celebrations, the years that were dry of comets and dark signs in the sky? Why, they bothered him and his friends, of course. As usual, the cultist seemed curiously attracted by the pull of Molly's gravity.
'It's not too late,' cried the would-be prophet, his beard tinged crimson from standing in the rain too long.
'It is for you, lad,' said Commodore Black. 'Your boat sailed from port a long time ago, I think.'
The madman ignored the aging u-boat officer and reserved his spittle for Molly. It was as if he understood there was something special about her. 'The portents, are you blind to the portents in the heavens? A rain of blood on the blessed land of Jackals, our green hills and valleys soaked with it. It is the age of the Broken Circle.'
'The comet's gone, old timer,' Molly said kindly. 'It passed us by.'
Commodore Black muttered a sailor's curse and waved his cane – a spring-loaded swordstick concealed inside, in the event this lunatic turned violent – motioning their hansom cab to make haste.
'Gone?' moaned the cultist, as if the news was a revelation to him. 'It is gone? No. It will come back to us. Make a furnace of destruction of Jackals and all who live in our land. We must meditate now for salvation. Come with me and meditate in my lodgings, lady. Come meditate with me before the world ends.'
'I hardly think so,' said Coppertracks. 'Ashby's Comet is heading towards the sun, I have been following its passage with my own telescope from the top of Tock House.'
'The portents!' wailed the cultist, trying to infect them with the deep despair he obviously felt. 'The Broken Circle.'
'I am afraid it is your logic that is broken,' explained Coppertracks. 'In my experience, the great pattern of existence carries a substantial weight with it. More than enough to survive a few knocks and jolts of celestial mechanics. Now be a good mammal and run along, I rather fear your proximity to us is putting off the driver of the licensed carriage we have hailed.'
Molly watched the man shamble off, his wooden placard swaying above his shoulders, and she smiled as she noticed the sudden distractions that seemed to engage everyone else walking along the street as the cultist approached them.
'In the desert,' noted Molly, 'there are nomads who believe people like him are holy, connected to a deeper truth through their affliction.'
'And in the lanes of Middlesteel there are people like me who believe he has been connecting with a pint too many and an ounce of mumbleweed smoked on the top of it,' said the commodore. 'Don't you go paying any attention to his ramblings, lass.'
With the placard waver now sermonizing his beliefs further down the street, the hansom cab pulled up before them. Commodore Black opened the door and Molly stepped around a pile of manure that a previous cab's horse had deposited on the cobbles.
It was then that the vision struck Molly's skull, entering it like a spear. The layers of the capital peeled back to be replaced by a white, featureless vista. Of her friends from Tock House there was no sign. Breaking the dimensionless purity, the only landmark in this strange new realm was a brilliantly glowing sphere hovering above the ground. It was the size of a bathysphere, with a single silver eye sitting on its top. Molly picked herself up off her knees, her skin tingling with the familiar presence of the thing. The Hexmachina! Sometime saviour of the Kingdom of Jackals – of the entire world.
'Operator,' said the Hexmachina, a gentle child's face forming across its surface. 'You can hear my words?'
'Yes,' said Molly, stumbling through the white void, trying to reach the safety of the Hexmachina. Of course she could hear its words. She could wield the machine like a god-slaying sword if she could only get close enough to pilot it.
'This realm is not real,' warned the Hexmachina, sensing her intentions. 'You cannot pilot me here. This is a construct, a simulation I am using to communicate with your mind.'
Molly stopped trying to navigate the featureless realm. 'Where are you, then? Are you still riding the currents of magma under the earth?'
'No. I am fleeing, operator,' said the Hexmachina, the child's face assuming a look of desperation. 'My lover the Earth is trying to protect me, but her warmth and the life of our world is no longer enough. Her powers are being subverted and with them the powers that I can draw upon in turn. I need you…'
Already giddy in the dimensionless white space, Molly was left reeling by the unsettling implications of the Hexmachina's plea for help. This was the machine that had once helped her defeat a slavering army of mad demon revolutionaries and their allies from the nation of Quatershift. What could possibly overwhelm something as powerful as the Hexmachina?
'Are the ancient enemy trying to breach the walls of the world again?'
The Hexmachina's voice carried as an echo across the space. 'No, Molly, this threat is not something that I was designed to defend against. My pursuers are operating firmly across our level of reality, and they know the fabric of the world as well as I do myself. This is a force manipulating the channels of earthflow, sabotaging the leylines, turning my own techniques and cunning against me. They are masters at it.'
'But you must be close,' pleaded Molly, 'I can see you, hear you. Rise to the surface and I can pilot you. Together we can-'
'No, I am far from your location. I created a channel between us within your mind, Molly, before we took our leave of each other after the last war. When you were the only operator left alive in Jackals.'
'There are others born with the gift now, operators other than me?'
Hovering above the shiny material of the sphere, the child's face nodded in confirmation. 'Hundreds have passed through their age of puberty in the years that have passed, those who share the blood of your distant kin. But while the blood of those that can pilot me is carried by a new generation, they may soon not have a craft left to direct.'
The white expanse trembled, distortions washing through it like waves. Molly fell over. As she picked herself up, she saw that the facsimile of the Hexmachina was being absorbed slowly into the ground, the featureless white plain that bore their weight becoming an albino quicksand.
'Stay back,' shouted the Hexmachina as Molly ran towards the god-machine. 'The purpose of this mental construct is to allow us to communicate without your position being traced. Do not touch my avatar's skin, or my attackers will be able to mark your position.'
'What is happening to you?'
'I am being frozen,' cried the Hexmachina, its female voice growing fainter. 'Sealed within the heart of the Earth inside a tomb of modified diamond-lattice carbons. I have never seen the building blocks of matter being manipulated so adroitly, my own powers leeched, vampirized, to strengthen the bonds of my captivity.'
'But you must be able to escape,' pleaded Molly. 'In the name of the Circle, you're the Hexmachina. Who has the might to trap you?'
'Locusts, despoilers. What are they, indeed? It is almost as if they understand the principles of my construction, but that would mean… no, no it cannot be…'
'Please!' Molly tried to scrabble around the featureless floor, searching for a way to stop the Hexmachina from disappearing.
'You must stop them, Molly, my beautiful young operator,' whispered the child's face, rising up the side of the Hexmachina's hull as the god-machine was submerged. 'You alone, this time. I cannot help you in this struggle. Seek out the scheme of defence: together you may be able to save Jackals.'
'I haven't seen Oliver Brooks for years,' said Molly. 'Not since he started wearing that stupid hood and scaring the constabulary out in the shires.'
The child's face, the Hexmachina's body, had almost disappeared. 'You – this – the comet, it is the-'
With a snap reality returned and Molly found herself lying in the gutter in the shadow of the hansom cab, Commodore Black splashing crimson-tinged rainwater over her face.
'Ah, lass, I told you that you've been working too hard on your novels, too much time spent crouching over a writing table, knocking around the dusty corridors of Tock House with the likes of Coppertracks and myself, rather than accepting the invitations of those gentlemen callers whose cards pile up unanswered in our hall.'
Blood was running down Molly's face, her nose leaking a stream of it. 'The Hood-o'the-marsh, Oliver Brooks.'
