EXTRACT FOR
Ultraclocks
(Author Unknown)

CHAPTER ONE



    The shape of data screaming in the October night. Fox, asleep in his clothes, jolted into consciousness. The cilia on his head picked up the patterns and the digital signalling began to resolve itself into pictures filling his mind. Running through a devastated landscape, boots treading on a decapitated head with its eyes still glaring. Then light, a white flare filling the sky, and on the horizon the gold and copper cloud of an atomic detonation.

    He wanted it to stop but the augmentation inside his head only craved more, savouring each moment before devouring.

    The flash of a fantastic thought. He would wrench open the bedroom floorboards and get one of the hidden guns. Go outside and blast the head off whoever was out there causing this.

    Instead he poured a glass of grappa from the bottle on the bedside table and drained that before putting on his overcoat and heading out of the flat and down to the street.

    The old soldier was on the pavement outside the Cafe Castringius, his back against the lamp post and knees drawn up. He wore one of those cheap suits they sell ex-soldiers when they first arrive in Genesia.  

    "I know you," the soldier said. 

    He wasn't old, not really, but drinking had worn deep scallops into his face.

    "No," Fox said.

    "Least we had ones like you, with all those worms coming out of their head. You in intelligence? Ugly blighter aren't you. No offence."

    Fox had never been part of the soldier's war but people with an augmentation like his were invaluable to an army.

    "I have to go," Fox said and took out his wallet and pressed the twenty crown note, which he intended to give to Max, into the soldier's hand. 

    "That's very kind, very kind."

    "Next time find another place to spend the night. No offence."

    Fox walked quickly through Little Alexandria, with its gabled houses so close together they nearly touched above his head. Even during the day these streets were tunnels of shadow. At night the lighting cut arcs in the darkness but never entirely banished it.

    It would be best now to find something more palatable than war stories to feed his augmentation. He might have sought out those places in the city with intact servers with databases that hadn't entirely decayed. Instead he just walked without aim waiting for the augmentation to quieten. 

    The soldier had seen a lot of combat, killed a few times and watched as comrades died from radiation. A rich and tasty dish for the augmentation that Fox found hard dispel. In the end he just gave up and sat in the alcove of the back door of a building. When he saw the atomic explosion again he got the grappa bottle out from the inside pocket of his coat. 

    He must have been there for some time. He found that he had been swaying his head to the sound of the muffled music from beyond the door. It was a mild night and he saw no reason to move but the grappa bottle was empty and there was something crawling up the outside of his jacket sleeve. It might have been a tiny shield the size of coin moving in slow jerks. It reached the crook of his arm and then stopped. It was a large beetle, its elytra catching the lamplight and making it glow. Fox picked it up and turned it over. The miniaturisation was so accomplished that he could only just distinguish that there were different parts there, an escapement, cogs and cams. There was a tiny turning crown on one side and Fox wound this. The bug's legs came to life, tapping out silently in the air as he held it.  He set it on his arm again so it could resume its journey up towards his shoulder.

    It was just something that some people did. You came across a clockwork bug or bird that had wound down and you turned its key or crown, gave life back to its mainspring. Clockwork automata had arrived in Genesia during the days of Count Septimus. They'd come as swarms of insects and flocks of birds; then humanoids, the ultraclocks, had followed. Their origin was obscure but it was presumed it was in accordance with some caprice of the Count, developing the city's long obsession with puppets and masks, clockwork toys. 

    During the Court of Comedians there had been attempts to get rid of the automata but that had ended with the revolt that had established the Provisional Government. 

    The bug reached his neck and its feet tickled. Fox picked it up and put it on his wrist so it could start its climb again. This might have gone on for hours but then the door he was resting against opened, warm air came out with the sound of discordant thumping jazz.

    "There you are little cousin." 

    It was voice like the soft piping of a wind instrument.

    Fox looked up at her, up her long legs and the garter of her stockings, low around her knees. The rest of her legs were bare up to the lace fringed edge of a very short dress that barely covered her thighs. He noticed most of all that the skin, of her legs, her bare arms above the long red gloves she wore, was smoother than glass.

    He scrambled up onto his feet somehow kicking the grappa bottle into the gutter. 

    "Yours?" 

    He plucked the beetle off his arm and held it out to her. She smiled.

    She came towards him, stretching out her hand, the velvet glove up to the elbow. Her movements were sinuous not mechanical, yet not entirely natural. More like a dance or a mime.

    "You wound it up?" she said.

    "Yes."

    It was difficult not to think of a doll, of porcelain fragility. But she wasn't the representation of a child. She had been constructed under the scrutiny of a gaze that had eroticised her almost completely, curved and full bosomed. Her abundant dark hair was tied up in ringlets. She was smiling, a big smile, and her large eyes caught the light. Fox couldn't work out how her face moved, how her features were not fixed and still like the doll impression he had. 

