Agatha H. and the Airship City

CHAPTER 2

The room froze for a timeless moment. Finally Klaus slowly shook his head, his great hands balled into tight fists. His eyes gleamed with controlled fury. “One rule, Beetle. I made one rule when I left you in charge of this city. ‘Report all unusual discoveries. Devices of the Other are to be turned over to me immediately.’ You agreed.”

The smaller man shook with rage. “A pledge made under duress is worthless, Wulfenbach! You threatened my city, my university— I’d have agreed to anything! You were in control then.”

Klaus raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “And now?”

Suddenly from above came a CRACK—that shook the building. A white line appeared near the ceiling and spread, revealing itself to be the open sky, as with a thunderous groan, the roof was lifted open upon monstrous hinges by the towering figure of Mr. Tock. His eyes glowed and steam poured from his moustache as a vast hand reached in and aimed an array of fingertip nozzles at the Baron and his son. A voice like a pipe-organ boomed, “DO NOT MOVE.”

Beetle drew himself up and a triumphant grin crossed his features. “Now I am in control!” He followed this statement with a burst of laughter that showed that the owner had done a fair share of gloating in his time, and had the basics down pat. “What do you think of that?”

The Baron and his son stared up at the colossus for a moment, then eyed each other, as if each were embarrassed at the thought of speaking first. Finally the Baron cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Gil, what do you think of that?”

Gilgamesh looked furiously at his sire. “Are you joking? This is another test?”

Klaus shook his head. “No, no—He’s quite serious. But I am interested in your analysis.”

At this Dr. Beetle burst out with a startled “Hey!” which the two politely ignored.

Gil rolled his eyes and shifted the fishbowl to his other hand. The fish grinned. Gil sighed. “Oh very well. If we directly attack him, the clank kills us. But if he kills us, our clanks will finish him. An apparent standoff.”

The Tyrant cackled. “Correct! Now—”

Gil wheeled on him in annoyance. “Oh shut up before you embarrass yourself any further!” Beetle sputtered in shock as Gil continued. “Being a short man,” he gestured significantly at the looming clank, “he places too much importance on size.”

“I’M NOT THAT SHORT,” Beetle screamed and futilely attempted to kick Gil in the ankle.

Gil ignored him and continued. “Thus the use of the one, slow, unwieldy, but impressively large clank, instead of surprising us with a squad of the faster but smaller units that are no doubt surrounding the building.”

“And excuse me, but I do still have the drop on you.” This contribution was also ignored.

“He has thus ‘Put all his eggs in one basket,’ confident that he could contain our group.”

“As I have!” the Tyrant screamed.

Gil looked pityingly at the smaller man. “A viable strategy perhaps. If we had come alone.”

An explosion rocked the building and all heads whipped upward in time to see half of Mr. Tock’s face explode in a cloud of smoke and metal shards. The giant automaton wobbled slightly, then, like a great brass tree, slowly fell over sideways out of sight, though the sound of his hitting the ground left nothing to the imagination, and the entire building shuddered from the impact. A few seconds later, a rain of metal shards pattered to the floor. In the sky overhead floated a fleet of military airships, all sporting the Wulfenbach crest on their sides.

“Tock!” cried Beetle in an agonized voice.

Klaus outlined the size of the forces overhead: “The Third Airborne, the Seventh Groundnaut Mechanical, and the Jägermonsters. Can we end this now?”

“Guards!” Beetle yelled. The Baron’s party rolled their eyes.

The Jägermonster sneered. “Now he calls for de guards?”

Gilgamesh shrugged. “Yes, well… make it quick.”

The main doors to the labs crashed open as a squad of Beetleburg’s feared Watch marched into the room in perfect step. Each unit raised its left gun arm in perfect unison and they all chanted “Stand!” in four part harmony. They were instantly mowed down by the hail of armor-piercing bullets from the machine cannons of the two Wulfenbach clanks.

As the last bits of metal rained down, the Jägermonster gave the order to cease fire. “Dem,” he remarked, “dat vas easy.”

Klaus looked disgusted. “They were the best self-contained fighting machines on the planet—When they were new!”

Beetle looked stunned. “My… my Watch!”

“Time marches on, Beetle; you remained behind. Well, by now the city should be secure—”

Beetle snapped back into the present. “This is an invasion? Blast it, Klaus, this is my city!”

The Baron looked contemptuous. “Wrong. It became my city ten years ago. I merely let you administer it.”

“But… but…” Beetle gestured, “But why?”

Klaus’ eyes narrowed. “Withholding a Hive Engine isn’t enough?”

“But that would mean…” Beetle stared at Klaus. “Before Merlot… You already knew!”

Klaus idly looked out the window. Screams and explosions could be heard faintly through the glass. “A field team has a sudden ‘communications breakdown’ followed by several ‘accidents.’ The river is cordoned off for a night, the laboratory schedules are suddenly rearranged. If you analyze the last week’s chemical requisitions, as well as the dramatic increase of the price of honey in this sector…”He slammed his fist down on the window sill. “Of course I knew!” For the first time an expression of regret crossed his features. “I had hoped I was wrong, old friend, but…” He sighed, “Ah, well.”

