The Clock-Work Nightingale

In which Alexander St.-Clare, writing with a barely adequate pencil in thin gas-light, bids a fond farewell to the world which bore and nurtured and is, now, preparing to kill him.

The convention of addressing the peruser of this document as 'dear reader' is not followed; Mr St.-Clare is under no illusion that the reader will be dear to him.

Regrets are not expressed. The author regrets only that he leaves so much unfinished.

---

Unless the reader has acquainted himself with my history, he will not have discovered me here; therefore, I will merely refer him to the hopefully adequate dossier which any well-prepared tool of the imperialistic regime will have to hand. Thus, he will understand in what situation the Nightingale found me.

It was not an unpleasant lot in life; true, my home and workshop were crushingly overshadowed by the nearby factories, and my windows grimy with their soot, but I was beginning to make a name for myself among my fellow practitioners of Mechymical Fabrickation. The cautious accolades of my peers was music to my ears, drowning out the ceaseless hiss and bubble of the overheated cooling-stream that ran beneath my bath-room window. My rent and living-expenses were payable and I was happy in my work (designs and blueprints for those pieces as yet unfinished may be found filed in my workshop).

Permit me liscence for a little florid prose here and there; you will be aware that before enrolling in the Academy of Progress, I entertained literary pretensions.

The Nightingale came to me one night, as I toiled late over some minor difficulty in the reaction-containment chamber of a prototype Welding-Spider (later this was resolved, and the prototype finished; I believe the Welding-Spider may turn out to be of great use to the construction industry, and so I beg of you, do not destroy my work before you examine it for utility). It had been a hot, muggy day, and the weather showed no signs of breaking; accordingly, the sky-lights in my workshop had been left standing open in the hopes of catching a slight breeze. Owing to the large amount of various spiritous vapours I had been exposed to that day I was a little more highly-strung than is my custom; accordingly, upon hearing a slight noise, I turned instantly from my bench to see the gaslight gleaming on a messy head of shockingly crimson hair. For a second, I panicked, before unscrewing the enlarging-lens and blocking-patch from my eyes, rendering my vision once again normal.

My nocturnal visitor was crouched, feline, on the great curving shell of a half-finished Mercurial Beetle (again, I feel that were my work in this area to be continued, great benefits would result). Swathed in a black cloak, a scarf wound across the lower part of the face, only the visitor's unnaturally vivid hair stood out against the shadowed back-drop of my workshop.

"Alexander St.-Clare," the visitor said; and I startled to discover that she was indeed she. "I have a commission for you." So saying, she drew a long cloth-wrapped bundle from inside her cloak and tossed it onto the bench. It landed with a heavy metallic clunk, and the wrapping fell open sufficient for me to see the distinctive trigger-guard of a Mashick revolving-cylinder fire-arm (called, for convenience, revolver). Immediately I drew away from the lethal thing; at that time I was a law-abiding citizen, and wished no contact with forbidden weaponry, although of course as an alumnus of the august Academy of Progress the theory of such things was known to me.

"It has been badly damaged. Alchymical damage, within the firing-mechanism. I have been told that you can fix this."

"How did it come to be damaged?" I inquired, curiosity overcoming alarm.

"Some idiot tried to convert it from black-powder flintlock to mercuric fulminate. Badly." She paused, glancing here and there around my darkened workshop. "I can pay well. I were told you were discreet. Will you do it?"

At that moment, I suppose that I became a criminal. It is some relief to reflect that everything I did from that moment onwards only confirmed the fate which I took for my own then; I agreed to fix the weapon. My own curiosity damned me. I do not mind admitting that my hands itched to pry apart the cunning design, and see for myself why these things must needs be outlawed.

"I'll come back in a fortnight," my visitor said, relieved, standing up and reaching for a rope which I had not noticed hanging from the edge of my open sky-light. "With your payment."

With that, she climbed quickly up the rope and disappeared into the dark.

---

It was some days before the vexing problem of the Welding-Spider was completed to my satisfaction, and I could turn my attention to the revolver. I had concealed it within the complexities of the Mercurial Beetle's prototypical digestion, and was unconcerned that it would be discovered; visitors to my workshop were not many, and visitors who would open and investigate my machines were unheard-of. Unwrapping the fire-arm atop a sheaf of designs for a Dragonfly's wings (this machine was completed; more on this topic anon), I rediscovered my Academy texts that dealt with such weaponry; and, aided by their diagrams and explanations, I dissected it.