    "He's my little pet," she said and reached out to take the beetle from him. She passed the bug from one hand to the other so that it scuttled over her fingers and it began to move up her arm. She was breathing, her chest rising with a slightly exaggerated movement. 

    "It was here," Fox said.

    Fox's augmentation was worrying him for data. All those interfaces between his own brain and its filaments were tingling. It couldn't fathom her. Computers it knew. Humans with life-bugs it read easily. Even un-augmented humans gave off an electrical pattern that, though indecipherable, was a definite presence. 

    But it was always baffling to be close to an ultraclock. And the augmentation was further interested because Fox was, because she was somehow beautiful. He wanted to touch her to check if she was real but that wouldn't have been enough because he wanted to know that she, in turn, knew that she was real, that the words she spoke were not some kind of clever trick, as though she were a rather complex music box.

    Yet there was nothing for the augmentation to read.

    She let the beetle crawl down her glove then held her hands together so it moved onto her other hand, tilting her head to watch its progress. Once again her movements struck him. She was like a priest performing the hand signs of a ritual that had been repeated so many times they no longer needed to be directed.

    "Why did you do that?"

    Fox didn't understand what she meant.

    "Why did you wind it up?" 

    When she said wind there was a slight hesitation, almost a savouring of the word.

    "I don't know. People do."

    "It was very kind of you. If he'd been left out here, run down, then someone could have trod on him. Or deliberately broken him."

    Yes, there were people who did that to automata.

    "Olympia," came a deep voice, "What are you doing?"

    "Waiting out here," she said.

    A figure came out of the door and filled the remaining space in the alcove. It was another automaton, tall with an almost art-deco elegance. He was smooth, pewter coloured and without any attempt-hair, eyebrows-to a cosmetic humanity.

    "Here," the ultraclock said to Olympia handing her an umbrella. She hesitated for a moment and held out the beetle to Fox. It crawled onto his arm.

    "My coat," she said, taking the umbrella, "I must have my coat."

    "Who is this?"

    There was no expression on his face as he looked at Fox and Fox was not sure his features were capable of movement. It might have been described as a noble face, like a classical statue but one that had been cast in the machine shops of a vanished industrial era. 

    "He had my beetle," Olympia said, "Now please Victor fetch me my coat." 

    Victor inspected Fox for a moment longer then disappeared back inside into a short corridor with a shabby carpet and several doors. The music suddenly stopped to be followed by clapping. 

    "Your name is Olympia?" 

    "I sing here," she said, "The Cabaret Vaucanson. You must come and see me."

    "I try to avoid large crowds. For some reason I scare people."

    Her face went blank. Blank in a way a human being's face never could. She blinked and her eyes darted across Fox's head, over the cilia coming out of the left side of his face, temple and crown. It was as though she was noting the deformity for the first time. Fox wondered if she saw him differently, but then how did she see him at all without the firing of optic nerves?

    "Yes, you have a rather unusual appearance."

    Victor emerged and carefully wrapped around her a long otter-skin coat that reached to the ground. Then he placed over her head a silver chain with a key attached to it. The key fell gently between her breasts, the movement of her breath settling it there. 

    "What are you doing here?" Victor said to Fox. "Are you some kind of stage-door Johnny?" 

    "Leave him alone."

    Fox took a step back. He couldn't tell if Victor was angry but he knew he was powerful. Fox staggered against the kerb.

    "Are you quite well?" Olympia said.

    "He's drunk," said Victor, "Can't you tell? Look he's even left his bottle there."

    "And yet he saved the little beetle's life."

    "He wouldn't even consider it to be life."

    Fox realised Victor wanted him to object, to say something that would rile him. 

    "I should be going," Fox said picking the beetle from his shoulder and holding it out, watching its legs working. 

    Olympia opened her palm and Fox placed the beetle there. For an instant Fox touched her cold skin.

    "Thank you," she said. "What is your name?"

    Fox reached inside his coat and drew out one of his cards. It was frayed at the edges because it had been there so long. 

    She read. "Evergreen Fox? Private Detective. Caf? Castringius." 

    "A detective," said Victor, "Something out of an old film."

    "How delightful," said Olympia. 

    "Sure," Fox smiled.  He had wanted to call himself something else, a locater or a finder. But nothing sounded right. 

    Olympia was smiling at him, a miraculously produced mechanical smile that did not look mechanical.

    "Were you spying on us?" Victor said.

    "No, I?"

    "Don't be frightened, Victor won't do you any harm."

    "Oh, wouldn't I?"

    It was some little game that had little to do with Fox. 