Suddenly Agatha appeared at the Baron’s elbow. “Please, Herr Baron, don’t kill him! We need him!”

Klaus closed his eyes. “Where do they get these ideas?” he muttered. “Beetle, the loyalty of the rest of your people does you credit. They can rest assured that I have no intention of killing you. Indeed, I have use for you.”

If this was meant to be reassuring to the smaller man, it had the opposite effect. His eyes went wide and his face paled. “No!” His initial strangled whisper changed to a scream: “I’ll never submit to being one of your experimental subjects! Never!” As he said this, his hand grabbed one of the stylized, beetle-shaped cloak clasps on his chest and ripped it off. As it came free, it snapped open into the deadly shape of one of the Tyrant’s feared seeker drones. It still resembled a beetle, but this one was sleek, armored, and its’ brass needles gleamed. The Jägermonster snarled and tried to bring his weapon up, but before he could, Beetle launched the device towards Gil, Klaus and Agatha, shouting, “You won’t get me! You won’t get any of us!”

Calmly, Gilgamesh tossed the goldfish bowl up high into the air. Pivoting in place he swept a large wrench off a nearby bench and, continuing the motion, smashed the flying device in midair. Clattering and sparking, it pinwheeled back into Beetle’s face.

Gil then dropped the wrench, caught the falling fishbowl, grabbed a startled Agatha and pulled her to the ground while yelling, “Down!”

An explosion rocked the lab and blew those remaining upright to the ground. Agatha felt herself encircled by strong arms. A tiny part of her mind had time to notice the warm, spicy scent of Gil’s hair and to identify an odd sensation as that of a goldfish bowl pressing into her back.

The echoes of the explosion died down amidst the clatter of falling machinery and the tinkling of glass.

First on his feet was the Jägermonster. “Herr Baron?”

The Baron rose and dusted himself off. “Relax, Unit Commander.”

He knelt beside the swaying figure of Boris, who was trying to raise himself up and dust himself off simultaneously. “Ah— wha—sir?” the secretary muttered.

Klaus helped him to his feet. “Pull yourself together, Boris, you’re fine.” He nonchalantly looked over toward his son. “Gil?”

“I’m all right, Father.” He looked down at the girl in his arms. “And you, Miss Clay?”

“I… I think so. Where—?” It was then that she saw Dr. Beetle’s shattered and smoking spectacles upon the floor. “NO,” she shouted, “Dr. Beetle!”

Dr. Glassvitch was already kneeling over a small smoldering corpse. “Dead. He’s—”

The Baron interrupted him. “His head! How’s his head?”

Glassvitch swallowed. “T—totally destroyed, Herr Baron.” Klaus swore.

Gil looked contrite. “I’m sorry…”

Agatha twisted away from him. “Don’t touch me! You killed him!”

Klaus nodded. “Permanently. A pity, that.”

Gil looked stunned. “What? He threw a bomb at me.”

Klaus cocked an eyebrow. “A poor excuse.”

“Poor excuse?” A look of annoyance crossed Gil’s face. “He threw a bomb at me!”

The Jägermonster wandered up holding an unidentifiable organ in its hand. “Hey, I von’t say he vas shtupid, but I hain’t findin’ a lot uf brains around here!”

Boris gave the monster soldier a look of disgust, but merely added, “Can we leave, Herr Baron? My boots are sticking to the floor.”

None of them noticed Agatha bristling in the background until she snarled at them. “How dare you!” The three backed into each other before the furious girl. “How dare you? You murder one of the greatest scientists in Europe and you’re treating it like a kitchen accident?”

Gil attempted to explain, “But he threw a bomb—”

But a glare from Agatha shut him up. She went on, her voice beginning to take on the power of conviction. “The people of this city loved him! When they find out how you—”

The headache lanced through her skull like a white-hot bar of iron, causing her to scream and drop to her knees. The listeners blinked and looked towards the Baron, who shrugged.

Dr. Glassvitch hurried over to Agatha’s side and helped the quivering girl to her feet. “Forgive her, Herr Baron,” he pleaded. “She has these attacks when she gets upset.”

The Baron’s lip curled. “Pathetic.”

Gilgamesh stepped close and quietly murmured, “That doesn’t make her wrong, Father.”

Klaus looked at him, then at Agatha, then slowly rubbed his great jaw. “Hmm…” he conceded. “The populace is sometimes a problem…”

“Possibly not, Herr Baron.” Klaus wheeled about to face Dr. Merlot, who quickly realized that drawing attention to himself at this time was not the wisest of decisions, but having committed to it, chose to push on. “Very few people actually saw Dr. Beetle on a regular—hurk!”

