Mr. Stitch

…and saw gnashing teeth, each the size of his hand, black eyes and blue light casting the shadows of monstrous faces everywhere…

…felt brass inside his mind, cold metal gears that were stacked up and meshed together, turning and grinding his thoughts away, icy axles of metal thrust deep into his dreams, a machine built in his thoughts and it lurched to shuddering, limping life…

…and he was pulled from the icy water in an explosion of coughing and hacking, cold and pain falling on him like an landslide. His head throbbed like it was trapped in a vise, and there was a mortal agony screaming in his side. His hands and feet were completely numb, and his joints felt full of broken glass and shrapnel, shrieking with blinding pain whenever he tried to move. He lay on his back on a cold stone ledge, beside a river in a vast tunnel. A few fitful phlogiston lamps burned at regular intervals, providing a wash of eerie, flickering light around the people that surrounded him-men with long jaws and huge teeth, black eyes and grey pebbled skin.

Sharpsies, Beckett thought, barely able to form the word as he coughed up dirty river water and struggled mightily to get air into his lungs, How can there still be sharpsies here? He closed his eyes then, and it was dark. When he reopened them, he was somewhere else, next to a roaring red fire, stripped of his coat and jacket, listening to more sharpsies argue in their guttural, choking language. Beneath their arguments, faintly as though at some great distance, he thought he could hear gears whirling. One of the sharpsies turned its black eyes on Beckett; the old man tried to move, but found that his body had been weighted down with a hundred tons of lead. The sharpsie pressed a bowl to Beckett’s lips, and he felt some hot liquid in his mouth. He tried to spit it back, but his body-desperately hungry and thirsty-betrayed him, swallowing the bitter broth down almost instantly. There was a faint, familiar aftertaste, the metallic tang of veneine…

He opened his eyes again, and the fire had burned down to warm coals, though the room was still stifling hot. Where is this? Beckett wondered, as he tried to move again, and still found his body impossibly heavy. Two sharpsies paced restlessly about the room with their springing strides and, briefly, Beckett thought he saw the hunched silhouette of a leech-fingered man. It was gone before he could work any saliva into his painfully dry mouth. He wanted to speak, to call out to his captors, but closed his eyes instead.

He awoke again, for a bare instant, just long enough to read his surroundings. Cold and dark, but aboveground now, it was night-time. Raining. More blue lamps, with no red fire to set off their eerie light. He was hunched painfully in a wooden wheelbarrow, his neck craned at an uncomfortable angle, his arm hanging over the side and quite devoid of circulation. A sharpsie in a long coat and a deep hood that was meant to obscure his enormous predator’s teeth pushed the wheelbarrow, creaking along in the dark. The veneine kept him suspended, up and free from the cramped confines of his body. He was aware of the discomfort, of wanting to speak, of his nagging worry, but all of these things were true only at a distance. The only thing that was close to him now was a sudden nearness of the sound of turning gears, as though he were a few steps closer to the imaginary clock. He thought he should try to speak again, but the veneine sapped the urge, and he was content to float, as the light dimmed and he found himself in the dark, again.

“Beckett? Detective Beckett?”

There was a ringing in his ears, and his vision was blurred and muddled. Beckett cough and rasped. “What. What is…?”

“It is professor Helmetag, sir. Ernst.”

Beckett bolted upright; his head spun and throbbed, but his vision cleared. He was laying on an operating table, in the warmly-lit corner of Wolfram Hall that had been staked about by professor Helmetag. The sound of spinning gears was gone, but still plucked at the corners of his awareness, now by virtue of its absence-a phantom of missing sound. The veneine high had faded, so now Beckett felt the traditional symptoms of a hangover: throbbing pain in his head, boiling nausea in his stomach, a disinterest in Ernst Helmetag’s loud voice.

“Sharpsies,” Beckett gasped. “Where…how did they…?”

Helmetag looked befuddled. “There are no sharpsies, here, no. There are no sharpsies in the city at all, I think.”

“I saw…how did I get here?”

“You were crumpled up,” Helmetag said. “On the doorstep. I thought you were a vagrant at first, I am sorry to say, and was going to report you to the gendarmerie. But I recognized…you have a, ah, a distinctive face…”

“What,” Beckett said again. “What happened?”

“You were d-injured, badly. Nearly dead. I have certain…ah.” Ernst scratched at his massive moustache. “Certain means. There was some vitality left in your cells that can be re-envigorated…”

Did I hallucinate the sharpsies? And the towers? Why would there be sharpsies in the city? “What do you mean, re-envigorated?”

“Envigorated, anyway. You must understand, it is a delicate thing, the line between the living and the dead, but you were certainly alive.”

The old coroner put his face in his hands and sighed. I would like for one year to go by, he thought to himself, without being nearly killed. “It’s fine. Thank. Thank you.” His head hurt abominably. “I need…ah.” He coughed phlegm from his throat. “Medicine. Veneine.”

“Yes, that,” Ernst nodded enthusiastically. “I hope you’ll understand. You were in withdrawal, you see? This is a very stressful condition for the body, so it was necessary to administer…well, you understand, your veins, many of them were badly damaged, so I needed to take steps…”

Beckett looked up at him. “What steps?” Ernst said nothing. “What steps?” He looked down at his forearms. Affixed to the inside of his right arm, buried directly in the pale flesh and surrounded by livid blood vessels, was a round brass plug.

“It is sealed,” Helmetag said quietly, “with ichor, much the way a knocker’s eyeplate is. I have attached it directly to your radial artery.” He fumbled in a pocket in his apron, and withdrew a few brass modules that looked like rifle shells. “Each one has a pre-measured amount of pharmacy-a combination of veneine, djang extract, and salt water. You plug it in, let me show you…” He set the shell again the plug in Beckett’s arm and twisted it.

Beckett gasped as he felt a sting like a needle prick, and then a sensation of spreading cold that rapidly vanished. Immediately, his headache and nausea subsided, the metallic taste in the back of his mouth disappeared.

“You must be careful,” Helmetag said. “These are smaller than what I think you must have been dosing yourself with. You must not increase the dosage, do you understand? Your body will acclimate, it will become very dangerous.”

“How many do you have?” Beckett asked.

“You do understand, yes? You cannot let your craving for the drug determine how much you take…”

“How many?”

Ernst went to his desk and drew out a dark, walnut-colored box. “We use these for testing on animals. I can give you a hundred now, you cannot take more than five a day. You are still sick, yes? Your life is hanging on by a thread…”

If Ernst Helmetag had any further enjoinders to caution, Beckett was not inclined to listen to them. He took the box, gathered up his clothes, and set off into the cold rain. He did not notice the faint, distant sound of spinning gears had begun again.

Thirty-One

Have solved Chretien’s problem with the eyes. The matter was trivial. Have simply built artificial eyes using lenses and a tympanum that is sensitive to light, attached to optical ganglions from a man picked from the gallows. Work on the thinking-engine continues.

— from the journal of Harcourt Wolfram, 1785