Here, I must interject a note of admiration for the fabrickationers of Mashick – save for clock-work one rarely discovers such admirably delicate workmanship. Thus, the damage to the firing-mechanism was hideous to one such as myself; without going into tedious detail, the item had been subject to truly horrific redesign. Whomever had attempted to remake this from a flintlock into what is termed a caplock had clearly no conception of the task he had attempted to undertake. No allowance had been made for the greater pressures exterted by the rapid thermal decomposition of the mercuric fulminate; consideration for the products of said decomposition was scanty at best.

I wrapped the weapon away once more, and bent my efforts towards a greater understanding. I could not bear to subject the fire-arm to even more indignities; I must know exactly what I did. Thus came into existance many small designs; nothing on their own that would appear incriminating, merely reaction-chambers, some with pistons; others with gears (the possibility of turning a wheel smoothly via oft-repeated explosions occurred to me; I have made a start on the investigation of same; it appears to be a very promising area of study). In this way, nearly a full week passed before I felt ready to once more tackle my commission.

I believe that the weapon in question has been discovered; thus I need not assert that I was successful.

Two weeks to the day that my mysterious visitor had first appeared, I was once more working late; on this rainy and miserable night, I had left the workshop's back door a little ajar, ostensibly to swiftly dispose of the products of my current investigation should they be discovered to be a danger to my person. Indeed, I had twice to fling a containment-chamber out into the rain to lie hissing as it cooled, deformed, corroded by an unexpected twist to the reaction within.

A swift rustle alerted me that I was not alone. Turning, I beheld my visitor, perched on the edge of the bench, looking with interest at the work before me. Little rivulets of water ran from her cloak and down the gutter in the floor.

"What have you for me?" She asked.

I took her weapon from its place in the Mercurial Beetle, and placed it on the bench beside her. "It works," I assured her. "You have access to mercuric fulminate?"

She nodded once, swiftly, birdlike. "Shot and percussion-caps are available. As I promised – your payment." A small purse, heavy with the sound of coins, appeared by some magic in her hand. "Thank you, Mr St.-Clare. I hope that no trouble befalls you on my account."

"There is more that could be done," I assured her; somewhat surprised by myself, as I had not intended to make this known. "I have done as you requested, but more could be achieved."

This interested her, as I suspected it would. "On this?"

"Certainly, and I have ideas – I am no gunsmith but it seems to me that the necessity of muzzle-loading, and indeed the external placement of the percussion-cap, can easily be overcome. I..." I glanced at the work before me; elemental mercury, spirit of nitre, various items of glass- and brass-ware. "I am working on a way to remove the necessity of the cap entirely. I suspect it should be possible to reform the mercuric fulminate from the products of its decomposition. So far little has been achieved, but... I am investigating."

At this, my visitor looked astonished. "Why?" She asked.

"Why what?"

"Why are you continuing to work on something that's illegal?"

I frowned. "This is not illegal. Its applications may be, but this is merely fascinating."

She laughed then, hiding her weapon beneath her enveloping cloak. "If I return in another fortnight, will you have more fascinating things I can use?"

"Quite possibly."

"By the way, Mr St.-Clare –" she paused in the doorway to adjust the hood of her cloak over that vivid crimson hair, "I'm Nightingale."

"The terrorist!" I blurted.

"So we are told," Nightingale answered, and vanished once more.

This was shortly after the Chief of Police had been found murdered in his office, with nightingale feathers in his hand; criminals had been freed, and nightingale feathers left in their place; threatening letters had been sent to the prominent, sealed with nightingale feathers in the envelope. This activity had flourished recently, within a scant few months, but the news-sheets had lost little time in pinning on this latest threat the monicker that it seemed to invite.

You may imagine my consternation at this discovery; but I did not go to the police. I knew that I had already damned myself in their eyes. My fate was now linked with the Nightingale's.

---

It did not take me long to discover that reformation of mercuric fulminate inside the firing-mechanism of a caplock revolver was an impractical goal. I continued along that road merely out of interest, knowing that it was inapplicable to the Nightingale's cause; but not wishing to have nothing to show for my labours, I took a little time to investigate the possibility of a fire-arm that did not have to be loaded from the muzzle.

