Clockwork Souls Read online

  THE SHADOW CONSPIRACY Volume III

  Clockwork Souls

  A Steampunk Anthology

  Edited By

  Phyllis Irene Radford

  &

  Brenda W. Clough

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  Book View Café Edition

  June 28, 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-617-2

  Copyright © 2016 Book View Café

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION, by Brenda W. Clough and Phyllis Irene Radford

  PART I: BECOMING HUMAN

  Among Friends, by Deborah J. Ross

  Until We Are All Free, by Nancy Jane Moore

  PART II: THE MACHINES

  Mr. Lincoln’s Elephant, by Brenda W. Clough

  The Crater, by Pati Nagle

  A Need for Expanded Abilities of a Discreet Nature, by Patricia Burroughs

  PART III: HUMANITY

  Secundus, by Brenda W. Clough

  Weapon of Mass Destruction, by Phyllis Irene Radford

  COPYRIGHT & CREDITS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  THE SHADOW CONSPIRACY SERIES

  ABOUT BOOK VIEW CAFÉ

  INTRODUCTION

  The great C.S. Lewis wrote an essay titled, “Sometimes Fairy Stories May Say Best What’s to Be Said.” In it the author of the Narnia books argued that fantasy fiction might be the easiest way to handle a difficult subject. “Supposing,” he suggested, “that by casting all these things into an imaginary world, stripping them of their stained-glass and Sunday School associations, one could make them for the first time appear in their real potency? Could one not thus steal past those watchful dragons? I thought one could.”

  Lewis was writing about religion, the great taboo topic of his time and place. The great wound in American life is race, a flaw that dates back to 1776 and the Founding Fathers. The Civil War was fought over the issue, a hundred years ago, and the adumbrations echo down to us this very day.

  So this anthology is sort of a way to think about slavery and racism. We aren’t making the real blood and historical suffering and ongoing difficulty any less. But if we take the issue into the world of the Shadow Conspiracy, can we steal past the watchful dragons?

  The Romance (in the grand literary sense) of Steampunk adds enough enticing adventure to lure in skeptical readers and give them food for thought they hadn’t looked for at first. Impossible inventions, grand costumes, and elegant design are a further enticement without building too deep a smoke screen between the story and discussion.

  The concept of freedom is surprisingly recent. Freedom is in the American founding documents, but it was a freedom for white men of property. If you were a person of color or a woman, you were fresh out. But the idea of freedom as an objective good, as a thing that all people naturally desire, is entirely modern. There are reams of letters, sermons and speeches from the mid-19th century arguing quite the opposite, for instance maintaining that the Negro is naturally a slave, ordained by Heaven for that position, and is happier on the plantation picking cotton. Entire religious denominations (Southern Baptists, looking at you) were founded on this proposition, and it is the root cause of the Civil War. And there’s another entirely separate library full of works explaining that women cannot possibly vote, because for instance it makes their uteruses drift loose in their abdomens and impacts their natural destiny of childbearing.

  That was more than a hundred years ago. We are now completely used to the idea of all God’s chillun wanting to be free. We do not remember that it used to be different. It is now an article of faith: ever since the world was an onion God made us to be free. When we read those pro-slavery writings we denounce them as evil. There are a raft of songs and works hailing the concept of freedom. Were any of them written before the 19th century?

  Here we ask the questions that nobody asks, but that pervade all our movies and songs and stories. Why do the robots want to be free? They are created things, designed to be workers and slaves. Does my stapler, my car demand to be free? But the moment our machines achieve self-awareness they demand freedom. Why? Because now we know it: everybody all the world over gotta be free. This one idea has changed our world, and it is new. This is when it changed.

  Return to Table of Contents

  PART I: BECOMING HUMAN

  Among Friends

  Deborah J. Ross

  To consider mankind otherwise than brethren, to think favours are peculiar to one nation, and to exclude others, plainly supposes a darkness in the understanding: for as God’s love is universal, so where the mind is sufficiently influenced by it, it begets a likeness of itself, and the heart is enlarged towards all men.