This last sound was caused by the Baron grasping the front of Merlot’s labcoat and effortlessly hauling him up before his face. “I despise traitors.” Klaus informed him. “I consider Dr. Beetle’s death to be your fault. Without your theatrics I might have salvaged him. I am very annoyed. So now, I’m going to put you in charge.”

Merlot squirmed futilely in the Baron’s iron grasp. “I… I don’t understand, Herr Baron.”

“You’ll oversee everything. The city, the college, the lands— everything.”

“But…” Klaus shook him once. Merlot’s teeth shut with a snap.

“And the first time you make a mistake, I’m shipping you to Castle Heterodyne.”

Merlot’s face went white. “No! All I wanted—”

Klaus released him and turned away dismissively.

“What you wanted is irrelevant. I want Dr. Beetle lying in state—for viewing—by midnight, with a hero’s funeral to be held the day after tomorrow.”

Merlot stared at the charred corpse on the floor. “But… my work… I just wanted to… do something important…”

Agatha muttered an aside to the Jägermonster. “He was trying to turn chalk into cheese.” The soldier guffawed.

Merlot’s head whipped around and found a focus for his displeasure. “Right! At least I shall get to do one useful thing today. Miss Clay—get out! Henceforth you are banned from this university. Forever!”

Agatha looked stunned. “You… you can’t do that! I’m a student and—”

Merlot drew himself up. “Of course I can do it! Haven’t you heard? I’m in charge now!”

Agatha felt her world collapsing around her. She barely registered Dr. Glassvitch’s hand on her shoulder. “It may be for the best, Agatha,” he murmured. “Without Dr. Beetle’s protection, I doubt you would like it here.”

“No!” Agatha shook her head. “How will I…?”

Glassvitch cut her off gently, and began to escort her to the door. “I’ll come and see you, I promise. But now, I think, you had better leave.”

Klaus watched the two leave. His mouth twitched. “Petty,” he muttered.

Glassvitch returned and approached him with a worried look on his face. “Herr Baron, the girl is quite distraught… Are the streets safe?”

Klaus sighed. He turned toward the Jägermonster. “Unit Commander! See the girl home.”

The soldier grinned. “Hokay!”

Klaus plowed on, “Then come right back!”

The soldier shrugged. “Oh. Hokay.”

Once out on the campus, Agatha could see that things were in disarray. There were few students in evidence, though she could see that almost every window was crowded with anxious observers. Several airships had landed in the quad, and Jägermonsters and the Baron’s clanks were everywhere. As Agatha watched, one of the late Tyrant’s own clanks rounded the corner and advanced. Agatha had time to directly compare its jerky motion to the deadly fluid movements of the Wulfenbach clanks who spun and mowed it down. Other smoking piles of parts revealed the fate of the “Unstoppable Army.” The Baron had been right. Beetle’s clanks had become quite obsolete. As Agatha turned the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. There, looming before her was the burning hulk that had been Mr. Tock. A crew of the Baron’s mechanics was already swarming over it, and as Agatha watched, a group of hovering airships began to lower cables to their waiting hands. Agatha suspected that the giant clank would be quickly rebuilt. But it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would.

Agatha skirted the vast remains and felt tears well up as she passed between the vast gateway for the last time. “Goodbye, Mr. Tock,” she whispered.

Her mood was shattered by the business end of a machine cannon dropping towards her face, and the amplified voice of the clank behind it roaring, “HALT. ALL CITIZENS ARE TO STAY OFF THE STREETS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.”

Agatha stepped backwards and bumped into someone. Turning around, she found herself face to face with the grinning Jägersoldier she’d last seen in Dr. Beetle’s lab. “Hoy,” he called out to the clank, “she’s vit me!”

The clank paused. “YES SIR,” and with a hiss it resumed its watch position.

The soldier then looked back at Agatha and was nonplussed to see her crying. “Vot’s de matta, gurl?”

Agatha stared at him through her tears. “They sent you out to eat me!”

The monster soldier actually looked embarrassed. You could also tell that this was an unfamiliar emotion. “Hy em not gun eatchu.” This did nothing to stop the flow of tears, and after several minutes, the exasperated soldier roared, “Onless dats de only vay to shot hyu op!” Agatha’s sobbing stopped instantly , and she stared at him with wide eyes. The Jägersoldier nodded. “Now. Vere hyu liff? Let’s get hyu home,” and when Agatha continued to stare at him blankly: “MOOF!”

The walk back through the town was markedly different from the one she’d taken this morning. The number of citizens on the street was greatly reduced, and the few left were obviously determined to get home as quickly as possible. Shopkeepers were closing up, frantically pulling stock in off the sidewalks or, when they saw Agatha and her escort, abandoning it altogether and slamming shut doors and window shutters.

