Read Online Clockwork Angels: The Novel by Kevin J. & Peart Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin J. & Peart Anderson
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insects.
And the honey, liquid gold just like the gold his alchemy created—but created through the alchemy of insects, an arcane transformation from nectar by the biological processes of bees. Not even his most brilliant alchemist-priests could reproduce it. The Watchmaker kept his own bees for recreation, for study. Little wonder that he had chosen the bee as his personal symbol, a reminder to all people of the sweet, perfect order of the Stability. . . .
He looked at the blueprints before him—an expanded wing for the Alchemy College; a new steamline spur line to bring in processed copper and molybdenum from the strike in the northeast; a modified design for cargo steamers so they could better weather the storms as they crossed the Western Sea from Atlantis, laden with vital alchemical supplies.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
At 10:30 a.m. the commander of the elite Black Watch marched in and presented his report. “All is well, sir,” he said, as he did every day. “All is as it should be, and all is for the best.”
He handed over a summary document, which the Watchmaker skimmed. It was the same as yesterday and the day before, neatly handwritten with close attention to detail. The Black Watch commander could have used a printing press to run off the document day after day, but the Watchmaker did not encourage complacency, especially with that mad dog, the Anarchist, trying to ruin perfection.
The man had so much potential, so much failure. . . .
The Watch commander departed at 10:45, and the Watchmaker remembered with a sad wistfulness that it was time to walk the dog, as he had done for years. Curled on the rug in his office near the window was his Dalmatian, Martin; a perfect dog, well trained, never a bother, with a white coat and a wonderful randomness of spots (one had to allow for a certain amount of Nature’s unpreventable disorder). The Dalmatian did not shed, was not disruptively playful; he would sit when commanded to do so, and he heeled whenever the Watchmaker called him. Yes, a perfect dog. Martin looked so beautiful there on the rug.
Unfortunately, the clockwork of biology had run down; dog years were different from human years, although when viewed through human eyes, the loss still felt deep and painful to him. Martin had died four years ago. Not wanting to disrupt his daily routine, the Watchmaker had appointed Albion’s best taxidermist to stuff and mount the dog so that he sat, curled up in his accustomed place all day long, a comforting bit of Stability for the Watchmaker himself. He had decided this solution was better than getting a new dog.
Fortunately, his sophistication with the subtleties of alchemy, biological hydraulics, and hair-fine clockwork mechanisms allowed the Watchmaker to overcome even the obstacle of Martin’s death. Opening the locked drawer of his desk, he withdrew an eyedropper filled with an intensely luminous fluid, liquid electricity . . . distilled quintessence.
The dog wasn’t his first experiment, and certainly not his best, but still very important to the Watchmaker. This was Martin . He petted the spotted fur on the dog’s back, found the small access hatch that revealed the clockwork heart and hydraulic muscle motivators, and squeezed two drops of the shimmering fluid into the animation battery.
He just had time to seal the hidden access hatch again and replace the eyedropper in the drawer before Martin became active, rising up on his four legs, wagging his tail in a perfect metronome. The Watchmaker smiled. So much better than a real dog’s regrettable messes or spontaneous behavior.
He caught himself pondering, listening to the heavy ticking of the huge clock. 10:55 a.m.—time to visit his alchemist-priests for the daily inspection. “Come on, Martin. Let’s go for your walk.”
Crown City was the heart of Albion, and Chronos Square was the heart of Crown City. In the catacombs beneath the great clocktower, the Watchmaker could see the actual alchemical
And the honey, liquid gold just like the gold his alchemy created—but created through the alchemy of insects, an arcane transformation from nectar by the biological processes of bees. Not even his most brilliant alchemist-priests could reproduce it. The Watchmaker kept his own bees for recreation, for study. Little wonder that he had chosen the bee as his personal symbol, a reminder to all people of the sweet, perfect order of the Stability. . . .
He looked at the blueprints before him—an expanded wing for the Alchemy College; a new steamline spur line to bring in processed copper and molybdenum from the strike in the northeast; a modified design for cargo steamers so they could better weather the storms as they crossed the Western Sea from Atlantis, laden with vital alchemical supplies.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
At 10:30 a.m. the commander of the elite Black Watch marched in and presented his report. “All is well, sir,” he said, as he did every day. “All is as it should be, and all is for the best.”
He handed over a summary document, which the Watchmaker skimmed. It was the same as yesterday and the day before, neatly handwritten with close attention to detail. The Black Watch commander could have used a printing press to run off the document day after day, but the Watchmaker did not encourage complacency, especially with that mad dog, the Anarchist, trying to ruin perfection.
The man had so much potential, so much failure. . . .
The Watch commander departed at 10:45, and the Watchmaker remembered with a sad wistfulness that it was time to walk the dog, as he had done for years. Curled on the rug in his office near the window was his Dalmatian, Martin; a perfect dog, well trained, never a bother, with a white coat and a wonderful randomness of spots (one had to allow for a certain amount of Nature’s unpreventable disorder). The Dalmatian did not shed, was not disruptively playful; he would sit when commanded to do so, and he heeled whenever the Watchmaker called him. Yes, a perfect dog. Martin looked so beautiful there on the rug.
Unfortunately, the clockwork of biology had run down; dog years were different from human years, although when viewed through human eyes, the loss still felt deep and painful to him. Martin had died four years ago. Not wanting to disrupt his daily routine, the Watchmaker had appointed Albion’s best taxidermist to stuff and mount the dog so that he sat, curled up in his accustomed place all day long, a comforting bit of Stability for the Watchmaker himself. He had decided this solution was better than getting a new dog.
Fortunately, his sophistication with the subtleties of alchemy, biological hydraulics, and hair-fine clockwork mechanisms allowed the Watchmaker to overcome even the obstacle of Martin’s death. Opening the locked drawer of his desk, he withdrew an eyedropper filled with an intensely luminous fluid, liquid electricity . . . distilled quintessence.
The dog wasn’t his first experiment, and certainly not his best, but still very important to the Watchmaker. This was Martin . He petted the spotted fur on the dog’s back, found the small access hatch that revealed the clockwork heart and hydraulic muscle motivators, and squeezed two drops of the shimmering fluid into the animation battery.
He just had time to seal the hidden access hatch again and replace the eyedropper in the drawer before Martin became active, rising up on his four legs, wagging his tail in a perfect metronome. The Watchmaker smiled. So much better than a real dog’s regrettable messes or spontaneous behavior.
He caught himself pondering, listening to the heavy ticking of the huge clock. 10:55 a.m.—time to visit his alchemist-priests for the daily inspection. “Come on, Martin. Let’s go for your walk.”
Crown City was the heart of Albion, and Chronos Square was the heart of Crown City. In the catacombs beneath the great clocktower, the Watchmaker could see the actual alchemical
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