Julius and the Watchmaker (22 page)

‘And what would happen then?'

‘After a short time, a matter of years, the two
actual
timelines would collide. There is not enough energy in the universe to contain two
actual
timelines flowing simultaneously.'

‘My head is beginning to hurt, Mr Flynn.'

‘Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it.'

‘So…there would be two
actual
timelines instead of the usual one
actual
timeline and numerous
potential
timelines?'

‘Correct. And that would lead to time anomalies—time speeding up and slowing down, going into inconvenient loops. Then, as if that's not bad enough, the two timelines would merge, causing one massive explosion of energy, the likes of which this universe has not seen before. We'd all end up in oblivion, wherever that is.'

Julius looked up at Mr Flynn.

‘Remember, Julius, this timeline here will become a potential timeline if we stop the incursion before it happened. The original one—the trunk of the tree—will never have had a Grackack set foot in it. That is the timeline the Guild of Watchmakers has vowed to protect, to keep free from alternate realms, dimensional anomalies, time-paradoxes, time-slips, time-dist—'

‘I'm getting confused again.'

‘But what you told me about that Grackack who time-jumped you here has given me an idea.'

‘It has?'

‘Yes, I agree, it must have been the professor in the guise of a Grackack. And if that's true I think I know where he is.'

The next morning Julius and Mr Flynn strolled along the Thames towards Woolwich. Zettmalins were tethered along the river and buzz-kites, as the Londoners called the gyroflyers, patrolled overhead. Julius was surprised how quickly he got used to seeing Grackacks walking along the pavements and rattling by in steam-carriages.

‘They like to come here to shop,' explained Mr Flynn.

When they arrived at Woolwich Mr Flynn pointed at a worn-out man-of-war moored to the other bank. A seventy-four-gun battleship in its day, but now, with masts sawn off and timbers blackened, it looked like a wounded kraken waiting to die.

‘That's the
Justitia
, young fella, a prison hulk,' said Mr Flynn. ‘When you told me about your adventure in the execution chair and the professor coming to your rescue it reminded me of a rumour that's been going around London since the Grackacks have arrived.'

Julius looked across the Thames. The green water undulated lazily, shimmering in the summer heat and exuding an overpowering stench. Waves lapped against the barnacled hull of the prison hulk. Julius could hear, as faintly as the rustling of grass, the moans and cries of men on the ship.

‘There's five hundred convicts in there. All waiting to be transported to Australia.'

‘Why are you showing me this, Mr Flynn?'

‘Because I think the professor might be among those poor souls.'

Julius spun around. ‘How do you know?'

‘I don't know. But, like I said, there's a rumour that a Grackack prisoner is on board. I didn't pay much attention to it—there are so many wild rumours in London—until you told me about the professor. And if it is the professor in there, then we need to rescue him. If he's been stuck in Grackack form for the last three years, the poor fella will need all the help he can get.'

‘What do you mean, Mr Flynn?'

Mr Flynn sniffed and looked down river. ‘Being in Grackack form for a few hours is a strain—they're not pleasant places to be. Three years will have been hell. I don't even want to think about it.' He turned and walked away.

Julius noticed a figure crouched on the prow of the
Justitia
. When the strange person stood up Julius stained his eyes to make sure they were not playing tricks on him.

‘Mr Flynn, what was that?' he said aghast.

Mr Flynn stopped. ‘That's a clockman, young fella. Springheel's infernal invention. The Grackacks
manufacture
them, if that's the right word, under licence to him. The clockmen guard the prison hulks, among other things. We'll meet Christian Machine tonight at the boxing bout. He's the leader of the clockmen. I'll ask him if there is a Grackack on board.'

‘What if he doesn't want to tell you?' said Julius.

‘Then he'll probably kill me with a single punch,' replied Mr Flynn.

Julius heard the clockmen's footsteps before he saw them. He swallowed hard and stepped closer to Mr Flynn. The hubbub around him quietened to a whisper as the clockmen clunked down the stairs. Julius and about thirty bare-knuckle boxers and sporting swells were crammed into a cellar under the King's Arms in Lambeth. They listened to the sound of clanging footsteps, metal and stone grinding in conflict. Through a fog of cigar smoke Julius saw the first clockman enter. The whispering ceased. Another clockman entered and then another. The three automatons surveyed the silent crowd, only the ticking and whirring of their internal mechanisms made any sound.

Each clockman wore an ill-filling suit of dark, coarse material cut too short at the ankles and wrists. Instead of shoes they had brass feet, each with three splayed toes resembling a bird's foot. Their hands were large in proportion to their bodies. They were finely crafted with brass joints and wooden fingers to be precise but strong. The clockmen were hatless. Their heads stretched forward on necks made of brass rods, hinged in several places for a range of movement. Small circles of wire mesh were where the mouth and ears should be, and there was no attempt to recreate a nose beyond a small ridge of polished brass. Julius was not close enough to see any eyes. From his vantage point he could only make out two shallow, brass cylinders like the ends of telescopes, dark but for the lamplight reflecting in their lenses.