Of course, I had no weapons on which to experiment; working from the notes, sketches and memories I had put together of the Nightingale's fire-arm, by the time the second fortnight had passed, I was increasingly certain that it would be possible, with a little clever fabrickation, to create a weapon in which the shot, its main propellant charge, and the percussion-cap with which to set it off could all be contained within the barrel itself. It ocurred to me that the revolving cylinder could be made to fold completely out of its position at the end of the barrel were there no external percussion-cap to contend with; if this could be done, it would be a simple case to slot the all-inclusive shots into position in the cylinder; and with no time-delay in the replacement of percussion-caps, the rate of fire would increase still further. In short, I was somewhat excited by the vistas of investigation this seemingly simple problem had opened up before me. Accordingly, it was not unusual for me to be awake long into the night; darkness in which the Nightingale could cloak herself was in ample supply.

That night, I had been awake for some eighteen hours, and was acutely aware of this fact. Turning my tired mind from the problem before me, my eye-sockets aching from the pressure of the expanding-lenses I had in place, I resolved to discontinue work until I were rested. While waiting for the Nightingale, I took up an old project of mine; the Dragonfly, or rather its working prototype. This was the machine of which I was most proud; the product of many laborious weeks spent much as I was spending my time now. Shortly after I had become the occupier of this much more spacious workshop, I had shut myself away and indulged in a purely self-satisfying project; the fabrickation of an independently flying steam-machine, eventually modelled on the form of its name-sake insect. The completion, and subsequent fine-tuning, of the successful prototype had brought me acclaim; it was this with which I now amused myself.

The Dragonfly's automotive power derives, as does much that is interesting, from the pressure of steam. To fabrickate a flying-machine is a problem that many before me have solved, with varying levels of success; it is with great pride that I may modestly propose to have solved the far more vexing problem of self-guiding flight. My solution was clock-work. Without wishing to become absorbed in great details (for I am growingly aware that my time here is short), the under-lying idea was to take the net-work of steam-pipes that carry the machine's power from its boiler to the mechanisms where it is needed – chiefly, the base of each wing, and the tail-sections – and to regulate the movement of steam through same by cunning application of clock-work timed valves. Please refer to my (copious) working notes and diagrams for a fuller explanation.

In essence, to fly the machine, one first loads the boiler (this is one of the newer Jameson types, incorporating a pressure-regulated coal-store, thus allowing it to burn – and fly – for longer periods of time); while the pressure builds, one may adjust the clock-work to open and close given valves at certain times. Experiments to allow the machine, by means of thin rods, to steer itself around obstacles were never greatly successful; thus one must needs have a very clear idea of the flight-path before one attempts to indoctrinate the Dragonfly with its task. When the pressure is high enough, one releases the master-valve, and the machine takes off. As it flies, the clock-work responds to its indoctrination and adjusts the flow of steam accordingly; and so, the Dragonfly is steered.

Even for a short flight around the space in my work-shop, indoctrinating the Dragonfly was not a simple task. At last, however, my labour paid off, and I was cheered as always to see a product of my own imagination and hard work perform with apparent ease such a long-troubling task. As always, I resolved to return to this machine, to produce more and better versions; soon I was lost in a reverie of imagination, picturing with delight the skies over the city filled with the self-correcting flight of my Dragonflies. I was brought back to earth by the landing of my little insect on the floor before me; recalling that landing was an aspect of the machine that had yet to be perfected, I hurried forwards to be certain that no damage had been done. The event was, that it had not; as I shut the master-valve and opened the vent, leaving the furnace to burn itself out, I noticed through the cloud of escaping steam that Nightingale had returned. Through the enlarging-lenses, which I had yet to remove from my sockets, she appeared tired and drawn; even the shocking red of her hair seemed to have wilted a little.

"This is a new machine?" She asked, once the demanding hiss of escaping pressure had died down.

"Oh, no – it has been my plaything for some time. Forgive me, I have made little tangible progress on your cause."

"It's nothing," she said, shrugging. "Tell me about this mechymical insect."