The only sign of fighting that Agatha saw was a shattered member of the Watch, which still twitched and feebly ticked against a wall as they passed by. More and more of the giant Wulfenbach clanks and soldiers wearing the Wulfenbach crest were to be seen assuming positions on various street corners, and with chilling silence, a small troop of Jägermonsters swarmed across the rooftops of the buildings across the street and disappeared. Shadows from the overhead fleet glided across the streets, causing the townspeople to involuntarily duck their heads and move even more quickly.

Soon enough they turned on to Forge Street, and the large former stables that housed Clay Mechanical came into sight.

Agatha turned to her companion. For the last several blocks, the Jäger had abandoned its attempts at conversation, and had been sniffing repeatedly, while a look of distracted concentration flowed across its face. “That’s it. That’s my house. Um… thanks.” With that she bolted for the main door. The Jägermonster lazily leaned against the nearest wall and watched her scurry inside. With a sigh, he shook his head and muttered, “Tch. Poor little ting.” Again he sniffed deeply, then shrugged irritably and loped off.

Inside the shop, machinist and master blacksmith Adam Clay grasped a thick chain in his massive fists and pulled. The ceiling beam that held the combined pulley system groaned, and the front of the steam tractor the chain was attached to began to slowly rise upwards.

Herr Ketter’s tractor had some leaks. Adam was pretty sure he knew where. A small collection of probable replacement parts were neatly laid out on a small bench by his side.

Adam liked this sort of job, as it didn’t involve dealing with madboy technology. Whereas Sparks were able to design and construct bizarre, physics-skirting machinery, their devices were never really able to be mass produced or even reliably duplicated by regular people. Even trained machinists eventually suffered nervous breakdowns if they were forced to try.

One of the Wulfenbach Empire’s groundbreaking ideas had been that instead of exterminating rival Sparks after defeating them, Klaus hired them. He kept them happy by keeping them supplied with materials, tools, and food, and a dedicated staff that made sure they ate it. They found themselves free of the petty concerns that had plagued their lives, such as what to actually do with that small country once they had proved that they could conquer it with nothing more than a navy composed of intelligent lobsters. He also gave them challenges, adoring minions, and on a regular basis, a large dinner celebrating their accomplishments along with a beautiful calligraphed award expressing the sincere thanks of the Empire in general and Klaus in particular.

As a result, almost any one of the Sparks Klaus had defeated over the years would have disintegrated you if you had seriously attempted to offer them their freedom, and they gleefully built and repaired the airships and the armies of clanks as well as the other terrifying monstrosities that supported the Pax Transylvania. This easily made up for the tightly guarded warehouses full of devices that made ants run backwards or could remove the rings from Saturn that they occasionally delivered in their free time.

And of course, regular science marched on, if only in self-defense.

The pulley caught. Adam grimaced and gave the chain a sharp tug, and links snapped with a sound like a gunshot, the tractor slamming back to the ground, shaking the entire building.

Adam looked at the broken chain as if it had personally betrayed him, and then he dropped it to the ground. He walked over to the tractor and quickly inspected it to make sure there was no additional damage. Seeing none, he glanced around and, reassured that he was alone, grabbed the front of the tractor in one large hand, and slowly lifted it above his head. Satisfied, he hooked a foot around the bench that contained the spare parts, slid it over to his side, selected a wrench from a loop on his belt, and began working on the undercarriage.

Adam was a construct. Whereas the term “construct” encompassed any and all biological creatures created by Sparks, Adam was an example of a “traditional old-school” construct, i.e., a patchwork collection of body parts that had been revivified by a massive dose of electricity. They were the simplest form of construct to make, and the vast majority of Sparks had started their careers by assembling one. Unfortunately, while reviving the corpus was simple enough, the brain remained a tricky thing, and most Patchworks, as they were called, were either dull-witted or homicidally deranged, which meant that a significant number of Sparks had their careers ended surprisingly soon after they started.

As a result, there was a well-established tradition of such constructs being viewed with suspicion at best, discriminated against with impunity, and made the butt of jokes in sensationalist novels, such as those chronicling the adventures of the Heterodyne Boys. Their loyal construct companions, Punch and Judy, were portrayed as oafish clowns. Music halls and traveling shows across Europa also embraced this interpretation, and the two were solidly established as the personification of low humor. Constructs tended to avoid popular entertainments.

Refreshingly, the Baron had long let it be known that blatant discrimination against constructs was officially frowned upon within the Empire, and he backed this policy up with force.

But this was a rule that was often ignored in the small towns and rural villages that rarely saw the Baron’s forces or polysyllabic words. As a result, constructs moved into the larger, more cosmopolitan towns and cities. There they were reluctantly embraced. Those like Adam and his wife, who, with a bit of effort, could pass as human, tried to do so.

And thus Adam and Lilith lived happily amongst the general populace of Beetleburg, and were respected members of the community. Adam impressed many with his ability to repair the simpler Spark creations, and did regular piece-work for the Tyrant. Lilith played the piano, giving lessons in music and dance, and provided entertainment at various functions. There were those in town who knew what they were, but usually they were constructs themselves.

