The Brass Giant (5 page)

“Solomon always has to work.”

Her brother grinned at her from the head of the table, his face creased with soot. “I'll trade you, if you like.”

“Very funny,” she said, crossing the room to sit on the stool he had saved for her, plopping down between him and Constance. “I'll watch them tonight, but you're trading me for tomorrow,” she said to her sister. “I have to . . . work.”

Constance pushed her springy blonde hair out of her eyes and arched an eyebrow at her. “You never work Monday nights.”

“Well I am tomorrow,” she said. “Trade?”

Her sister rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

After dinner, Petra retired to her corner of the living room and pinned up a threadbare sheet to hide behind, giving her a smidgeon of privacy from everyone else. It was the closest thing to a bedroom she had. She turned the crank on her musical box and let the melody drown out the noise of the playing children as she traced curlicues in the faded green and brown wallpaper, her mind occupied by Emmerich's offer.

Someone pulled back the sheet, interrupting her meditation. Solomon stood over her, his shaggy black hair creased where his hat usually sat. He held a sweet roll covered in icing in his callused hand. “Thought you might want one. Constance brought them.”

“Thanks.”

She took the roll and bit through the thick icing into the soft bread.

Sol sat next to her against the wall. “Tough day?”

“How did you know?”

“I always know,” he said softly, nudging her with his elbow. “So? What happened?”

Petra swallowed another bite of sweet roll and shrugged. “Got in a fight with Tolly, almost got my wages docked, and I turned down a chance to work with a Guild engineer. You?”

“A Guildie?”

She nodded.

“What did he want?”

“He offered me work—­engineering work. Five quid a month to help him redesign a ticker, but . . .”

“But what?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

Sol wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, breathing in his familiar coaly scent. “If some rich bloke offered me money to perform with a troupe in London, I wouldn't hesitate for a second,” he said, hugging her. “This is your chance to do what you love. Take it.”

“It's not the same, Sol.”

“Why not?”

“What if I take the offer and regret it? What if I fail? What if all I prove is that I'm as stupid and worthless as they think I am?”

“Then refuse it,” he said. “Give up your dream of becoming an engineer and work in the pawnshop for the rest of your life, making your twenty pence a week.” He sighed. “Petra, don't give this up because of a little doubt. You
know
you're the best engineer this side of the city. Why not show everyone else that? What's the worst that could happen if you accept?”

She shrugged. “I won't be recognized for my work. The Guild will still refuse to accept me as an engineer. I'll go back to being a shop girl, and nothing will change.”

“So what do you have to lose? Say it does work out. What then? What if accepting this job is your chance to be a Guild engineer?”

Petra thought about it, envisioning herself working in the University workshops, building something spectacular, something that would change the world forever. She would be a celebrated engineer, famous for her contributions to the Guild, for her innovations in clockwork mechanics. And Emmerich Goss was there, helping her work out the designs, calculating figures at her request, building prototypes with her. She had him to thank for it. He insisted she take credit for her contributions to the automaton design, and with his help, she proved to the Guild that she was as good a ticker engineer as any, if not better.

She smiled.

Sol hugged her close. “You can't let this go, Petra. Even if it doesn't work out, you have to at least try. Do it for yourself. Show them that Petra Wade is not just some shop girl from the fourth quadrant. Give yourself that chance. You deserve it.”

“If you say so.” She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in the smell of soot and burning coal baked into his clothes. “Thanks, Sol,” she whispered.

He kissed her on the forehead. “Anytime, you lovely girl.”

 

Chapter 3

P
ETRA
PACED BACK
and forth in front of the pawnshop, the final rays of sunlight fading from the evening sky as night set. The gas lamps along the street hissed and sputtered to life, each glass lantern flaring in a bright explosion of flame before settling on a tame glow, giving light to the darkening street. She paused and checked her pocket watch—­nearly nine o'clock. Emmerich should not be long now.

She glanced up the street, wondering if he would even show. She had spent all of the night before thinking over his offer, considering her answer, if the risk of failure, the risk of humiliation, was worth the chance to prove herself. She wanted to hope for the best, to believe that everything she ever wanted would come true, but her doubts kept her feet firmly on the ground. She doubted Emmerich's sincerity. She doubted herself, her ability to help him.

Most of all, she doubted that her efforts would actually be rewarded. The unfortunate truth still remained—­girls couldn't be engineers, not for the Guild, not for the University. She feared that if she did help Emmerich Goss, the praise for the automaton would all go to him, and there she would be, his forgotten assistant, the girl who did nothing more than follow orders and stayed out of the way when she wasn't needed. At least, once it was all over, she would have the money she needed to make an honest go at becoming a student at the University, even if she had to do it in disguise.

“Miss Wade?”

Petra turned, finding Emmerich Goss looking comfortable in a shirt and trousers, his hands in his pockets and the top buttons of his shirt undone. She envied him his attire, her in her skirts and form-­fitting corset, her work apron tied neatly around her waist. What she would give to be wearing trousers.

