The Doomsday Vault (22 page)

“Why tritones?” Alice asked. “We used one during the zombie attack, but no one would explain why it worked.”

“They are horrible,” Dr. Clef muttered.
“Ungeheurlich.”

“Most clockworkers experience actual pain when they hear a tritone,” Simon explained. “The instrument you repaired during the zombie attack was designed to play music especially loudly, and you saw the impact a loud tritone had on that clockworker.”

“In addition,” Phipps added, “it's important to understand that all musical intervals can be expressed as numbers, determined by the frequency ratio.”

“Frequency ratio?” Gavin said.

“In simple terms,” Simon said, “when an object such as a string of a certain length vibrates at a certain speed to create a certain sound, it produces a certain number of cycles—a measurement of sonic energy. If you compare that string with another string vibrating at a different speed, you get a ratio. Perhaps one string produces three cycles each time the other produces two cycles, giving us a ratio of three to two. That particular ratio, incidentally, makes the sound of a perfect fifth. Two strings vibrating at a ratio of two to one will give us an octave.”

“I don't understand what this has to do with clockworkers finding tritones painful,” Alice said.

“The frequency ratio of a perfect tritone does not exist,” Simon said. “In mathematical terms, the ratio of a tritone is one to the square root of two.” Dr. Clef shuddered at his table.

“The square root of two?” Alice repeated. “But that can't exist.”

“That's what I just said. The square root of two is an irrational number. On the one hand, it must exist—we can see it in a right triangle. We can hear it in the frequency ratio of a tritone. But on the other hand, no two identical rational numbers will multiply together to make two. The square root of two can't exist, and yet it does. Irrational. We think this is why tritones bother clockworkers so much. They sense aspects of the universe that normal people can't, and the paradox created by that irrational frequency ratio causes them distress.”

“And that's why the symbol of the Third Ward is the square root of two,” Phipps said. “We shouldn't exist, but we do. Which brings me to our next point. Gavin Ennock, you have a musical talent that would be very useful to the Third Ward. I would like to officially offer you a position as an agent. Will you accept?”

“Yes,” Gavin said instantly.

Phipps nodded, though her expression didn't change. “And Alice Michaels, you have a talent for assembling and using clockworker technology, one never before seen. This would also be extremely useful to the Third Ward. Will you accept a position as an agent?”

Alice looked at Gavin's expectant face, then at Phipps's impassive one.

“No,” she said.

“No?” Gavin said. “Al—Miss Michaels! Why not?”

“I don't wish to discuss it, Mr. Ennock,” Alice replied primly. “But I do wish to leave. Now.”

Phipps's expression remained neutral. “If you like. But first I have to perform a quick procedure.”

She drew a strange-looking pistol, and Alice pulled back with a hiss. “What on earth?”

“This is not a weapon, Miss Michaels.” Phipps unwound a cable from the stock and plugged it into a receptacle in her own forearm. A high-pitched whine grated in Alice's ears just as Phipps pulled the trigger, and Alice was half-blinded by a dazzling pattern of color. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to regain her vision.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“Another clockworker invention,” Phipps said. “As I understand it, the light patterns disrupt the connections between the portion of your brain that stores recent memory and the portion that controls speech. In other words, you won't be able to talk about anything that has happened in the last two hours, more or less. It's standard practice for all those who see our installation but aren't part of the Third Ward. Simon will see you out. Gavin will, of course, stay here to begin his training immediately.”

And she turned her back on Alice to talk to Gavin. Alice left the room, leaving Simon to scramble after her. She kept an icy silence all the way up the elevator, out the main doors, and to the main gates, where Simon hailed a cab for her.

“Can you tell me why, Miss Michaels?” he asked, dark eyes almost pleading.

“I'm late for luncheon with my fiancé, Mr. d'Arco,” Alice said. “Good day.”

And she was gone.

Dear Gramps:

 

You must have got my telegram, so you know I'm all right. Now I can write a longer letter and tell you more than ESCAPED PIRATES. AM FINE.

Some friends told me that the
Juniper
's capture made the papers in Boston. You must have been worried sick. I'm all right. Really. The pirates boarded us and we fought, including me. I'm sorry, Gramps, but Tom was killed. So was Captain Naismith. Both of them fought, and they were brave. Tell Ma, but do it gentle, all right?

And how is Ma? And Jenny and Harry and Violet and Patrick? Did Jenny get married? Was Ma able to send Patrick to school? He's smarter than any of us, so I hope so.

Anyway, I escaped the pirates in London, but Boston Shipping and Mail wouldn't put me on another ship. Now I have a job at and it pays a lot better than cabin boy or airman.

I guess I should explain some more. At
my job is
, so I can't say much about it. Don't worry! It's not illegal or bad or anything. I'm helping people. I'm a sort of policeman. They want me because I can
.

Oh, come on! Does that have to be—hey! Don't write that part down! Or that! Don't you have a button for when I'm editing or something?

Gramps, you can already tell I'm not writing this letter. It's called a transcription, and it's supposed to be my thoughts as they come out of me, like a song I make up as I go. I'm speaking, and my words are being written on a kind of printing machine for me by
—fine, by someone else. The
blocks out what I'm not supposed to talk about, and corrects my grammar, too.

My new boss is
and—oh gosh. All right, I'll call her P. Does that work? Good. So P. paired me up to work with—uh, I can see a black mark coming—with Mr. D. and Dr. C. for my training. Mr. D. is a good man. He seems to like me quite a bit, and don't worry—he makes sure I eat. In fact, he eats almost every meal with me. He said that I should write a long letter to you, and
would pay for the airmail postage, so that's what I'm doing. He also said that I should talk a lot about everything that's going on in order to sort out how I feel about it all because it'll help. What he means by that, I don't know.

So on the first day here, I was brought in with a very pretty woman named
, who—Hey, come on! She didn't even join
. Why do you have to blank her name out?