Suddenly the door slammed open behind Adam, and before he could react, he found a sobbing Agatha clutching at his chest. “Oh, Adam,” she cried, “I’ve had the most awful day in existence! Dr. Beetle is dead! And I was robbed! And I’m not allowed back in the University! Ever!”

Adam strained to keep his balance, and the arm holding up the tractor began to shake. Agatha continued, “I can’t think of anything that could make it worse!” Sweat began to form on Adam’s brow as he tried to gently disengage Agatha from his shirt with one hand.

The door to the inner house opened, and Agatha’s mother appeared. “What is all the noise out here?” She blinked at the scene before her. “Agatha? You’re back? What’s wrong child? Come here.”

To Adam’s great relief, Agatha turned to his wife. “Oh, Lilith, Dr. Beetle is dead!”

Shock crossed Lilith’s face. “What? How?”

“He was killed in his lab by Baron Wulfenbach!”

At the sound of Wulfenbach’s name, Adam gave a start, dropping the tractor, again shaking the building.

Lilith’s eyes widened. “Baron Wulfenbach! Here?”

Agatha looked at her in surprise. “Yes. He’s taken the town. You didn’t notice?”

Lilith looked embarrassed. “I’ve been canning all morning—” she looked at Agatha again, “Klaus Wulfenbach. Are you sure?”

“Lilith, I work in the main lab. I was right there. I saw the whole thing!”

Lilith only looked more worried. “Did he see you?”

“Dr. Beetle introduced all of us.”

“Yes, of course he did. Why shouldn’t he? How did—?” Suddenly a look of horror crossed Lilith’s face and she grabbed Agatha and lifted her up before her eyes. “Your locket!” she exclaimed. “Where’s your locket?”

Agatha looked surprised at the turn of the conversation. “I was robbed. By two soldiers.”

“Wulfenbach soldiers?”

“I… I don’t think so. They looked too shabby.”

Lilith set Agatha back down and turned to Adam. “We’ve got to find it!” Adam nodded.

Agatha interrupted. “With everything else that’s happened— that’s what you think is important?” Adam and Lilith looked at each other, unspoken communication passed between them.

Lilith’s face took on an expression that Agatha knew as “I’ll explain this when you’re older,” a look that at eighteen, she no longer had any patience for. “Your uncle was very clear. You must

always wear—”

“Dr. Beetle is dead! Don’t you understand?”

“Agatha, when your uncle left you with us, he told us things we’d need to know if—”

“If he didn’t come back! Things I needed to know! Well what are you waiting for? It’s been eleven years! Maybe… maybe he never meant to come back at all and—”

Adam’s vast hand dropped gently onto her shoulder, cutting her off in mid-word. The look in his eyes as he slowly and deliberately shook his head conveyed the message that whatever else, her uncle had never intended to leave for good.

Lilith nodded in agreement. “Agatha, your uncle loves you very much. Almost as much as we do.” With a sigh, Agatha allowed herself to be enfolded by the arms of the two constructs. The quiet minute that followed would be one of Agatha’s most poignant memories.

It was ended by Lilith straightening up and assuming her no-nonsense voice. “Now. Agatha, Adam and I are going out. There are a few things you must do. We’re leaving Beetleburg. Pack everything of importance to you, but it must fit into your green rucksack. No more than two sets of clothes, but take two extra sets of stockings, the thick wool ones, and linens.”

Agatha blinked in surprise. “Leaving town? But the shop! Our house! Your canning!”

Lilith nodded. “It can’t be helped. If Baron Wulfenbach has taken the town then we have got to leave.” Agatha opened her mouth, but Lilith cut her off. “Once we are on the road, I’ll answer everything, but now there is no time. Prepare similar packs for Adam and myself, as well as the blue shouldersack that is already packed in our closet and—” she paused, and seemed embarrassed, “Our generator.”

Agatha looked somber. “We really are leaving.”

Lilith nodded and looked around the cozy room. “Yes. I’m afraid so.” While they were talking, Adam strode over to the fireplace. Lifting aside the rag rug, he exposed a stone tile over a meter square set into the floor. In the center was an indentation that was revealed to be a handle, as Adam grasped it and effortlessly lifted. The tile was revealed to be a cube that easily slid from the hole with the sound of stone on stone. Depositing it to the side, he leaned in and lifted out a thick money belt, as well as several small canvas bundles, before smoothly sliding the block back into place.

Lilith continued. “Then you must clean the house.” Agatha opened her mouth, but Lilith raised her hand. “Start a fire in the fireplace. Burn everything in the red cabinet. This is very important, Agatha. When you’re done with that, I want you to disassemble our two spare generators and scatter the parts around the shop. Then go through the house and if you find anything that you think would tell someone that the people living here were constructs, get rid of it.”

“You’re terrified of Baron Wulfenbach finding you.”