“Mr. Goss,” she said politely.

“Please . . . call me Emmerich. There's no need to be so formal with me.” He hesitated. “Did you think about my offer?”

She worried at the stem of her pocket watch. “I did.”

“And did you come to a decision?”

She swallowed thickly, her determined resolve slipping away. All the reasoning, all the measured weighing of pros and cons seemed to vanish, and she was certain that if he asked it of her in that moment, she would agree to build a hundred thousand automatons for him and not give a care whether she was acknowledged by the Guild or not, but she could not be so careless with her future. She tightly gripped her hand around her pocket watch and raised her chin, reminding herself of her ambitions.

“I'll do it,” she said. “I'll help you.”

His face broke into a wide grin.

“
If
you agree to my conditions.”

“Anything,” he said, still smiling.

“I want weekly pay.”

“Done.”

“And I want credit.”

Emmerich started to reply, but stopped himself. He pressed his lips together in a firm line and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by ‘credit'?”

Petra stood a little straighter. “When you present the finished automaton, my name will be on the designs. You'll give me proper recognition for the work I've done.”

“I see,” he said, absentmindedly scratching his jaw.

“Those are my terms,” she said. “Agree, or I won't help.”

He lowered his hand and stared at her. “You'd just walk away?”

She nodded, her heart pounding in her throat. If he refused, if he decided she wasn't worth the trouble—­

“All right.” He stuck out his hand. “I accept.”

“I have your word?”

“As a proper gentleman.”

Petra hesitantly grasped his hand and shook, hoping she wouldn't regret it.

“Now then,” said Emmerich, withdrawing his hand. “Would you like to see it—­the automaton?”

She couldn't help the beaming smile that spread across her face. “More than anything.”

E
MMERICH LED HER
up the street to the University, the tops of its brass towers gleaming silver in the pale starlight. At the height of the eastern tower, the observatory sparkled far above the city, an iridescent globe to rival the moon. Ahead, electric light flooded the University square, spilling out of the open doorway and down the polished steps, shining with a radiance far brighter than the pale yellow light of the flickering gas lamps of the streets.

As Petra and Emmerich neared the University steps, embarrassment crept back into the pit of her stomach at the memory of her last encounter here, burning her with the desire to turn and run, but Emmerich's strong arm guided her safely up the stairs, through the open brass doors, and into the building. Beneath her feet, the floor vibrated with the rhythm of the subcity, but the smell of gasoline and paraffin was less pronounced now, with the workshop nearly empty. Only a handful of students still lingered around the cluttered drafting tables and workbenches, and they seemed to be gathering their things to retire for the night.

“Are you sure it's all right, you bringing me here?” she asked, eyeing the departing engineers. She felt so out of place in her skirt and shop apron, her long hair braided over her shoulder and tied with a satin ribbon.

“It's fine, Petra.”

She bristled at the familiar use of her first name, the way he said it as if they were old friends, as if there was some tenderness between them, but she said nothing of it.

Emmerich turned toward the workshop, now empty of engineers. The in-­progress tickers sat quietly on their tables, half finished, with missing gears, belts, and bolts. As she and Emmerich passed one table—­covered in incomplete gear trains, a long cylindrical brush, and a brass shell—­she stole a peek at the design. From the engineer's scribbles, she deduced the completed machine was a motorized carpet sweeper of sorts. Another set of papers theorized a perpetual motion machine, and one section of the workshop held a modified bicycle skeleton with a bulky combustion engine attached, similar to the steam rickshaws in the city.

“Where is your work space?” she asked, searching the workshop for his automaton.

“Downstairs,” said Emmerich. “Until the Guild approves the final design, I have to work in the student workshops.”

He led her to the back of the main workshop and down two flights of stairs. The oscillations of the subcity beat like a thousand drums behind the walls, only drowned out by the occasional hiss of steam.

Emmerich's work space was in the far corner of the workshop, opposite the stairwell, his desk recognizable by the brass-­plated automaton sitting atop it. Petra still marveled at its design—­a perfectly miniature humanoid shape, crafted with a loving attention to aesthetic detail in the curvature of its plating, the perfect overlap of joints and plates, the inner mechanisms hidden beneath the polished brass. Emmerich leaned against the table beside her, and the automaton whirred to life in front of her eyes.

Petra examined its exterior as it pressed its spindly arms against the surface of the table and stood. Emmerich never touched the thing. “How are you doing that?” she asked.

He only grinned, his hands behind his back. The automaton swept into an elaborate bow.

She frowned at him. “Now you're just showing off.”

But as the machine straightened, she noticed that the plating around its head rattled and the joints at its hips and knees vibrated far more than they should have. A vent at its back spouted a burst of steam, and the gears within groaned and juddered.

The automaton stalled and fell face-­first onto the desk. Petra placed her hand on its back and felt the clicking of the off-­kilter gear train. Water leaked from its legs, spreading across the desk and wetting a stack of papers.

