A Problem with the Clockwork

A Purely Scientific Process

One of the most intriguing aspects of my world, at least in my opinion, is the fusion of Science (Magic) and clockwork. Through the fusion of these two opposing forces, the purely practical and the wholly mystical, you can gather a rather fundamental idea of what the Scientists really are. The following extract comes from The Professor, a Scientific Engineer, as he laments the state of one of his more frustrating creations. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The Bird stares. Useless.

Attempt number 401.

How does it still refuse to work? Perhaps a problem with the clockwork? Yes, that must be it, an issue with the practical. Not that I haven't checked it a thousand times. But there is no other solution. My notes are sound, the rituals simple and straightforward, the formulae exact. I do not mean to imbue it with life, not yet, simply allow it to fly, and yet... the damned thing refuses.

The eyes are obstinate, insistent.

So much trouble for such a usel

ess little toy. But I cannot give up. Too much time was spent to even consider it. No, there must be an easier method.

The Bird is splayed upon my worktable, its guts open and writhing. I watch the gears struggle. They grind, an incessant whining that causes my jaw to lock and my ears to ache. I swipe my hand over the pads that cover my ears. The mufflers shift, switching on with a whisper of will. The sudden silence is absolute and heavenly.

The tiny head tilts, somehow unaware of the state of its body.

Though I cannot hear them, I feel the tweets that echo from the voicebox. Weeks ago they were a breakthrough, now they serve only as an annoyance. Unabashed proof of my failure to surpass a whistle. I increase the magnification on my goggles.

The empty eyes watch.

With careful hands, I once again remove the mainspring. It always ends in pieces, clockwork shutting down as each ritual is robbed of the central drive. I lay the piece aside, careful to avoid damaging it. The markings on that spring are exact, each tiny circle an array of symbols. I cannot afford the time needed to reforge such a complex piece.

The Bird waits.

I take it apart again. Removing every gear, cog, spring, and ratchet, I check each piece for damage. Some teeth are worn down, the constant grinding taking its toll. Yet nothing is missing.

I check the blueprints. I compare each section in turn.

My eye twitches.

It still waits.

Each piece slides back into place, the teeth locking in crooked smiles. I tighten screws and springs. The clockwork is fine. Some of my best work.

My Science is the issue.

Closing the chest I turn the creature over. The rituals that coat its back glow a faint blue as I touch them, begging for a drop of my will.

The Bird shifts in my fingers.

I yelp, struggling to hold the thing as it writhes from my grasp. I snap it up inches from the floor.

Impossible. This is simply impossible.

I look back, confirming I haven't returned the mainspring out of habit. But no. It lies on the desk. Unmoved.

The Bird wriggles again and I feel the wings scratch at my fingers through the gloves. I place it on the floor.

It turns to face me.

I stumble back. The metal shifts as it tries to ruffle its feathers. I watch it test the wings, pulling at them with its beak. My hands shake, my breath coming in bursts. It hops across the floor to my feet. Then it pecks my boots, a steady rhythm. Peck, peckpeckpeck, pause, peck.

No. It can't be. I must be losing it.

Taking a pen and paper from the desk I blearily follow along.

Morse code? The impossible bird is tapping morse code?

'Right wing stop Feather wrong stop 3 from top stop Fix stop.'

I stare at the page as the bird loops, the phrases repeating.

The bird is talking to me.

The bird that has no mainspring.

The bird that can't be running.

The piece of metal is tapping sensible morse code.

I watch the tiny figure a while longer before blinking away the fog.

It's working. I got it working. Well, something got it working. Joy bubbles in my throat. Living Automata without sacrificed life. I'll be hailed as a genius.

The tapping grows insistent and I look down at the creature again.

Right, fix.

I pick it up and get to work.

The Bird helps

It follows my progress, tapping at tools and directing my hands. The process doesn't take long, especially with the insider knowledge that I can now access. With a hop, the bird moves away, satisfied. I blink at it again through my googles, my carefully crafted rituals clear on the lenses, the tiny body a mass of conjoined circles and pointed stars. It tilts its head again before nodding, the movement odd and jerky. There is a moment of stillness before I nod back, unsure exactly what to do. It hops a few times and then flaps, air at last catching beneath the metal wings. I lift it again, carrying it to the perch where it has failed so many times before. I step back and hold my breath. One more try.

It readies itself, preparing for the dive.

The world stands still as the Bird jumps, the movement sleek and graceful. The feathers shift, metal gliding into place. The springs tighten. The cogs turn. I feel the rush of cold air as the rituals kick in, glowing bright blue. Then it shoots forward, a bullet from a gun, the heavy metal slicing through the air. I watch it glide and swoop. Look on as this miraculous automaton defies physics. It shows off, loops and twists and dives. I laugh, full-bellied and joyful, knowing it must sound insane, and not caring in the slightest.

Done with its fun the Bird turns in the air, flapping again to return to me.

The door blocks its path. I feel the thud. Grind my teeth as the rituals snap out of existence.

Ruined.

The student who opened the offending item swipes at his ears and I turn off the mufflers. Sound rushes back in an instant.

'Professor are you ok? You sounded like you were in pain.'

I glower at him. Stepping past the door I look for the Bird. What is left of my creation grinds its gears on the floor, the delicate pieces smashed from the impact. I watch it struggle to move before it shuts down, the metal twisted and broken. I swallow. The student is waiting for an answer. With a sigh I smile at him, the goggles hiding the fact that it doesn't quite reach my eyes.

'I'm fine, boy. Fine. Thank you for your concern.'

I move back to the desk and lift the mainspring. With a whisper, I turn. The formulae and rituals in my mind shift, moving to accommodate a new purpose. The band snaps from my palm, shooting across the space between us. There is a crack as his googles split. A hole, clean, right over his eye. He spasms, his body shutting down.

It always ends in pieces.

Blood leaks from the crack. I watch as the mainspring robs him of his central drive. He falls, a sack against the stone.

I close the door with one hand, removing the useless carcass as I do.

I'll need to retrieve that spring later.

The Bird stares from the mess on the floor.

I retrieve the pieces.

Attempt number 402.

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