“Yes. And you should be too.” She forestalled Agatha’s next outburst. “Tomorrow. Now Adam and I will go and check the pawnshops and jewelers for your locket. If it’s not there, we’ll talk to Master Vulpen and see if it has made its way onto the Thieves’ Market. In any case, if we’re not back, make sure all the doors are locked, be in bed by eight o’clock and ready to leave by dawn.”

“The Baron has established a curfew,” Agatha warned her. “He’s using clanks and those creepy Jägermonster things.”

Adam and Lilith looked at each other. To her surprise, Agatha saw that they were more relaxed than she had seen them in quite a while. “Really? It’ll be like old times then. Now get to work, lock the door, put up the ‘Away’ sign, and don’t let anyone in while we’re gone.”

“Okay.” Agatha headed up the stairs. “Be careful.”

Adam and Lilith watched her go. Lilith allowed herself a brief fierce hug with Adam. “Confound the master,” she muttered into his vast chest, as he tenderly patted her head. “We’re not equipped to deal with this. Eleven years! Where can he be?”

Three hours later, Agatha sat wearily on her bed. She had tackled the cleaning of the house first, then the dismantling of the generators. Although she knew that Adam and Lilith were constructs, her parents had never talked about who had created them. Agatha suspected the reason had something to do with the competence of that unknown Spark or, rather, the lack thereof. There were numerous flaws with the pair, such as Adam’s inability to speak. The most painful to them was their inability to have children. The most embarrassing was the lack of care that had been taken when assembling them regarding things like uniformity of skin tone, and Lilith’s left eye, which was noticeably larger than her right. When she was younger, Agatha had pointed out that the variegated skin revealed that at least their creators had been equal opportunity exhumers, while her mismatched eyes were a flaw shared by the famous Heterodyne construct, Judy, and thus no detriment. Lilith’s reaction to this statement had always puzzled the youngster. It was only as she got older that she realized that the Heterodyne plays that were performed at fairs and circuses by traveling players consistently portrayed the Heterodyne Boys’ construct servants as buffoons, and that none of the constructs that her family knew enjoyed these plays. Agatha had thus realized that constructs were considered second-class citizens, and explained her parents’ efforts to keep their status as such hidden.

But the most annoying flaw in their construction was that they were unable to maintain the charge that gave them life. Periodically, they had to hook each other up to a small hand-cranked generator and re-vitalize themselves. At a young age Agatha had once stumbled upon them during this process and had suffered nightmares for several weeks as a result. The generator was never talked about except when absolutely necessary.

Agatha looked around her room now, and mentally packed the large rucksack at her feet. No matter how she did it, there were things she loved that were going to have to be left behind.

Before Adam and Lilith, she had lived with her Uncle Barry. All she could remember about him was that he was a large, good-natured man who was very good at repairing things, seemed very worried about things he couldn’t talk about, and who would, without warning, periodically uproot them from whatever town they had established themselves in and have them travel for days, sometimes for weeks, to another town.

In the beginning Agatha had thought it was fun. But as she got older, she realized that she had no friends. Partially this was caused by their constant travel, and partially by the fuzzyheadedness that began to increase its hold upon her thinking around that time. Upon their arrival in a new location, children could tell that there was something not quite right about the newcomer, and with the casual sadism of the young, proceeded to give her a hard time. After an especially cruel series of pranks, which even her perennially preoccupied uncle had noticed, they had come to Beetleburg, and the Clays, where she had found the loving stability she had so desperately needed.

She remembered the guarded joy she had felt when the Clays had told her that this was her room. For quite a while, she tried to do as little to it as possible, convinced that they would soon leave. It had started out as a simple, bare attic, but as time passed, Agatha had begun to devote a great deal of time to it, and now it was a thing of beauty.

At a young age, Adam had shown her how to carve wood, a skill many machinists honed, as they often had to design and forge their own parts. Her early efforts defaced the bottoms of newel posts and cabinet doors, but eventually she began to develop a grace and geometric precision that allowed a profusion of cunningly interlaced designs to cover many of the wooden surfaces. The ceiling had been painted a dark blue and covered with bright yellow, white and orange stars. Hanging from the ceiling were various objects that Agatha found interesting: a gigantic dried sunflower (which she had been convinced was the result of some Spark’s biological tinkering), a stuffed iguana she had discovered in a musty old junk shop, an airship kite that her uncle had built for her long ago, and a Roman sword that Dr. Beetle had discovered while digging the foundation for a new building. Crammed on shelves were her precious books, fossils, unusual bits of madboy tech, clocks, and a small misshapen clay dog that a boy had given her when she was eight.

On the shelf in front of her single window were racks containing pots of plants, some common herbs, some exotic and strange things that she had collected from the spice shops or the Tyrant’s Botanical Gardens.

It would all have to be left behind.

Even, and the thought filled her eyes with tears, her work table, a vast swivel-topped affair that Adam had constructed in secret for her one Yuletide several years ago. All that remained on it were her drafting tools, her notebooks, and the remains of the few, painfully few, devices she had constructed that actually worked: the butter clock, the air-driven quill sharpener, the hooting machine, and the wind-up hammer. They had already been dismantled, and that had been the hardest thing to do. With a groan she allowed herself to fall back onto the bed in despair.

