Clockwork Angels: The Novel (33 page)

The Anarchist shouted orders. Sometimes the Wreckers listened; other times they cursed at him and did whatever they liked. A few “free people” detached individual floating boats and drifted away to escape the imminent battle.

The Watchmaker’s war dirigibles closed in overhead like dark thunderheads, and blue-uniformed Regulator soldiers dropped down from dangling rope ladders. The battleship steamers sur rounded the raft island and dispatched their squads as well.

The Free People of the Sea held up their blades, shouting in defiance.

Coming aboard the hodgepodge raft, the Watchmaker’s forces moved in perfect ranks, shoulder to shoulder, one wave after another. They carried long-barreled single-shot rifles, and once the weapons were packed and loaded with lead shot, the Blue Watch soldiers actuated a propulsive spark. The rifles fired a deadly barrage into the mobs of Wreckers who rushed forward, bowling them over in a wave of bloodshed.

Owen couldn’t imagine how or why the Watchmaker, after more than a century of Stability, had any cause to manufacture such deadly weapons or to drill his elite Regulators for such a murderous attack. Yet, they performed like components of the most intricate machine.

People screamed and fell, bleeding. A few pellets ricocheted around the shacks and mast, and Owen ducked as a ball struck the wooden wall next to his head. Instead of using lead shot, the Watchmaker’s rifles fired bullets of gold.

In response, the wild Wreckers ran forward in complete chaos. After the first Regulators fired their rifles, the vanguard stepped aside to reload, while the second line lowered their barrels and opened fire. The Wreckers fell upon them with flailing swords.

Breathing heavily, the Anarchist rushed up to Owen. His hair was disheveled, his face flushed, his cheek smudged—but he looked excited rather than frightened. The long sword he carried was much more imposing than the one Tomio had used at the carnival. He pressed the hilt into Owen’s hand. “Take this and fight!”

Owen didn’t intend to hack or stab anyone, but before he could argue, the Anarchist had dashed off, leaving him with the sword.

More blue-uniformed soldiers disembarked from the battleship steamers, swarming in perfect precision across the decks with a resonant thunder of marching feet. By contrast, the chaotic Wreckers charged into the neat and ordered ranks, slashing, stab bing, and clubbing while well-practiced Regulators stepped back to reload their rifles.

Owen sought shelter as the waves of battle came toward him. Despite his sword, he had no intention of fighting to defend these murderous pirates. They had wrecked his ship, caused the deaths of Captain Lochs and all the sailors aboard. Was that how they bought their “freedom”? Owen wanted no part of it!

He saw his reluctant benefactor Xandrina stumping forward with her butcher knife, her scarf torn loose and her hair flying free. She wore a bloodthirsty expression. Two Regulator soldiers gunned her down, and she collapsed on the deck.

From the other side of the conjoined hulls, the Anarchist emerged carrying pots filled with chemical mixtures. He hurled them, smashing the pots among the Regulator soldiers; once liberated and exposed to the air, the chemical mixtures burst into silvery white heat. Explosions scattered the Watchmaker’s organized ranks like dry leaves in the wind.

A new squad of red-uniformed Regulators marched in from Owen’s left, having disembarked from a war dirigible overhead. One of the Anarchist’s bombs exploded nearby, and Owen had to duck and run, swept along by the tides of battle.

As another explosive pot tumbled through the air, the scoutship pilot ran forward, waving her cudgel, too impatient to wait for the bomb to do its work. She swung her stick at one of the Watchmaker’s uniformed soldiers, just as the bomb exploded between them, killing both.

Owen felt sick.

A special black-uniformed contingent came over from the lead battleship steamer; each Black Guard wore a red sash with a gold honeybee insignia. They closed ranks, protecting and escorting an old man who moved stiffly, formally.

For some reason, the old man with the special black guard pointed a stiff arm at
him
and shouted in a tantalizing voice, “What do you lack now, Owen Hardy?” Then he laughed.

A cold prickle skittered down his back. He had heard that call before—from the strange pedlar who had given him the horrific book,
Before the Stability
, no doubt intending to reassure Owen that he was meant to stay in quiet, peaceful Barrel Arbor. Though he was not dressed in pedlar clothes and stovepipe hat, Owen realized this was the same old man, but different . . . undisguised.

Owen held up his sword in surrender. “You’re the pedlar!”

“I am many things. I keep an organized list.”

The Black Watch marched toward Owen, closing in. He had nowhere to run, wasn’t sure he even wanted to run, because he certainly wasn’t safe among the Wreckers either. The old man called to him again. “The principle is proved. You belong with me!”

Oblivious to the mayhem going on around him, the old man marched across the decks as if he were immortal. And maybe he was. Owen finally realized that this was the Watchmaker himself !

Assuming victory, the Regulator soldiers closed in, but the Anarchist surprised them by launching one of his bombs into the air. The huge eruption ignited one of the war dirigibles, and the flaming airship careened off to crash into the ocean. The Watchmaker didn’t even flinch at the disaster.

“Owen Hardy, by now the need for perfect order is obvious. You’ve seen the dangerous alternative. Let me cut to the chase— you must choose Stability. Step back into line. I have watched you, and now I’ll use you. A simple, normal man to be my example. Your numerous mistakes will discourage anyone else from dreaming about leaving their preordained life. As my representative, you will save the Stability. Thanks to you, no one else will ever be tempted by such foolishness again.”

The Anarchist dispatched more bombs that released clouds of acrid red fumes to form a smokescreen. Through the scarlet mist, wild Wreckers charged forward with their swords and caught the organized Regulator soldiers by surprise. The Watchmaker dis patched his elite Black Watch to join the battle.