    Victor began to pull the door shut. Olympia was looking at the bug, she tilted it onto the hand that held the umbrella and it scuttled onto the handle, following the inner arc. 

    "Victor." Someone called from further down the street at the junction where it met a wider thoroughfare.  A small stocky man was approaching. Emerging into the fall of the streetlight, his formal suit not sitting too well on him. 

    Both Victor and Olympia turned towards him

    "Victor," the man called again, "It is I your master come to fetch you."

    And he laughed as he strode up to meet them, playing another game Fox didn't understand. The man glared at Fox for a moment. Fox realised he was leaning against a wall now.

    "Who's this?" the man asked pointing at Fox.

    "I think," said Victor, "that it is someone under the delusion that he is a detective."

    "A what?"

    "Come on," said Olympia, "Let us go and leave Herr Fox in peace."

    She would be gone soon so Fox stepped forward and reached for her hand. She watched as he drew it to his lips and kissed it. Cold but soft.

    "Come on Olympia," Victor said, "we shall walk you home."

    Victor started to follow the man who was already walking away.

    "Here," said Olympia. She plucked the little beetle from the handle of the umbrella and gave it to Fox. It marched up his palm.

    "You saved his life," she said, "now you have to look after him. Wind him up when he runs down and keep him out of mischief." 

    



    

CHAPTER TWO

    

    It felt as though he'd hardly slept when there was a banging on the door and Fox heard Max telling him that there was a call for him in the caf?. Fox checked the alarm and saw that it was gone one o'clock. He was usually there by now, spending most afternoons in the Caf? Castringius, in the back street where he lived. 

    Eating his meals there got round some of the problems with shopping. Food imports these days being patchy. Staying in the caf? also meant he was less likely to be seen by people who weren't used to him. Or who knew him and didn't like him. Fox always sat at the same table at the back, beneath a print of one of Nicholas Castringius's late erotic masterpieces.  

    "She said she'd call back," Max said as Fox sat down.

    Max bought coffee, a glass of water, a semmel roll and little pots of butter and apricot jam. Fox took the morning edition of the Genesia Gazette from the newspaper table. He always read the Gazette because it was mostly local news with fewer horror stories from the war than in other papers. He shook out the feuilleton but there was nothing there about the Cabaret Vaucanson, just the usual opera gossip and book reviews.

    He was some way into an article about the Provisional Government's latest decree on public libraries when Max brought the telephone over, trailing the wire from the bar counter.

    "This is Fox," he said.

    "You are rather a late riser it appears." It was a woman's voice, not young, not poor. 

    "A rather important case needed my attention into the small hours, Frau..?"

    "My name is Anna Pfaff, am I correct in understanding that you are the Herr Fox, the detective of note?"

    Fox didn't know he was of note. He wasn't sure how to take it.

    "How can I be of service to..?"

    "You are at this?Caf? Castringius now?"

    "Certainly."

    "Then I will be along presently. It is Little Alexandria?"

    "Go to Pecheneg Square. There is a street off there, Kangalistrasse. The caf? is there."

    "I will be there directly."

    "Perhaps you could tell me?"

    She rang off and when Max came back for the telephone Fox ordered another coffee and tried not to read the article that had someone found its way into the Gazette. The forces of secessionist Burgundy had recaptured Marseilles, which, from the photograph, was little more than a pile of rubble around the naval base. Fox hadn't heard that Burgundy had broken away from the remnant that had continued to call itself the United States of Europe, which must now just be bits of France, Italy and Spain. 

    The woman arrived as he was eating rindsuppe. Max pointed Fox out and she tried very carefully not to stare at his head as she walked through the caf?. She didn't quite manage it.

    "Herr Fox?"

    "Please, take a seat."

    She might be nearly seventy and was neatly turned out in a short hunting style jacket, taupe dress with a peter-pan collar edged in white lace. Only her hat seemed dated, not the cloche hats of fashion but a broad-brimmed affair with a feather, the sort of hat that had come back into vogue out of the late nineteenth to the late twenty-first century, only to disappear again. She looked at the chair for a moment and Fox realised, just too late, that he was expected to pull it out for her. Instead she moved it awkwardly and positioned herself at the table.

    "Your friend," she said looking Fox in the eye and trying not to let her gaze roam, "the policewoman told me that you might be of some assistance."

    Felice. Fox's only friend in the police force.

    "And what is it that you would like me to help you with?"

    "You have a strange accent young man."

    Fox didn't mention that it was likely that he was much older than her.

    "English. I'm from London. Originally."

    "Ah," she said, "Unfortunate what happened to London. But then so many places?"

    Like most of Genesia it was, to her, all a long way away. 

    "Of course."

    "And this," she said, and she turned away and gave a finger wave at his head without looking, "Is this something that happened because of the war?"