I was a little flustered, but others' interest in my work has always pleased me. "Self-guiding flight has been vexing the practicioners of my art for some time – ever since the problem of flight was solved. This machine – my Dragonfly – guides itself by the indoctrination of clock-work." I gestured her closer, and pointed out the glass-covered cases on the body, and the larger segments of tail, which housed said clock-work. "It is still hot – this is the boiler-case – please do not touch it."

My warning was scarcely needed; steam still rose from the cooling insect. Nightingale walked several times around the Dragonfly, peering closely at it; I was deeply gratified by her interest, and in retrospect should have anticipated her next question.

"Is it possible to build one large enough to carry a person?"

"One would not need to," I replied, startled. "A person, being carried, could steer the flight manually; the indoctrination of clock-work would be a needless complication."

"Not at all," Nightingale said. "An untrained person, busy with... some other task at the time?"

"Training someone to pilot a simple flying machine is a trivial task," I replied, a little stiffly. "It is a problem long-solved."

"I know." She paused, her head on one side, still studying the machine. "Could one be made which allowed for the possibility of both manual steering and pre-indoctrination?"

"Yes," I answered guardedly. "It would not be entirely trivial but it is certainly possible."

"Can you do it?" She stopped her pacing before me and looked up, her eyes bright. "Make me a flying machine?"

"It would have to have a different shape," I said, to her surprise. "Otherwise the news-sheets would attribute your exploits to a rival, who they would call the Dragonfly."

This close, the closest I'd ever seen her – helped by my enlarging-lenses – I was troubled by some detail I could not place; some inexplicable shade to her face nagged at a long-buried part of my memory, even half-hidden as it was beneath her ever-present scarf. I became suddenly uncomfortable, and attempted to cover it by babbling.

"However a nightingale's wings are substantially more complex than those of a dragonfly – I am not certain the same principle could be successfully applied – unless the wings were to stiffen into a facsimile of an insect's at the start of self-guiding flight – which I suspect would be possible, if non-trivial –"

Nightingale cut me off. "It's just a name. They'll know me." She reached up – her thin hands shockingly enlarged by my lenses – and tapped at the clear glass over my eyes. "Did you make these yourself?"

"No," I replied, stepping backwards, startled. "These are – they are attached to my skull..." I carefully unscrewed them, revealing the placements set into the skin of my eye-brows, wincing at the ache.

"Biomech," Nightingale breathed. "I didn't know it was real."

"It is a still-young field," I admitted. "Biomechalogickal Augmentation – I was never taught it."

Nightingale looked on the verge of further speech, but suddenly turned away. "If you can make me a Dragonfly capable of self-guiding and manually-guided flight... I can... I can pay you. Enough. Whatever price you ask."

"Well –" I paused. "I can certainly try. The results I cannot yet predict. But –" I felt embarrassment rising in an unwelcome tide, "I will have to – uh – take measurements of your person..."

"Do it." Nightingale shrugged quickly out of her cloak, and tossed it over the bench, careful to avoid the site of any works-in-progress.

I busied myself for longer than was strictly necessary finding a tape-measure and a piece of paper. Beneath her all-covering black cloak, Nightingale was entirely decently dressed in well-fitting trousers and a man's shirt, but close physical contact to other human beings has ever made me nervous; particularly when the human being in contact is female, and naggingly, unceasingly, familiar to me. She stood perfectly still as I hurried through the long list of measurements I felt might be useful, until I practically flung myself away from close proximity, and recovered my composture under the guise of hiding the paper in a heap of discarded metal. When I turned, she had flung her cloak once more over herself, and was eyeing the Dragonfly with unabated interest.

"How long will it take?" She asked.

"I – I have no idea."

"Then I'll be back in a fortnight," she said. "In case you need more measurements." With that, she turned and was gone.

---

However, it was a scant eight days before my nocturnal visitor returned. My working habits had entirely reverted to those of a student; I rose late, and remained in the workshop until midnight had long passed me by; often until light was growing once more in the sky. While the sun still crawled between the spaces in the tall factories and warehouses that loomed around my modest building; while the splashes of daylight, filtered through smoke-grimed air, were still cut by the passing shadows of flyers; then I worked upon the commissions and projects that paid my rent. I had deemed it imprudent, not to mention merely impolite, to drop my regular work on behalf of a terrorist; but unless I were close to either a deadline, or a breakthrough, the work I did by gas-light as the nights grew older and cooler was for her.