They had all lived together happily for several months, and Uncle Barry had made the occasional trip while leaving Agatha in the care of the Clays. Agatha had vague memories of a growing tension amongst the grownups, which culminated in a late night argument she could dimly hear from her bedroom. The next morning, the tension appeared to have cleared and Barry announced that he was going on another trip. A lengthy one, that might take as long as two months. He had written three times: once from Mechanicsburg, the home of the fabled Heterodyne Boys; once from Paris; and over a year later, a much travel-stained letter, full of disquieting and vague ramblings, that was found to have been slid under the Clays’ front door while they had been outside the city picking apples.

It was the last they had heard from or of him.

The thought of returning to that wandering lifestyle filled her with apprehension and she felt her head begin to throb in a peculiar way that left her feeling dizzy.

“Maybe a short nap,” she muttered, and stripped down to her camisole and pantalets before burrowing under the covers. A thought eased its way to the forefront of her mind even as she felt herself begin to slide into sleep: her whole day had started going wrong when that electrical phenomenon had appeared. But bizarre things occurred all the time, such as last week’s sudden mimmoth infestation. The tiny pachyderms had been discovered living in the sewers, and an ill-thought-out poisoning scheme had seen the creatures emerging from drains in alarming numbers and establishing themselves in houses all over town.

No, the problems had really begun when those two soldiers had stolen her locket. Agatha’s last coherent thought as she succumbed to sleep was “I wish I could get my hands on them.”

In a small, cheap rooming house, the objects of Agatha’s thoughts were reaping the results of that morning’s encounter. Moloch paced back and forth in the tiny room, as a lean man wearing a long white apron over his suit examined Omar. Moloch’s brother was stretched out unconscious upon the room’s single bed. The doctor removed his stethoscope and leaned back with a hiss of annoyance.

Moloch turned towards him. “Please, Herr Doctor, can’t you help him? What’s wrong with him?”

The doctor tugged at his small beard in frustration. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this. This man should be in a hospital.”

Moloch shuddered. “Oh no, I saw enough of them in the war.”

“I don’t mean one of those butcher shop field hospitals. Ours is fully equipped and your brother needs—”

“What? What does he need? What could they do? You don’t even know what’s wrong with him!”

The doctor opened his mouth, hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly. “Yes. No fever, no chills. No respiratory problems, no sweating, no convulsions—But… it’s like he’s… shutting down, like…”

“Like a boiler when you’ve blocked the air intakes.”

The doctor looked at him with mild surprise and nodded. “Yes. Well put, young man.”

Moloch ignored the compliment and leaned over the unconscious man. “Ach, Omar,” he muttered, “you’re a jerk, but you’re all I have left. Fight it!” He slapped his brother’s face but got no response.

Behind his back, the doctor’s look of worry increased. “How long has he been like this? Days? Weeks?”

Moloch shook his head. “He started to feel dizzy, um… a little before twelve hundred. He got more and more disorientated and collapsed around fifteen. Towards the end he had trouble talking, and I… I don’t even think he knew who I was. He passed out around sundown.”

The doctor looked shaken. “That quickly? Dios,” he muttered. “How do you feel?”

Moloch looked surprised at the question. “Me? Okay, I guess, why?”

“I’m trying to decide if I should have you moved to the hospital along with your brother.”

“What? But I’m not—”

The doctor was paging through a book he had removed from his medical bag. He stopped and looked Moloch in the eye. “Listen, von Zinzer, was it? This could be some sort of plague.”

Moloch went white. “Plague?”

The doctor nodded. “The big question is how contagious it is. Aside from hospitalization, my other option is to quarantine the pair of you in this inn. You talk to anyone other than the innkeeper?”

“No, there weren’t any customers when we—”

“Praise be for that. Where do you work?”

“Nowhere. I mean, we just hit town this morning.”

The doctor made a small grunt of satisfaction at this news and made another checkmark in his book. “Mm. Probably something you picked up outside then. Eat anything unusual? Find anything odd?”

“Odder than Beetle Beer? No, we—”Suddenly Omar convulsed upon the bed. A strangled groan came from his mouth. Moloch and the doctor were at his side instantly.

“Omar?” Omar’s head whipped from side to side twice, froze in position, and a deep final breath rattled from him as he sagged back into stillness. Moloch knew he was dead even before the doctor checked his brother’s pulse and then drew the sheet over his head. In the silence, the sound of something hitting the floor echoed through the small room with unnatural loudness. In death, Omar’s hands, which had been clutched for hours, had relaxed, and Agatha’s locket had dropped to the floor.