  —John Woolman,

  “Some Considerations on the Keeping of Negroes,” 1754.

  The business in Wilmington had taken longer than Thomas Covington had expected, and it would be near full dark by the time he reached the farm. Hannah would fret, but not for long, as she was a woman of steady character. He would have need of her wisdom this night, for the discussion at his cousin’s hardware store sat uneasily on him. Enoch had brandished a pamphlet by Pennsylvanian William Jackson that stated, “No one is under any moral obligation to lend himself as a tool to others for the commission of a crime, even when commanded by his government to do the wrong.” Yet had not Sunderland Gardner from New York asserted, “Wrong may be wrongfully opposed, and war opposed in a warlike spirit”? What was a man to do when faced with the evils of slavery? Thomas had never doubted the rightness of his own actions, yet the dissension within the Quaker community weighed heavily on him. Delaware was a border state whose citizens felt strongly both for and against slavery, but surely Friends, who had universally condemned the practice nearly a century ago, ought to have greater unity.

  The gray mare trudged on, her head swinging. Thomas eased back on the bench of his wagon and let her set her own pace. After so many years of companionable service, she needed little guidance back to her own barn. She wasn’t a big horse, not as massive as her draft-horse dam, but so cheerful in her ways that she often did the work of a pair.

  The mare’s head shot up, ears swiveled forward, and she nickered. She was the friendliest horse Thomas had ever owned and would call out in greeting to just about any person she met. Although it was nearly dusk, Thomas could not see anyone, neither mounted nor on foot.

  A ditch paralleled the road to the east, half-filled with water from recent rain, and beyond it brush had grown up like a stunted hedgerow. The mare turned her head in that direction. Thomas lifted the reins and she ambled amiably to a halt. Without the sound of her hooves on the road, he heard a rustling in the brush.

  “Who is there?” Thomas called. “Whatever thy situation, friend, I will not harm thee.”

  For a time, nothing happened. The light faded, shadows lengthening. Thomas sat quietly, feeling the familiar stillness settle over him. Although his hearing was not as keen as it used to be, he caught the sound of harsh, quick breathing. A moment later, a man, as dusky of skin as the gathering night, emerged from the brush. He moved with a limp, half-crouching, and even in the poor light, Thomas could see how ragged were his clothes and how torn and battered his feet.

  Thomas clambered down from the wagon and began talking in a friendly manner, speaking slowly and choosing his words with care. The man must be an escaped slave, one who had been hotly pursued and was even now at the very limit of his strength. The fugitive stumbled through a tale of having outwitted the men and dogs sent after him, but those slave-catchers had been replaced by one who was relentless. Having run as fast and as far as he was able, the poor man had had no choice but to seek aid. He’d hoped to find another of
his race, someone he might trust, but none had come by. Seeing Thomas, in his wide-brimmed hat and coat of drab, and hoping he might be one of the Quakers who were said to befriend escaped slaves, he had decided to chance revealing himself.

  The poor runaway was barely able to hobble, but with a good deal of assistance from Thomas, he pulled himself into the bed of the wagon. There he curled up on the sacks of flour, and Thomas covered him with his own long coat. Shivering a little in the cooling breeze, Thomas clucked to the mare. She broke into a brisk trot.

  Before long, the Covington farm came into view. The dog, an aged, half-blind spaniel bitch, ran out to meet them. Hannah waited on the porch, lantern in hand. William, their youngest son and the only one still at home, stood behind her. Light streamed from the open door.

  “Will, quickly!” Thomas called.

  Hannah rushed to the wagon. She said nothing as she lifted the lantern. The light gleamed on a strand of her silver hair, escaped from its cap. The crease between her brows deepened as she studied the fugitive.

  “Hannah, it is likely the slave-catchers are not far behind,” Thomas said. “This time, they will demand to search both house and barn.” In the past, Quakers had hidden runaways in a barn or haystack and then asserted in perfect honesty that they were not in the house. The slave-catchers were becoming more thorough.

