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Dream Fragment - Iron Jack
Nov. 8th, 2005 09:23 amThe deck of _Vanguard_ creaks as I make my way forward. I am heavier even than the long 32-pound cannons that make Lord Nelson's flagship the deadliest third-rater in the fleet. I can feel the decking give way slightly under my heavy footfalls. This ship was not built to accommodate me.
The marines are all on deck despite the pouring rain, looking vaguely pathetic in their bedraggled finery. They stand in formation but sneak peeks at me as I walk to the foredeck. The automatons of Newton are now common in London, but I am not a common automaton. My master built only one of me before destroying the plans. He was wise in his own way, my Newton, and I miss him terribly.
I climb slowly to the foredeck; Nelson and the special carronade are waiting. The admiral glares at my dull iron carapace with naked suspicion. This is a man who has brought glory to the Crown by straight-ahead warfare on the high seas; he has little truck with the playthings of long-dead philosophers, or any mechanism pertaining to more than navigation and artillery. He squares himself and looks into my faceplate.
"Iron Jack," he pronounces formally, "are you prepared to serve your King and Country?"
"Admiral Nelson," I reply, pitching my speaking-box as low as I am able, "I have been serving King and Country for one hundred years. I have sunk the ships of pirates, and put down an insurrection in the Americas, and rooted out Jacobites from the sewers under London. Spare me your pomp and point the way."
Nelson is taken aback. Most automatons are docile creatures. My Newton, however, wanted his firstborn to have an independent mind. I have seen and done impossible things longer than most people have been alive, and I refuse to be bullied by some overstuffed viscount, war hero or no.
Nelson regroups his composure and his dignity. "Napoleon has found the Staff of Moses," he announces. "We have his fleet cornered, but his mastery of the staff is.... formidable. If you can break his power, the Royal fleet shall take this day."
"Then ready your fleet," I instruct the Admiral, "and get me within range. This mad emperor shall be stopped."
_Vanguard_ draws forward, risking fire from emplacements on the headlands of Abukir Bay. The range is very long, however, and no shot comes closer than five hundred feet. The unfolding battle in the Nile delta becomes visible. _Bellerophon_ and _Coldcatch_, ships of the line, are engaging _L'Orient_ and many frigates. By the light of the flares, we can hear the muffled krumps and thumps of exchanged cannon fire over a mile distant.
All at once a seam opens up in the water. Several hundreds of yards off the port bow of _Coldcatch_, a deep trough yawns in the water where previously had been only flat ocean. The crew of _Vanguard_ watches in horror as the parted waters creep towards _Coldcatch_ and swallow her up. The thin cries of over a thousand seamen filter dimly across the suddenly quiet bay, and then all is silent. Where _Coldcatch_ had been, only still waters remain.
It is past time. In his great wisdom, my Newton had designed sockets in my arms for arm-blades. I slot the heavy iron wings into place and climb into the carronade. "Lord Nelson, I am ready."
The admiral's face is unreadable in the darkness. "For King and country, Iron Jack."
"Get on with it." I settle into a crouch and wait.
I need not wait long. There is a tremendous blast as four hundred pounds of gunpowder in guncloth bags detonates. In a fraction of a second I am hurtling across the water, an iron projectile fired at _L'Orient_. I spread my arms, and the blades catch the wind beneath them. Now I skim through the air like a great dull-grey flying fish.
_L'Orient_ is too distant for a conventional shot, even with the special carronade. It will be necessary to skip. I flatten the blades out as the water approaches, smoothing out my angle of attack, and then slap down hard on the waves. My momentum angles me off the surface, and I skip like a stone. Now I am not flying, I am bouncing across the waves.
As _L'Orient_ approaches, I time one last skip and slap my blades hard against the water to gain some elevation. I intersect the flagship just over the height of the railing, amid surprised whooping of the crew, and I correct my course slightly by angling my blades....
I crash through the mainmast with my arms spread wide. The momentum and the weight of the blades carves through the stout oaken trunk like a knife through butter. The mainstays snap, and the entire center rigging comes crashing to the deck in a mass of shouting and thrashing men and canvas. I pick myself off the deck and turn on my Illuminator. Several Frenchmen are blinded.
Suddenly something strikes me hard on the back. The blow is powerful enough to drive me to my knees -- a rarity; not even cannon fire should be able to do that. I pick myself up slowly and look about.
Several large metallic lobsters are approaching from the hold. Their riveted plates gleam in the light of the flares -- bronze, I should say, or something like it. A hiss of steam escapes from their joints, and their great clockwork pincers clack threateningly.
So. The evil emperor Napoleon has allied himself with Leibniz, that evil genius. That charlatan who stole the work of my Newton, making imperfect creations for personal gain instead of artistry and the furtherence of science. That demon who, it is said, has preserved his life unnaturally against aging, and yet dwells in some hidden fortress while my beloved Newton is merely bones in the ground.
