Ticker by Lisa Mantchev
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Lisa Mantchev
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Skyscape, New York
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are
trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13 (hardcover): 9781477825297
ISBN-10 (hardcover): 1477825290
ISBN-13 (paperback): 9781477825280
ISBN-10 (paperback): 1477825282
Cover design by Will Staehle
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906850
For Lori and Ciarán, who understand that we make our own dreams come true
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
In Which a Young Lady of Good Standing and Impeccable Moral Character Enters the Scene
A girl with a clockwork heart shouldn’t be running late, but I was. Narrowly avoiding a fruit cart, I hurtled into the thick of rush-hour traffic astride my new Vitesse. The motorized, high-wheeled cycle had been special-ordered from Grimthorpe’s Custom Velocipedes, and I was still getting the hang of the throttle. Traveling at a speed one could only define as “breakneck,” I defied physics and the traffic laws to swerve between a hansom cab and several irate pedestrians.
“Out of the way!” I accompanied my shout with the insistent clatter of the cycle’s bell. “Coming through!”
Immediately behind me came the protesting neigh of a mechanical horse and the metallic shriek of brakes.
“Just see what you’ve done!” a driver yelled over the hiss of released steam.
I didn’t dare turn around, so I craned my neck and raised my voice to bellow, “I can’t see where I’m going if I only look where I’ve been, my good man!”
I had to look to the future; the past held nothing but pain and fear. And death.
The Ripley’s Personal Aethergraph strapped to my ribboned leg garter fired to life, a welcome distraction. With a series of clicks, the RiPA tapped out a message.
ON THE WAY TO THE FACTORY YET - QUERY MARK - JUST TOOK A TRAY OF STICKY BUNS OUT OF THE OVEN - STOP
“Wicked temptress!” I muttered, mouth suddenly watering. The communication was from Violet Nesselrode: best friend, confidante, and the youngest of a baker’s dozen of children with whom she shared ownership of the SugarWerks Fully Automated Bakery.
But I wouldn’t succumb. Copernicus Emery Farthing—Nic, for short, and my older-by-a-minute twin—was going to have my tardy head on a platter the moment I reached the factory. I couldn’t pick him up also bedecked in confectioner’s sugar. Not this morning.
Today wasn’t a working day for the Farthings, but Nic had gone to his office to retrieve some paperwork. Within the hour, we needed to meet our parents at the Bazalgate Municipal Courthouse for the sentencing of Doctor Calvin Warwick. The papers called him many things, a “brilliant young surgeon” and a “genius gone mad” most often. He’d been my lead physician since I was twelve, and for the last four years my family counted him among our dearest friends. But over the past few months, the man who’d implanted my clockwork heart had become a monster none of us recognized.
Late or not, perhaps I did need some sweet pastry to clear out the horrible taste of bile at the back of my throat. The moment no other carriages or conveyances seemed intent on running me down, I clicked the RiPA over to “Outgoing” and tapped out a reply.
HAVE A DOZEN BOXED UP AND READY FOR ME - STOP - PUT THEM ON MY ACCOUNT - STOP - WHEN NIC STARTS TO LECTURE I CAN STUFF ONE IN HIS GAPING PIEHOLE - STOP
“You’re easily corrupted, Penelope Farthing,” I lectured myself. Altering course, I shot straight down to the River Aire, where a left turn put me on The Strand. The air here was heavy with river damp, yeast, and steam. The other factories on the block were thin gentlemen in severe black coats and top hats, smoke curling from chimneys like cigars stood on end. SugarWerks was the sole lady among them. Her striped awnings were like skirts snapping in a breeze perfumed with spices and bread; her welcoming illumination glinted off delicate ornamentation of copper and brass.
I’d arrived and so came the inglorious task of slowing down. The Vitesse herked and jerked and finally sputtered to a reluctant halt three inches from the pockmarked brick wall. With a sigh of relief, I hopped off, propped the cycle against the building, and removed the key.
“Contrary beast!” Far from feeling peeved, I ran an appreciative finger over the gleaming copper handlebars. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even contemplated riding such a thing; now, I fairly flew upon it wherever I went. It might well kill me one of these days, but so might other less pleasant things. The moment I’d laid eyes upon it in Grimthorpe’s showroom, I arrived at the conclusion that I’d prefer to ride from this world to the next on its gorgeous wooden seat, with brass exhaust pipes in place of angel wings, high wheel instead of a halo.
After a short sprint up the stairs, I pushed through the door. An intoxicating sugar perfume nearly knocked me out the way I’d come in. Ding! Ding! Ding! I tapped the brass bell in rapid succession until Violet bustled in from the back room, wearing the blue-and-white pinafore that was the SugarWerks’s uniform and a frown that was not. The same age as Nic and I, Violet wore her amethyst hair spiked and a brass gearring stud on the left side of her nose. On one set of knuckles, BAKE was tattooed in elaborate black calligraphy; CAKE was on the other. Today she had an aquamarine bow pinned to the top of her head, a silver cupcake and crossbones marking the spot between the two loops of ribbon. Her lip rouge was the same fruit-stain red as the raspberry tarts; I’d seen that same color on Nic’s cheek quite a lot this summer, once they’d started walking out together.