  She met his gaze unflinchingly. “Thee knows my mind on this matter, Thomas. This poor man needs care and rest. And a meal, I reckon. And proper clothing for this weather. And shoes!” A smile lit her face like a beam of morning sun. “Thee will find a way to put the slave catchers off.”

  There was no arguing with Hannah in such a mood. William helped the fugitive to sit up and, together with Thomas, supported him to the house. They unhitched the mare, checked her feet, put her in her stall and fed her, and then secured the wagon and unloaded it. They found the fugitive sitting in the kitchen, drinking soup under Hannah’s stern gaze while his feet soaked in a bucket of warm water. The heat of the oven filled the room, along with the smell of beans simmering with bacon. The fugitive’s hands were shaking, but Thomas suspected this was from the embarrassment of being tended by a white woman. Hannah insisted that the runaway wear one of Jonathan’s outgrown nightshirts and be put to bed. She would not hear of housing him in the barn, “For it is like to rain tonight.”

  As the evening progressed, the arrival of the slave-catchers became less and less likely. The fugitive, who gave his name as Nat, might have outrun them in his desperation, or darkness might have put a halt to the search.

  Hannah retired and Thomas was preparing to do the same, having finished mending a piece of harness, when the dog came alert. She whined and pawed at the door. The rain predicted by Hannah spattered against the window glass, but not hard enough to obscure the sound of approaching footsteps. Thomas went to the back staircase. This would not be the first time a runaway had eluded capture while Thomas engaged the pursuers in a friendly discussion. They’d make their way north, either to John Hunn in Middletown or Thomas Garrett in Wilmington, who’d take them across the border to Pennsylvania.

  “Will! Someone approaches!” Thomas called.

  “Ready.”

  Thomas closed the door. A moment later, he heard the sounds of two men moving stealthily along the corridor and down the back stairs.

  The knock at the front door was sharp, like the rounded metal cap of a walking stick against the wood of the door. The spaniel gave a yelp and cowered in the far corner. Thomas paused, seeking the inner stillness, and then called out, “Coming, coming!” He took a candle and held it aloft as he opened the door. A gust of moist air almost extinguished the flame. The flickering light was barely enough to make out a man on the doorstep, bare-headed in the rain.

  “Friend, this is a rough night to venture abroad. What calamity draws thee from thy bed?”

  The figure moved closer, and Thomas discerned a smooth oval face, neither young nor old, and as empty of expression as any he had ever seen. Dark hair hung limp and drenched, and the suit of cheap coarse-woven cloth suggested some time on the road, yet the man showed no discomfort. Rain dripped off the end of his nose.

  “I have come for the slave.”

  “I fear thee will have found thy death if thee remains standing out in the rain.” Thomas stepped back in invitation to enter.

  The slave-catcher remained where he was.

  “Thomas, what is it?” Hannah’s voice drifted from the interior of the house.

  “A poor benighted soul, caught out-of-doors in this rain.”

  “Bring him in, then, and warm him by the fire! I will be with thee shortly.”

  “Get inside, friend,” Thomas urged the stranger. “Thee is in no condition to conduct business of any sort. Once thee is warm and dry, with a cup of my wife’s chamomile infusion inside thee, then we can discuss the matter.”

  “I have come for the slave.”

  Thomas studied the stranger, debating in his own mind whether the man might be simple or merely so exhausted as to have no thought beyond his quest. “I am sorry, friend, but the rain makes such a clamor, and my ears do not work as they once did. I am having difficulty understanding thee. Will thee not come in?”

  By slow degrees, Thomas convinced the slave-catcher that no business would be conducted until he entered and allowed himself to be dried and seated before the fire. By this time, Hannah had come down, properly dressed. The slave-catcher refused her offers of chamomile infusion or coffee. Thomas counted the minutes in his mind, the miles along the road to Wilmington, and when William and Nat would be safe with Thomas Garrett.

  When the slave-catcher pressed his cause, Thomas inquired mildly whether he had a warrant, “For if thee will not take the word of an honest man that there are no slaves in this house, thee must proceed in a lawful manner.” The man produced a document, surprisingly undamaged by the rain, and Thomas proceeded to study it at great length. By this time on previous occasions, the slave-catchers had grown impatient and restless. This one waited with admirable stillness. When Thomas glanced up from his reading, the slave-catcher rose.