Mr Flynn was first to break the silence. He stepped forward and held out his hand to the first clockman.

‘Welcome, Christian Machine. So glad you could come. The Fancy are honoured by your presence.'

The clockman named Christian Machine slowly lowered its head to look at Mr Flynn's outstretched hand and then tilted it up to look at his face. After a moment's hesitation the automaton extended its arm and they shook hands—two firm shakes. The tension in the air lifted and the rumble of voices erupted. Cigars, too long unattended to, were drawn deep, hip flasks and ale pots put to good use once again.

‘Julius, where are you?' said Mr Flynn, letting go of the automaton's hand and looking through the crowd. ‘Come and meet our friend.'

Julius made his way through the press of bodies, feeling smaller and smaller the closer he got to Christian Machine.

‘Julius, I'd like you to meet Christian Machine: the finest clockman pugilist in London. Christian Machine, I'd like to present Julius Higgins: a fine young fella by any standards.'

Julius held out his hand. The clockman leaned closer to get a clearer view through his telescope eyes; his internal mechanism whirred, clicked and ticked with each movement. Julius felt the cold brass hand enclose his own. His body stiffened, anticipating his hand being crushed. But it was not fear that made him recoil when he looked closely into the automaton's face, it was something else. Deep within the telescope's casings he saw two eyeballs staring out at him. He felt Mr Flynn's reassuring hand on his shoulder and it helped him to hold his fright in check. The eyes appeared to be floating in a liquid, two spheres devoid of the capacity to express emotion or thought.

‘How do you do, sir?' said Julius, as best he could.

There was a chasm of silence as the automaton studied Julius with lifeless eyes.

‘I am well, thank you,' said the clockman.

The sound of the growling voice through the brass mesh made Julius jump. It sounded like ball bearings on a drum skin resonating to assemble words. The brief speech appeared to take its toll on the clockman, but he continued to hold Julius's hand.

‘I'm glad to hear it, sir,' said Julius, after a pause, trying to smile.

This time the clockman merely nodded. He was about to release Julius's hand when he saw Aggie's brass daisy sticking out of the boy's button hole.

Christian Machine's dead eyes stared at it, not moving. Julius could hear the mechanisms ticking and whirring wildly inside the clockman's body.

Mr Flynn broke the spell by slapping them both on the back. ‘Come now fellas, the first bout is set to begin. Follow me, if you please,' he said.

Christian Machine and his two companions followed Mr Flynn to the edge of the boxing square. Their stooping, precise gait reminded Julius of the wading birds on the mud banks of the Thames. They stepped carefully, their bodies inclined forward, hands held in front as if about to pick something up. Their heads constantly moved back and forth and up and down, taking in their surroundings. Each clockman had a small brass plate screwed onto the side of his head. On Christian Machine's it read ‘
CHRISTIAN MACHINE 1839
'. On the next was ‘
WAR MACHINE 1839
', and on the last, ‘
BRASS NIMROD 1840
'.

The first bout of the night was between two young humans. Their inexperience and stage fright made their movements awkward and rash. Still, the crowd cheered them on, impressed by their naïve bravado. The clockmen appeared to be enjoying the fight: their heads snapped back and forth, following the action, and their fingers moved in time with the battling young men as if playing an invisible musical instrument. At the end of the contest, bloodied and bruised, victor and vanquished embraced, receiving pats on the back from the crowd as well as a purse of coins for their trouble.

‘And now, gentlemen,' announced Mr Flynn, standing in the centre of the boxing square. ‘The first mechanical verses human boxing bout of the evening will be between the esteemed clockman, Brass Nimrod, and our very own, and all too human, Stan “the Stone” Atkins, all the way from Blackpool.'

A cheer went up, as Brass Nimrod stepped forward into the square. Two officials strapped padded leather gloves on to his hands.

‘They're to stop the human boxer from getting killed by the first blow,' said Mr Flynn into Julius's ear.

At the other end of the square Stan Atkins was having a billycock hat made of iron placed on his head and strapped tightly under his chin. Then a hinged bar of iron was pulled down from the hat to protect his jaw. That done, the officials strapped a corset made of thin metal struts around his ribs and slipped brass knuckle-dusters onto the four fingers of each hand. The boxer could grip them to deliver a punch, but also open his hands to grapple with his opponent if required. In any other circumstance, Julius thought, Mr Atkins would have looked very comical.

‘We use the new Queensberry Rules, young fella,' said Mr Flynn. ‘We give the human boxer added protection and a brass-knuckle advantage and we hobble the clockman with padded gloves. It makes the bout a bit more even. The aim is for the clockman to knock the man out, or for the man to topple the clockman—or at least to make him touch the ground with a hand or knee.'