The doctor reached down, examined it briefly, and handed it over to Moloch. “I’m sure it gave him some comfort.” Moloch looked at him blankly, the locket clutched in his hand. The doctor continued, “I myself don’t know whether the Heterodyne Boys will actually come back someday, but I do believe that we should live our lives as if they were. People like your brother, who try to make the world a better place, do so by the very act of trying. I’m sure the Heterodynes would have been proud of him.”

Moloch looked woodenly at the locket and then back at the doctor, who changed the subject as he donned his hat and greatcoat. “I’m afraid I must be going. Now listen up, soldier. I’m confining you to this room. I’ll have a medical disposal team up here before dawn for your brother. You can relax, our Dr. Beetle doesn’t permit unauthorized resurrectionists in this town. You’ll be fed and examined for the next week and after that you’ll be free to go. So sit tight soldier, and we’ll do our best.” And with that he slipped out and shut the door behind him.

Moloch grimaced. “Reckon Omar and me have seen your ‘best.’” He turned to glare at the sheet-covered form. “You idiot!

Your last act on earth is to steal from a townie and leave me stuck holding the evidence waiting for her to report me. That’s making the world a better place, huh? Leaving me stuck like a sitting duck!” In his fury he threw the locket against the wall where it smashed open with a bright blue flare and the sounds of gears scattering. A smell of ozone filled the room and brought Moloch up short. “What the…?”

He bent down and gingerly picked up a few bits of the locket. It had contained a pair of portraits, a handsome-looking man and woman. But hidden behind the portraits were the smashed remains of delicate machinery. Machinery that Moloch was totally unfamiliar with.

He muttered as he gathered together the bits from the floor. “Too complicated to be a watch. Not a music box. I’ve never seen anything like this…” A chill swept over him. “This is madboy stuff.” He examined it again. “But what did it do?” He raised his eyes and found himself looking at Omar’s body.

With a cry he leapt back, scattering bits of locket across the floor. After a moment, he gingerly picked up the larger pieces and examined them again, to ascertain that it was indeed broken. Of this there could be no doubt.

“This is what killed Omar,” he muttered. “He started acting strange right after he stole it from that girl…” A new thought emerged. “The girl! She was wearing it and it wasn’t killing her. She must have… turned it on, somehow. She knew it’d do him, the black-hearted—wait! Wasn’t there a note?”

He turned the locket over and indeed there was lettering engraved upon the back:

If found, please return to Agatha Clay Clay Mechanical Forge Street, Beetleburg. REWARD

Moloch grabbed his greatcoat and slung it on as he left the room. “A reward, huh? I’ll give her a reward a’right, and she’ll be making no reports when I’m done with her either.”

Agatha was very small. She ran into a large room filled with tools and machines and things that she didn’t understand, but knew were full of magic, mystery and excitement. At the center of this collection sat the master of the magic, her uncle Barry. He was a large shadowy figure hunched over a workbench, where something full of gears and springs grew under his tools. “Hey, Uncle Barry,” Agatha cried as she entered. “I learned a trick!”

The large man paused and slowly turned to look at her. Even now his face was in shadow. A small set of spectacles glinted in the light from his bench. “A trick?” he enquired.

Agatha nodded, and jumped up and down in place with excitement. “Yeah! You know how when you’ retryin’ to think and there’s noise and stuff botherin’ you? Well I found out I can make other noises in my head and it makes the botherin’ noise stop! And then I can think real good! Listen!” With that she stopped jumping, serenely folded her hands and began to hum, no, to whistle? To buzz? No… It was all of these and yet none of them, a soft melodic sound that you couldn’t call music, but…

The effect of this performance upon Uncle Barry was electric. He stiffened in shock and the handle of the screwdriver clutched in his hand cracked. His voice was strained. “You… no! It can’t be!” Agatha hummed on obliviously. “You’re only five years old! You’re too young! You’ve got to stop!” His large hands shot out and grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her. Agatha kept on humming. She could no longer stop, even as her uncle cried, “I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do! I don’t—”

A particularly violent jerk snapped Agatha awake. She was slumped over a table—another jerk—someone was grabbing her hair!

She twisted around enough to see that her assailant was one of the soldiers who had accosted her this morning! Without thinking she swung her left hand and the large spanner she was grasping connected with Moloch’s jaw and sent him crashing to the ground.

Agatha blinked in surprise and examined the tool in her hand. “Where did this come from?” she muttered, and then noticed that the hand holding it was black with grease and dirt. With a cry, she saw that both of her hands were dirty up to the elbow, as was her underwear—

Her underwear? But she was in the middle of Adam’s shop floor! A wild look around showed her that tools were scattered and parts were littered across the floor. Heat still radiated from the great welding torch and, most astonishing, the tall double doors to the street were wide open.

As Agatha hurried to close them, she saw that outside, in the first light of dawn, a small crowd had gathered to help the ironmonger across the way right his wagon, which appeared to have been overturned in the night.

Slamming the doors closed and surveying the disheveled workshop and the unconscious soldier, Agatha could only mutter to herself, “What’s happened?”