Sure of his victory, the old man turned to Owen. “Wait here, and I will take care of the evil Anarchist. All is for the best.” He marched after his guards, leaving the young man by himself, as if he didn’t imagine for a moment that anyone would question his instructions.

Owen stared at the rigid forces of the Watchmaker clashing with the Anarchist and his frenetic Wreckers. He threw down his sword. He didn’t like either alternative.

While the battle continued to rage, he ran to the lone scout airship.

D
isgusted with the extremes of both sides, Owen scrambled aboard the tethered scout airship. Only one haphazardly tied guy-line held it to the decks of the Wreckers’ raft. The female pilot had been killed in an explosion, and no one watched the drifting vessel now.

The Watchmaker and the Anarchist had demanded that he choose between them, but Owen Hardy from Barrel Arbor—a mere assistant manager of an apple orchard, who had traveled so much, endured so much,
seen
so much since his modest beginnings—chose not to decide.
That
was the choice he made. That was his free will.

He had discarded the sword, so he tugged and yanked at the mooring rope until he worked the knot loose. The levitation sacks were already inflated, the low-capacity boiler was still up to pressure, and the scoutship drifted free.

The war dirigibles were anchored in the sky overhead, and more uniformed reinforcements joined the Watchmaker’s soldiers on the decks below. Additional Wreckers fled the besieged raft island in their own small boats.

Owen handled the controls easily, thankful for all that Commodore Pangloss had taught him. At first, no one noticed his tiny airship rising up and away amidst the smoke and explosions, the rifle fire and clash of swords. He stoked the engines, powered the propeller, and turned away.

Yes, he had stolen the ship, but he felt little guilt; those were the rules of the Free People of the Sea. Under such circumstances, his friend Guerrero would not have hesitated to grab the airship and flee. In fact, Guerrero wouldn’t have waited for Owen at all but would have just escaped by himself. . . .

He increased power and set a course eastward in the general direction of Albion. He had no coordinates, nor did he know how far he was from land, but if he traveled long enough in the correct direction—if his fuel lasted that long—he couldn’t help but stumble upon an entire continent.

Below, the random explosions continued to roar, accompanied by gunshots that fired at regular intervals, as if timed with a stopwatch. One of the Regulator soldiers turned his rifle upward and fired at the escaping scoutship. The pressure-monitoring gauges on the pilot deck indicated a leak in the left outrigger balloon; one of the golden bullets must have pierced the coated canvas sack.

“Life goes from bad to worse,” he muttered. The leak would not immediately affect his ability to fly, and he tried to gain as much distance as possible. Judging from the supply dials, the pilot carried little extra fuel. She must have burned most of her alchemical resources during the morning scout flight. Owen had only enough fuel to keep the engines stoked for a couple of hours . . . but that should be sufficient for him to get away.

Behind him, smoke from fires and explosions filled the sky like an angry storm cloud. The Watchmaker’s overwhelming fleet engulfed the mishmash raft of salvaged ships. Regardless of the outcome, Owen was sure their conflict would not end with a single battle. Too much order and too much chaos—it was like a swinging pendulum. Extreme order provoked a need for extreme freedom, and vice versa.

After the scoutship finally drifted to relative safety and silence, he heard the whisper of breezes far above the restless ocean. At last, he had a moment to catch his breath. Owen shuddered violently with the realization of what he had just been through. A lifetime ago, he had been a naïve, starry-eyed young man counting the days until his seventeenth birthday, believing with all his heart that Lavinia was his true love. The wonders of the world were encompassed by the delightful chronotype images in his mother’s picture books. He had been so optimistic. He had wanted to see so many things. But now he had seen it all, and nothing had turned out as he expected.

Worse, what he’d experienced had ruined his old life, for he could never again be content back in Barrel Arbor. He had listened to his father explain the Watchmaker’s plan. He was brought up to believe, but that belief had failed him now. He had always been so optimistic, but he could not be consoled by the philosophy of Anarchy or the philosophy of Stability. He felt as adrift as the airship.

But even though his life had tossed him about, battered him and disappointed him, he still wanted to live. Despite grieving for what he had lost, he could still survive. Somewhere in the world, he might find what he was searching for. All dreams couldn’t be illusions. He would find a measure of love and laughter, and he would give of himself in return. He just needed to discover the right place, the right people. Somewhere.
That
was something he could believe in. He wouldn’t let optimism abandon him entirely.

He took time to assess the scoutship’s cabin, which was cluttered with keepsakes, clothing, scraps of food, knives, and toys: all sorts of flotsam and jetsam stolen from unsuspecting ships ruined on the reefs. As he dug around in the paraphernalia, he found, to his surprise, a large sack stuffed with glittering diamonds, hypnotic redfire opals, and dreamstones—enough treasure to buy all of Barrel Arbor.

In his pocket, he found the old dreamline compass, but the main needle was broken and gave only the vaguest approximation of north. The smaller needle, however, the one that indicated where Owen was
supposed
to be, pointed in a steady, firm direction.

He flew onward as night fell, using the last gasps of alchemical power to keep the boiler up to pressure, hoping to sail just a little farther. He filled the intake chamber with the last of the powdery fuel, which glowed but quickly burned out. The coldfire dimmed and died.

The bullet hole in the airsack had taken its toll, and the levitating balloon deflated even as the steam engine ran out. Owen used every last trick he remembered to keep the scoutship aloft, but it wasn’t enough. The vessel descended toward the open darkling sea. He held on, fearing a crash as disastrous as when Captain Lochs’s ship had run aground on the reefs. With no pretensions of gentleness, the wooden-hulled airship landed in the water, throwing Owen to the deck. The steam boiler gasped and coughed; it would have exploded had there been any pressure left. The deflated air sacks collapsed like a smothering blanket over the top of the vessel.