Emmerich sighed heavily and tossed a small brass box onto his desk. “Now you see why I need your help.” He ran both hands though his hair and locked his fingers behind his head. “The control works—­which was all I really aimed for in the beginning—­but as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the fallen automaton, “the thing can hardly do more than walk.” He dropped into his chair and slid down into a slump, kneading his forehead. “There isn't enough power to translate to what the Guild wants.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair until it nearly stood on end. “I don't know what to do.”

Petra reached across the desk and grabbed the small brass box, turning it over in her hand. Several spring-­loaded, sliding buttons decorated the front, each one sporting a number of raised dots in unique patterns. “What's this?” she asked.

“My wireless control apparatus,” said Emmerich, crossing his arms. “
That
was what I was working on, what I dedicated the last year of my workshop hours to.” He scoffed. “Not this blasted thing the Guild wants me to build.”

“How does it work?” she asked, fiddling with the buttons. Deep within the automaton, the gearbox groaned and ratcheted, and the automaton shuddered as another burst of steam vented from its back.

“Here. I'll show you.” Emmerich's chair creaked, and then he was standing next to her, leaning over her shoulder. “I transmit a signal to the automaton by adjusting these sliders.” His fingers slid over hers, demonstrating the movement, and her heart jumped into her throat at his touch. “The box emits a pulse,” he continued, gesturing to the antenna at the top, “and depending on the frequency and intensity of that transmission, I can control the automaton. Each position on the slider emits a specific frequency, which corresponds with an action. When the automaton receives the signal via electromagnetic waves, a switch activates within the gearbox, dictating the action the automaton takes.”

She surrendered the box and drew away. “Electromagnetics?”

Emmerich nodded. “The apparatus design was based on a combination of electromagnetic induction and telegraphy. The idea is to transmit signals without connective wiring, which would revolutionize communications between machines.” He grinned. “And it
works
. It actually works. I mean, the theory was sound, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it only works at close range. The farther away I am from the automaton, the more distorted the signal becomes, and if the control-­box battery is less than three-­quarters charged, the signal is too weak. It won't transmit.”

Emmerich pried the casing off the back of the transmitter, revealing a spiral copper wire joined to a condenser and battery. Several coated wires were connected through the circuit, corresponding with the sliders. He detached the battery and placed it on the desk.

“The batteries within the automaton can only supply power to a limited number of mechanisms, and they don't stay charged nearly long enough. My first problem is finding a way to power the automaton without relying on batteries or hydraulics. I considered employing a combustion engine, as it would deliver plenty of power, but for what the Guild wants, the sheer weight and size of the motor . . .” He sighed. “It just wouldn't work.” He turned to face her. “What do you think?”

Petra sat down in Emmerich's chair, wiping the sweat from her neck; the room was beyond sweltering. Possible designs whirled through her head: combustion systems, steam boilers and hydraulics—­both were too unsteady, too volatile. Electric power had only recently been adopted, still not wholly tested or experimented upon beyond the most rudimentary of technology, such as lights and telegraphy. But clockwork . . . It would take an intricate design, but she was confident she could rebuild the automaton with clockwork alone. However, the control apparatus posed a problem; if Emmerich wanted to maintain wireless connectivity between the apparatus and the machine, the automaton needed electricity to pick up the signal and drive the switch. Electromagnetics was too intangible a science for her. She needed things to touch and hold. But if Emmerich could design the accompanying electric system, they could then figure out how to fit it all together.

“Well?” said Emmerich.

Petra stared at the automaton, drumming her fingers on the desk. Something still nagged at her, a persistent doubt that refused to go away, present since Emmerich had first asked for her help. She chewed on her lip, struggling for the words. She wanted to believe she could work on the automaton with him, that she could help him make it better, and that once she did, the Guild would recognize her as a talented engineer. But in her heart, she still feared it was too good to be true.

“Emmerich,” she said slowly, turning her gaze from the automaton to its engineer. He stared back at her with a pensive expression. She inhaled a deep breath and dove into it. Best to get the truth out now, before she dug herself too deep. “Do you
really
expect me to believe that the Guild will approve me to work on the automaton? And tell me the truth.”

“Petra—­”

“Have you, or haven't you, talked to the Guild about me helping you with the automaton?”

His gaze, for once, diverted away. “No,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

She shook her head and sighed. “I knew it,” she muttered. “I don't know why I believed you, why I dared to think that—­” She pressed her lips together. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.” She wheeled away, taking a few steps toward the stairs. She had put all her hopes into an engineer she didn't even know, on
his
word that he needed her help, that she might finally attain the recognition she deserved. The corners of her eyes stung, but she did not cry. She refused to cry over something so stupid.

“Petra, wait.” Emmerich approached her, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I'm sorry I lied to you, but I thought if I told you the truth, you would refuse to help.”

“And the money? Was that a lie too?”

“No,” he said. “I swear to you, I have every intention of paying you—­five pounds a month, as promised—­for as long as the project takes.”