As it so happened, I was celebrating a modest victory on the night she returned; I believed I had at last solved the problem of the muzzle-loading revolver. By incorporating powder, shot, and percussion-cap into a single brass shell, I had eliminated the need for any external firing-mechanism, and allowed the possibility of folding the cylinder entirely out of the barrel. Or so I believed; I was eager to test my idea on a real weapon (as the fire-arm has been recovered, you may refer to its internal workings for further details on exactly what I fabrickated).

"Alexander."

Recognising the voice, surprised that she should refer to me by name, I turned to see Nightingale sitting on the Mercurial Beetle once more. I surmised that, again, she had entered via the open sky-lights. Seeing she was recognised – as though I could mistake that red hair – she slid off and approached. Above the hem of the scarf, her expression looked tense and strained.

"I didn't expect you," I blurted, bothered once more by the shadow of remembrance haunting her artifically-detailed face – needless to say I was once more wearing enlarging-lenses; in truth, they scarce left my sockets during that time.

"I have a confession to make; you deserve the truth, and I have yet to be entirely truthful. I found you, I trust you because I know you, Alexander."

With that, she reached up and pulled her scarf down; and then, I knew her also. The unsightly splashing burn that curled her mouth into a perpetual sneer, puckered and ruined the skin of her jaw and neck, could only belong to one person. "Rose," I breathed, astonished beyond the capacity of words to express. "How – I thought – why?"

"The architect of my disfigurement was once the Chief of Police," my childhood friend replied calmly. "You should know that my father 'disappeared' when he sought justice – I learned then that there is none for the powerless. I do not like to be a victim, so I taught myself to be a Fabrickationer of sorts – I fabrickate my own justice."

I thought back to the news-sheets' lurid descriptions of the officer, found dead with feathers clutched in one hand. "I believe I may further augment your fire-arm," I said uselessly, my spinning mind unable to concoct a better reply.

Rose Nightingale smiled, a ghastly expression on those cruelly ruined lips. Refastening her scarf to hide her burned and tortured skin, she stepped away from me and cast a glance at the skeletal shape of a second, larger Dragonfly. "Then take it," she said, removing it from her cloak and placing it on the Beetle as she prepared to leave. "And I shall see you anon, Alexander."

"Go – go well, Rose."

"Nightingale," she corrected, already half-way up the rope and near-invisible in the darkness. "Rose died years ago."

It was long before I could force my stunned mind from contemplating the tragedy of my childhood friend, to augmenting the weaponry of her vengeful ghost.

---

I cannot believe I have not yet been discovered. I must finish my tale. If nothing else, Nightingale deserves an epitaph better than that the news-sheets will give her.

---

It was a full fortnight before I saw my terrorist again; I admit that I read the news-sheets with trepidation, fearing every time I unfolded the thin paper that she had been captured. However, her name was only printed in relation to what had become almost mundane activities. Threats, a failed bomb-attack, suspected arson. The news-sheets were mostly interested in the completion of a new dirigible, the largest machine ever to take to the skies; its maiden voyage was to be one month hence, and on board were to be a slew of luminaries – including the Prime Minister. In retrospect I am somewhat surprised that nobody thought to connect Nightingale's obvious agenda with large amounts of inflammable gas occupying space so near to the prominent.

I had returned, that night, to an old project; her fire-arm was completed, and the second Dragonfly wanted testing more rigorous than I could carry out with the crude dummies I had fashioned. Spread out before my gas-protected gaze were an assemblage of containment-chambers, glass beakers, and cobble-stones; some hissing and smoking, others ominously quiet. Once more, I had left the door open to effect rapid removal of dangerous products; the Mercurial Beetle's stomach was being fabrickated (for the sake of the curious – the Mercurial Beetle was hoped to find a use in cleaning dangerous chymicals from the streets).

"I'll not come too close," Nightingale spoke, from the other side of my workshop. I turned slowly, careful not to knock anything on the bench; surprised as always by her stealth. "That flask appears to be glowing."

"Phosphor-spirits," I explained, putting the flask in question down. "It is quite safe thus contained." Removing myself from the vicinity of the chymicals, I removed the gas-filters from my sockets and rubbed their bruised rims gingerly. "Here is your weapon; allow me to demonstrate my augmentations." She moved close, eager to see. "The cylinder is first folded, with a rolling motion, out of the barrel – thus. Then, six brass shot-shells – I shall provide you with diagrams so that your shot-merchant can provide more – are introduced. The cylinder is snapped back into place, the locks engaged... and the weapon is ready to fire."