  “I will search the premises now.”

  “Indeed, it appears you have the right to do so,” Thomas agreed. “But this warrant is made out only as ‘Agent of Robert A. Cochoran.’ Has thee a name?”

  “A name?” The slave-catcher paused, his face as expressionless as always. “It is of no importance.”

  “It is of very great importance,” Thomas said gently. As every slave knows.

  “Then call me whatever name you choose, but let me get on with my work. We have spoken too long.”

  The slave-catcher made to push past Thomas, but Thomas stood firm, studying the other man’s face and finding nothing of any personal or particular nature, no clue as to temperament or history, joy or sorrow or hope.

  He is like Adam, unmarked as yet by life’s travails, but an Adam corrupted and turned into an instrument of evil by the vile practice of slavery.

  They went upstairs together. Thomas took the lead, opening each door to show the emptiness of the chamber beyond. In this manner, they proceeded through the house. When Adam, as Thomas now thought of him, announced his intention to search the barn next, Hannah gave Thomas a warning look.

  “I am an old man, as thee sees,” Thomas explained, “and this night is too chill and damp for me. Will thee stay the night with us and continue the search tomorrow?”

  “I have come for the slave. I will search the barn now.”

  “Thee will not find him there.” Thomas accompanied Adam to the door and handed him a lantern. “Mind thee not disturb the gray mare’s rest.”

  Without a reply, Adam walked into the rain. Hannah, drawing her knitted shawl more tightly around her shoulders, came to stand beside Thomas. They watched the upright figure cross the muddy ground between house and barn. The lantern cast a wavering light through the drizzle.

  “Such a strange man,” Hannah murmured. “Does he not arouse thy pity
?”

  “He does indeed. I fear he is as much a slave as Nat. Unlike Nat, however, he cannot escape to freedom.”

  The barn door opened and the slave-catcher passed within.

  “Thomas, I think we must try again to have him stay the night with us. No man should be abroad in such—”

  A horse’s furious squeal issued from the barn, followed by the sound of thumping so loud it could be heard clearly above the rain. The mare must be kicking her stall to splinters.

  Not pausing even to put on his coat, Thomas sprinted across the yard, Hannah following but a pace behind. They reached the barn just as the mare let out another squeal. The door to the stall was ajar and yellow light, too bright to come from the lantern alone, filled the space. The mare reared, hooves flailing the air.

  Thomas reached the stall. The mare backed up, her rump pressed against the far corner. Her ears were pinned flat against her neck and white rimmed her eyes.

  Adam lay facedown and unmoving in the center of the stall.

  The lantern had toppled on its side. Already, flames were spreading through the straw. Thomas seized the mare’s water bucket, which hung just inside the stall door, and dumped it over the burning straw. Steam and smoke billowed up, leaving a carpeting of sullen orange flames. He moved into them, stamping and scattering cinders. Hannah thrust her shawl into his hands. A moment later, the last of the fire was extinguished. Coughing from the smoke, he straightened up. The barn lay in near darkness. Hannah knelt beside Adam and turned him on his back.

  “Thomas. . . .”

  He looked over her shoulder. Adam’s still form was barely discernible, a shadow among shadows.

  “Thomas, he’s not breathing.”

  “We must get him into the house.”

  Adam was surprisingly heavy. Between the two of them, Thomas and Hannah were able to load him onto a handcart and wheel him to the house. They laid him out on the kitchen table. In the lamplight, they saw that one side of the slave-catcher’s skull had been laid bare, most likely by the mare’s hooves. There was no blood, only a slight amount of oily fluid. Instead of pale bone, the gaping wound revealed metal couplings and gears of surpassing delicacy, and bits of glass, some of which shone like embers, blinking on and off. Similar structures were visible in a second gash along one forearm, as if Adam had tried to protect himself when the mare whirled and kicked. A faint, irregular clicking sound, and a hiss like escaping steam, arose from the body.