mile away. I don’t think Stamper eavesdrops, but better to be sure.” He hailed a lightman, and a gate at the end of the street began to glow. “But here’s fine, girl.”

  Carla paused, trying to choose one question out of dozens. “If Stamper’s smart enough to talk, then why is it still here?”

  James chuckled and mussed the snow out of her hair. “You strike to the heart, don’t you? But you kept your mouth shut in there. Clever girl. Knew I’d picked a good cousin for this.” He paused at the gate as Roberts came up the gravel path, a fur overcoat in his hands. “Well,” he said, “the short version is that as far as Stamper knows, you and I are dirt poor.”

  “Your coat, sir,” Roberts said.

  “Dirt poor,” James repeated absently, and behind him the last of the lights came on, illuminating the Vallom family mansion. Snow sparkled on the topiary, and a raked path led to the huge double doors.

  Carla glanced back over her shoulder, remembering first the crumbling fences of her old home and then, to her surprise, the worn and tired fittings in Stamper’s factory. “I see,” she said, and it wasn’t quite a lie.

  * * *

  The long version came in bits and pieces over the next few days, mostly over the meals Carla had in her room, away from the rest of the family. James sometimes joined her and talked over the meager though excellent food.

  “You don’t know what a hardship it was,” he explained, “to eat at the main table—with maybe a third of what everyone else had, and old Dad’s gimlet eye on me to make sure I didn’t snatch one extra bite. Had to stay skinny, so Stamper would believe we were starving. So don’t go saying that no one understands what you’re going through. I went through it all, me, and I’ve done my best to make it easier on you.”

  Carla nodded, her stomach still rumbling after the half-bowl of soup and yeast bun that was all she was allowed of tonight’s dinner. “And your daughter? My cousin Marietta?”

  James was silent a moment. “Yes. Well, she’s at Queen’s now, so she’s no longer any part of it.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Now, you like your rooms? Good. Good. Your papa can’t say I’m not holding up my end of the deal.”

  He wouldn’t, not with what James was paying him. But she was still too scared of Stamper, mostly because she couldn’t shed the quite rational fear that it, like any other automaton in which the thaumic residue built up to the point of sentience, would pull itself free and head east, past the mountains to the Hundred Cities of the free walkers. It was still too close to the ogre from her mother’s storybook.

  On the days when she wasn’t taken to Stamper to hide, shivering, behind James, Carla was mostly left alone. That lost its novelty after a day or so, particularly when she learned that the Vallom House library was forbidden. “I’m sorry, miss,” one of the maids told her, twisting her apron between her hands. “But Mister James says that we’re not to let you in.”

  Carla, who had only just gotten used to the idea of maids calling her ‘miss,’ paused. “Why not?”

  The maid crimsoned. “I’m sorry, miss. Mister James just said he’s not taking any chances, not after Miss Marietta.” She smoothed out her apron. “You’re lucky,” she went on in a falsely bright whisper. “I’d have loved a day on my own when I was your age. Now, best be off, miss. Please.”

  Carla bobbed a curtsey, which seemed to puzzle the maid, and left thinking. So the agreement James had made with her father hadn’t included schooling for her. But if she wasn’t to learn at school, then where was she to learn? And what?

  She tried to find something to do just so she wouldn’t immediately have to go back to face the ogre. To her surprise, James agreed and sent her out on several errands as the last blast of winter piled rain and sleet on the city. His true intentions Carla didn’t fully grasp until she returned to her room with a bad cough. The cough turned worse overnight, and her suspicion was confirmed when James took her into town the next day.

  “She’s sick,” James told Stamper, Carla laid out in front of the boiler like a heathen offering. “Must have been from when our heater sputtered out a couple nights back.”

  Half of Stamper’s werglass eyes shifted to focus on James. “Is it bad? I may be able to repair it if you bring the pieces—”

  “No matter, no matter. We’ve got it mostly working again.” James sighed. “Mostly. And that’s the problem.” He bent and patted Carla’s head, as if she were a sick dog. “She’s too sick for ‘mostly.’”

  Carla tried to shake her head, seeing where this was going, but she was too weak and the ogre too large.

  “She can stay with me,” Stamper volunteered. “My boiler is always running, and she will be warm. You will have to bring food, though, and medicine—”

  “Oh, food, food, that’s no problem. Reckon I could scrape a little together, eh Carlyle? But her staying here—” James hesitated, twisting his hat (Roberts had put a few extra tears in it today, just for the occasion). “That’s a lot to ask of you, Stamper.”

  “I don’t mind. Really.”

  Of course he doesn’t mind, Carla thought, the fever lending her a sort of angry clarity. Regardless, she soon found herself bundled into a cot next to the boiler. “There you are, girl,” James said, real concern on his face—or at least she thought it was real, till she remembered that he’d sent her out in the first place. “Well in no time, eh Stamper?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Stamper said, more doubtfully t
han its owner.

  But James was already heading off, promising to bring broth and tea come morning. Carla stirred and groaned as, inexorably, the heavy tread of Stamper’s work began again.

  How she fell asleep she never knew, but when she woke, the continued thump of the presses had quieted. She rolled over to see the space around the cot transformed. A score of brass tracks laced the floor, laid down in a haphazard pattern, and half a dozen little brass-and-steel contraptions ran to and fro on them. Several clustered at the far edge of the light, constructing a wall between her and the rest of the factory. She started to sit up, alarmed, but the heaviness in her chest made her fall back.

  “You’re awake,” said Stamper, somewhere behind her left ear. One of its speaking-trumpets, she saw, when she turned her head. “I am sorry for the noise. I hoped to put up something to block it, but the small machines make their own noise. I had not thought that through.”

  Carla tried to speak, to thank the ogre as the stories said you ought to do, but the air was drier than she’d expected, and her lungs caught on it.

  “There is tea,” Stamper said, and sure enough, a small urn steamed near her left hand. “The water is distilled from my boiler, so it should taste all right, but you will have to ask James for more tea leaves. I would prefer he not know I have these individual machines at all. He would think I am using them to construct a way to leave, and I do not want to worry him.”

  The lemony tang of the tea drifted past Carla as her coughing fit subsided, and abruptly the homeliness of it hurt. When was the last time anyone had made tea for her—not leavings from her brother’s nursery, not part of a family meal, but just for her? And to have such hesitant kindness from a machine.... This was what James had intended. Every kindness Stamper gave her was one more fetter keeping it in place. “You shouldn’t,” she tried to say, but it came out as a sob.

  “Oh, don’t cry. Don’t cry.” The little machines whirred and clustered around her, and dimly, she realized that the great presses had paused. “Please. I will tell you a story, only don’t cry.”