It matters not. An 18-pound cannon lies close at hand. I pick it up and wield it as a club, squaring off against the circling lobstrosities.
It begins.
The marines are all on deck despite the pouring rain, looking vaguely pathetic in their bedraggled finery. They stand in formation but sneak peeks at me as I walk to the foredeck. The automatons of Newton are now common in London, but I am not a common automaton. My master built only one of me before destroying the plans. He was wise in his own way, my Newton, and I miss him terribly.
I climb slowly to the foredeck; Nelson and the special carronade are waiting. The admiral glares at my dull iron carapace with naked suspicion. This is a man who has brought glory to the Crown by straight-ahead warfare on the high seas; he has little truck with the playthings of long-dead philosophers, or any mechanism pertaining to more than navigation and artillery. He squares himself and looks into my faceplate.
"Iron Jack," he pronounces formally, "are you prepared to serve your King and Country?"
"Admiral Nelson," I reply, pitching my speaking-box as low as I am able, "I have been serving King and Country for one hundred years. I have sunk the ships of pirates, and put down an insurrection in the Americas, and rooted out Jacobites from the sewers under London. Spare me your pomp and point the way."
Nelson is taken aback. Most automatons are docile creatures. My Newton, however, wanted his firstborn to have an independent mind. I have seen and done impossible things longer than most people have been alive, and I refuse to be bullied by some overstuffed viscount, war hero or no.
Nelson regroups his composure and his dignity. "Napoleon has found the Staff of Moses," he announces. "We have his fleet cornered, but his mastery of the staff is.... formidable. If you can break his power, the Royal fleet shall take this day."
"Then ready your fleet," I instruct the Admiral, "and get me within range. This mad emperor shall be stopped."
_Vanguard_ draws forward, risking fire from emplacements on the headlands of Abukir Bay. The range is very long, however, and no shot comes closer than five hundred feet. The unfolding battle in the Nile delta becomes visible. _Bellerophon_ and _Coldcatch_, ships of the line, are engaging _L'Orient_ and many frigates. By the light of the flares, we can hear the muffled krumps and thumps of exchanged cannon fire over a mile distant.
All at once a seam opens up in the water. Several hundreds of yards off the port bow of _Coldcatch_, a deep trough yawns in the water where previously had been only flat ocean. The crew of _Vanguard_ watches in horror as the parted waters creep towards _Coldcatch_ and swallow her up. The thin cries of over a thousand seamen filter dimly across the suddenly quiet bay, and then all is silent. Where _Coldcatch_ had been, only still waters remain.
It is past time. In his great wisdom, my Newton had designed sockets in my arms for arm-blades. I slot the heavy iron wings into place and climb into the carronade. "Lord Nelson, I am ready."
The admiral's face is unreadable in the darkness. "For King and country, Iron Jack."
"Get on with it." I settle into a crouch and wait.
I need not wait long. There is a tremendous blast as four hundred pounds of gunpowder in guncloth bags detonates. In a fraction of a second I am hurtling across the water, an iron projectile fired at _L'Orient_. I spread my arms, and the blades catch the wind beneath them. Now I skim through the air like a great dull-grey flying fish.
_L'Orient_ is too distant for a conventional shot, even with the special carronade. It will be necessary to skip. I flatten the blades out as the water approaches, smoothing out my angle of attack, and then slap down hard on the waves. My momentum angles me off the surface, and I skip like a stone. Now I am not flying, I am bouncing across the waves.
As _L'Orient_ approaches, I time one last skip and slap my blades hard against the water to gain some elevation. I intersect the flagship just over the height of the railing, amid surprised whooping of the crew, and I correct my course slightly by angling my blades....
I crash through the mainmast with my arms spread wide. The momentum and the weight of the blades carves through the stout oaken trunk like a knife through butter. The mainstays snap, and the entire center rigging comes crashing to the deck in a mass of shouting and thrashing men and canvas. I pick myself off the deck and turn on my Illuminator. Several Frenchmen are blinded.
Suddenly something strikes me hard on the back. The blow is powerful enough to drive me to my knees -- a rarity; not even cannon fire should be able to do that. I pick myself up slowly and look about.
Several large metallic lobsters are approaching from the hold. Their riveted plates gleam in the light of the flares -- bronze, I should say, or something like it. A hiss of steam escapes from their joints, and their great clockwork pincers clack threateningly.
So. The evil emperor Napoleon has allied himself with Leibniz, that evil genius. That charlatan who stole the work of my Newton, making imperfect creations for personal gain instead of artistry and the furtherence of science. That demon who, it is said, has preserved his life unnaturally against aging, and yet dwells in some hidden fortress while my beloved Newton is merely bones in the ground.
It matters not. An 18-pound cannon lies close at hand. I pick it up and wield it as a club, squaring off against the circling lobstrosities.
It begins.