“I’ve no idea why you’re wasting your time on my idiot brother,” I said by way of greeting.
“Don’t think you can distract me, Penelope Farthing.” She pulled a full sheet of gingerbread off a brass rack and moved it to the glass case without even a grunt to mark her effort. Tougher specimens than I learned the hard way not to go up against her in an arm-wrestling match. “I saw how fast you shot in on that infernal contraption. You’re going to break your neck one of these days.”
“Sooner rather than later,” I agreed. “But you wouldn’t want me hanging about the omnibus stop at all hours, would you? I like keeping my own schedule.”
“Your purported schedule is a fearsome and terrifying thing.” Violet shifted gears as easily as I might on the Vitesse. “Did you wind your Ticker this morning?” She fixed me with a stern look that was not the least bit undermined by her diminutive stature. Though Violet always wore black laced boots that added three inches to her height, I still towered over her.
“As if I’d ever forget. One hundred clicks before breakfast.” If we’d been fencing at Mettlefield’s Gymnasium, that would have been an advance-lunge and a point scored.
Except Violet parried deftly: “How is the blasted thing holding up with all the stress from the trial?”
In response to her question, my clockwork ventriculator thudded twice in quick succession. Never meant to be implanted in the
I steered myself away from such thoughts by ogling the caraway-seed cakes. “It’s working well enough. And even if it wasn’t, it’s not as though Warwick will ever be allowed to practice medicine again.”
“Not if they hang him, he won’t—” Violet leaned over the counter and squeezed my shoulder gently. “Apologies. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s the truth though, isn’t it?” I said, trying to remember how to swallow. “There’s a very good chance they’ll sentence him to death.”
“They haven’t found him guilty yet . . .” Her voice trailed off, because everyone in Bazalgate knew he’d committed the crimes of which he was accused.
Straight out of medical school and flush with the success of a new open-heart surgical procedure, Warwick had been brought in as a consultant on my case. Everything he’d done, everything that happened afterward, had been because of me.
I twitched my shoulders, wishing I could rid myself of the invisible weight sitting upon them. “I’d better step on it and get to the factory to pick up Nic. Are my sticky buns ready?”
“Of course!” Turning to the order board, Violet lined up a series of brass alphabetical dials. She spelled out “F-A-R-T-H-I-N-G” before moving to the end of the counter and standing on tiptoe to reach for the delivery lever.
I didn’t dare put my hands on the glass because Violet abhorred fingerprints. Instead, I lolled upon my elbows and mustered a half-smile. “Do you need a step stool?”
“Certainly not.” She finally grasped the burnished wood handle and pulled it down. Unseen gears locked tooth-to-tooth, and hidden wheels whirled and spun until, with a hiss of steam and a trumpeted fanfare, a door opened in the wall. A SugarWerks Signature Ribbon-Striped Carry-Away Box slid down the gleaming gravity-roller conveyor belt and came to rest in front of us. Developed by Violet’s father, Gustaf, to prevent small children from spoiling their suppers, the SugarWerks Carry-Away Boxes could be set to open at a given hour, unless the contents included ice custard, in which case they should be opened immediately. Violet looped a strap around the box and buckled it down tight. “You need to get moving.”
“I also need to keep up my blood sugar.” Though I didn’t say so, needing to eat every few hours was no chore, not with my appetite and love of all things sweet. I tapped a gloved fingertip against one of the bell domes. “You wouldn’t send me off with a box of sticky buns and an empty stomach, would you? My mechanisms are winding down.”
“If you ate all of them in one go, you’d have dyspepsia.” Reaching into her pocket, Violet pulled out a SugarWerks token and handed it to me. “Pick your pleasure and take your choice.”
I flipped the token over my knuckles; as heavy as a real piece of money, it was good for use only in the Automatic Dessert Dispenser. My parents helped develop the vending machine for the Nesselrodes, and it remained the only one of its kind in the Industrian Empire. At any hour of the day, one could insert a token, open a door, and get a hot cherry turnover with the perfect scoop of frozen ice custard on top.
Mmm. Ice custard.
Pity I needed to pick something I could eat with one hand! Sending one last lingering, loving look at the cream puffs, I inserted my token, tugged at the knob, and withdrew an oft-picked favorite.
“The Figure Eight again?” Violet pulled out a piece of blue-and-white striped paper and set it on the counter.
“Don’t squeeze it in the middle,” I warned, passing her my selection. “I don’t want the chocolate filling to mix with the raspberry jam.”
“Take these and leave before I toss you outside without so much as a day-old pastry for your troubles!” After handing over the paper-wrapped treat and the Carry-Away Box, Violet used the considerable ruffles on her apron to shoo me out the front door.
Grinning at her over my shoulder, I affixed the Carry-Away Box to the platform behind the Vitesse’s slick wooden seat. Then, unable to resist a second longer, I took an enormous bite of the Figure Eight. An incoming message from Nic startled me, and I nearly choked on chocolate filling.
WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE - STOP - WHERE THE COGS ARE YOU - QUERY MARK
A short time ago, he would have been full of teases and dares, offering to race me across town, betting a month’s worth of shoeblacking or a box of chocolate bars. With a sigh, I transferred my snack to my left hand so I could tap out a response with my right.
WILL BE THERE IN THREE MINUTES OR LESS - STOP - KEEP YOUR HAIR ON - STOP
Firing up the engine, I pulled down my goggles and kicked the Vitesse into gear. Reentering traffic, I almost ran over an elderly gentleman who perambulated somewhat haphazardly on one leg of flesh and the other a brass prosthesis that must have been made at our factory.
“Attention, please, you demitasse of feminine frippery!” he barked. “This isn’t the Eight Bells Steeplechase!”
“A thousand pardons!” I returned, struggling to rein in my mechanical steed.
I made quick work of the Figure Eight as I drove, but the streets clogged up as I approached the traffic circle known as the Heart of the Star. The roundabout connected the eight Etoile Roads, which radiated outward like the spokes on the Vitesse, and it was more congested than I’d ever before seen it.
“Take care there, sir!” I slapped my hand against the side of a cart before it could run me up a curb; negotiating the hub wasn’t for the weak of knees or the faint of heart! “Ahoy, Freddy!”
Frederick Carmichael wore the charcoal uniform and namesake iron bracelets that marked his employment in the Ferrum Viriae. The largest and longest standing of Industria’s privatized militaries recently won the coveted contracts for Police, Fire, and Emergency Rescue Squadrons. Frederick was the soldier who’d aided me after my last accident. That particular occurrence left me with a twisted ankle, an official citation, and an off-the-record, blistering lecture about yielding to larger vehicles. Never let it be said that the Ferrum Viriae are not thorough.
Frederick bestowed one of his infrequent smiles upon me along with a white-gloved wave to proceed with caution. “You promised you’d slow down!” The silver glint of his whistle flashed as he lifted it to his mouth.
“Progress waits for no woman!” was my retort.
“All the same,” he said, jerking his chin at the sidewalk behind me. “Mind the crowd.”
Looking about, I finally realized the cause for the congestion: a sizable assembly of protestors. The Edoceon Movement sprang up almost immediately after my surgery, protesting the “unnatural” idea of Augmentation. Very few paid them any attention until formal accusations were brought against Calvin Warwick, but since the start of the trial, their numbers had quadrupled. The newspapers printed their well-researched and scathing letters to the editor with alarming regularity.
Today, the jostling figures held signs that read “Instruct, Inform, Apprise,” “Man Before Machine,” and “You Cannot Augment the Human Soul!” Restless, they shifted against the rough wooden barricades set in place to keep them off the road. They might have remained corralled, if they hadn’t seen me. Pity that I’m not the sort of girl who fades into the wallpaper.
“The Farthing girl! She’s over there!”
Heads pivoted in my direction. Then it was as though someone had uncorked a bottle of effervescent hatred and directed the resulting spray at me.
“That’s her!”
“The first abomination!”
“Freak!”
“How do you sleep at night?”
The verbal abuse they hurled had less effect on me than the actual bottle someone threw. Glass shattered under the front wheel of the Vitesse, forcing me to swerve. Perhaps in response to all the excitement, my Ticker paused in its good work. My head began to spin, carousel dizzy. I couldn’t focus my eyes. Everything slowed down, like I’d abruptly driven through sticky toffee puddin
“Miss Farthing?” I heard Frederick Carmichael call out behind me, followed by a more frantic, “Penny!”
But I had no words with which to answer him, and everything seemed to happen at once: the crowd broke through the barricade, stampeding toward me with murder in their eyes; Frederick dove into the melee, whistle blaring; I fell off the Vitesse and landed with a thump on the cobblestones.
“I’ve called for backup,” Frederick shouted as though from the end of a tunnel. “Arrests are going to be made if you don’t remain peaceable!”
Despite my vision going fuzzy about the edges, I could see the demonstrators hesitate, weighing the cost of righteous anger against spending a night or two in prison. Taking their signs and their barely disguised hatred, they retreated to the curb.
“Laugh up your sleeve at us all you like, Miss Farthing,” a narrow woman snarled in passing. “Your precious Warwick is going to hang. The tables are about to be turned.”
Frederick shooed her away as he knelt next to me. “By all the Bells, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lied the moment I could speak. Flashes of gold light swam around me when I tried to sit up. A full minute passed before I could manage, “But this is really becoming a habit, you scraping me off the road.”
“Shall I message for your brother? Or perhaps the hospital?”
I let him set me on my feet, and the satisfying swish of silken skirts around my ankles soothed me in a way that words never could. Secure in the knowledge of six flounces and velvet ribbon trim, I let go of his gloved hand. “It was just a little dizzy spell. I have them all the time.”
With a frown, Frederick righted the Vitesse. “At least let me summon you a hansom cab.”
“I’ll be fine,” I insisted to him and the world, except I wasn’t at all certain either was listening. Clambering aboard the cycle, I struggled to look poised and confident.
“If you won’t be convinced otherwise . . .” He reluctantly cleared me a space in the road.
I roared past him and down the street. He yelled a final remonstration, but the wind and the engine conspired against him.