    She spoke strict German rather than the melange of five languages that had become a local dialect in the last fifty years. It struck Fox suddenly that he couldn't recall what language he had spoken with Olympia. Having learnt most of them through his augmentation it was sometimes like that.

    "It's an augmentation," Fox said, "I had it put in me. A long time ago."

    "But its?It's awful. The disintegration. Those things?"

    "They're semi-organic cilia, they're what it uses to interface. It didn't start like this. It was a little disc called Omnisense that connected to my head, made it easy for me to tap into all sorts of data. Lots of people had it but it spread like an infection. Most of those who had it died. I guess I'm lucky."

    "So," she realised then. And Fox could almost see the pfennig drop. "You are not as young as you appear to be. That kind of technology?"

    "As you say."

    "I'm sorry," she said, "I have been very rude."

    "You're still sitting there. That's good enough for me." 

    She shifted in her chair and looked around for a moment. Max came over.

    "I would like an einsp?nner," she said and then to Fox, "I usually take ice coffee but the weather has begun to turn has it not?"

    Max knew what Fox would want.

    "Now," Fox said, "we should see if I can help you."

    She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin even though her drink hadn't even arrived.

    "Well, there is a certain legal matter that perhaps you could be of some assistance with. A matter of?clarification more than anything. I thought perhaps that a certain interpretation of the law might aid me but it is to no avail. Our city, it seems, has always indulged a certain eccentricity. Of course it reached its nadir with Count Septimus, and then all the disruption since then..."

    "What precisely is this matter?"

    She eyed her einsp?nner as Max placed the glass carefully in front of her. The mound of cream was perfectly formed. For a moment it looked as though she might not want to touch it but she picked up a spoon and dug a chunk out, popped it into her mouth and then did her well-practiced dab at her lips. She held the napkin there until the mouthful of cream had been disposed of.

    "There is a certain will," she said, "that I would like you to locate." 

    "How old is it?"

    "It would be, well, at least thirty-five years old. Possibly older. I think my father would have set his affairs in order long before his death."

    "Well I suppose then it could have been digital. But I'm afraid it's likely to have suffered in the decay. The legal archives were infected. Not so bad as a lot of other places but still."

    "Nevertheless," she said, "I would appreciate if you could ascertain if it exists. I am also assuming my father ensured there was a hard-copy. But we'll discuss that should the need arise."

    "I'd prefer to discuss it now. I assume it relevant. Because you could have asked for an official search of the electronic archives." 

    She almost dabbed again.

    "I have done so, but I am not sure a standard search would retrieve anything. I suspect there might be some perfidy at play. You see I am not the eldest child. I have a sister. But it is unthinkable that my father would have left the entirety of the estate to her. Yet when my father died supposedly intestate she inherited the house. If the need arises I would like you to visit her and ask her. Ask her if she is blocking my search and if I might see the hard-copy of my father's will."

    "Why don't you just ask her yourself?"

    She drank the coffee now, letting the remnant of cream smear her upper lip seemingly just so she could wipe it afterwards.

    "My sister is of the eccentric sort. We do not get on. In fact we haven't spoken for some years. She occupies my father's house. The house where I grew up but from which she fled when she was seventeen to lead a rather dissolute life. The last time I went there I found it upsetting."

    "How so?"

    "She is an incorrigible collector and hoarder of the most outr? artefacts. What was once a neat and presentable family home had become something akin to a cabinet of curiosities."

    Fox would do the search and likely it would turn up negative. He wasn't sure about visiting the sister if it came to that. It seemed like he might be used as a way to intimidate some harmless old lady. 

    "My standard fee for a digital search is one hundred marks." 

    "Well, I?"

    "What you are asking me to do is illegal, you do know that don't you Frau Pfaff?" 

    She looked around her but discovered the tables nearby were empty.

    "Very well," she said.

    "Fifty marks in advance."

    She scowled but opened her bag. Hunched over she counted money that was tucked into an envelope. She put some money back into the bag and handed Fox the envelope.

    "My card is inside," she said. "You will call me when you have completed your search."

    She was already rising, leaving Fox to pay for her coffee. Outside he saw her draw her thick jacket around her and wondered why she didn't have a coat. Then he wondered why she hadn't asked him to call on her at home. On her card there was no address, just a telephone number.

    Max was looking over from where he was putting away glasses, or at least pretending to. He had already seen the envelope but would never ask for anything directly.

    Fox had already begun dividing up the money, a little rent, his tab with Max. He folded the five ten mark notes and stood to put them into his trousers pocket. There was something there. He took out the clockwork beetle and wound its little crown and watched as it circled the coffee glass left by Frau Pfaff. Just before it ran into a blob of cream on the table Fox picked it up and let it run around his palm. Max was still watching.