Nightingale examined the fire-arm, testing its balance and heft. With a distortion of her scarf which I read as a smile, she replaced it in her cloak; I turned down the money she magicked into being instead. "For the extra work," she urged; she had noticed the little nightingale, holding a rose in its claws, which I had engraved carefully on the wooden grip of the fire-arm.

"Engraving is a hobby, not work," I assured her, and moved to demonstrate the Dragonfly. "As you can see, this version flies with its body held upright; this is to accommodate the pilot. I have tested it with a dummy strapped in place – the indoctrination is in essence the same as that of the prototype, a solved problem – and myself, with the controls. The Dragonfly works."

"Show me." Nightingale instantly slid out of her cloak, draping it over her Dragonfly's older brother, and moved to stand where I directed her.

"Your feet on these pedals, if you please – be careful that your hair is tucked away; this is the boiler; cranial blazes are hopefully to be avoided... the straps are fastened and adjusted thus and thus..." as I worked, I forgot even my nervousness at close proximity, such was my excitement at seeing this work finally completed. The actual fabrickation had not been as difficult as I had feared, but I was fascinated by the concept; and to see it work was a sight indeed. The controls were not difficult, and Nightingale was quick to grasp their intricacies; when at last I fired up the boiler, indoctrinated the machine to fly thrice around the workshop and then land, and opened the master-valve, the look of sheer joy on her face – that of it I could see – was better than any amount of money she could have offered.

---

I think I begin to hear shouting; the loud, angry shouts of the powerful who do not like the fulfilment of their wishes delayed. I must hurry. This tale, like its author, is nearing the end.

---

In the two weeks that followed, Nightingale came thrice more to my workshop, to fly and test the Dragonfly. We would reminisce; swapping memories and tales of our shared childhood, those that avoided the painful subject lurking still beneath her scarf. She had not removed it since the night she had revealed herself, nor did I ask her to. On the final occasion, just before leaving, she had paused to examine the front page of that day's news-sheet: the new dirigible – named the Kraken by its fabrickationers – was to fly in scant four days' time.

"You've guessed my intention," she said. It was not a question; I nodded to show I had. "And you'll not stop me?"

"No."

Nightingale's scarf twitched to show a thin smile beneath. "Thank you. I will come for the Dragonfly... before that cursed machine flies. The night before."

I would have wished her good luck; but by then we both knew her fate, and I began to suspect my own. I spent those last days tidying my workshop and finishing what I could, telling myself it should have been done long ago, knowing the truth.

But it was not the night before the Kraken flew that I saw Nightingale next; it was twilight on the evening of the day before.

She blundered into my workshop, clumsy staggers replacing her usual silent grace, and as the bottle slipped from her grasp and splashed on the floor I realised that she was unaccountably intoxicated. When she came a little closer, I gasped in shocked horror and almost retched; the space above her scarf was ruined also; blood and pus flowed like tears down her cheeks, and her eyes were swollen shut, a shade of red almost matching that of her hair. I saw the cuts, the holes, the poorly-fitted mounts in her eye-brows; and then I knew.

"Help me," she mewed, collapsing onto the Mercurial Beetle.

"What happened?"

"Biomecha... logickal... augment. Ation. And spirits. It hurts."

I did not have to ask for details; I saw them plain as day in her ruined eyes. She had wanted fittings like mine, space in which to screw keener, better vision than her own; but in haste to adopt this new mechology, she had allowed some half-trained charlatan to dupe and ultimately blind her.

"What must I do?" I asked quietly, having overcome my initial revulsion.

"It hurts... too much. Alex." She grasped for my hand, and pulled me closer. "Get me very, very drunk, and then... then... you have to... blind me."

"I can't!"

"Then give me a knife!" She surged half-way upright before I calmed her, and convinced her not to over-react, that I would do as she asked. Sickened, watching myself as though in the clutches of a nightmare, I brought her the pure spirit of alcohol. When she had succumbed and was unconcious, I forced my leaden limbs to move through the sea of horror in which I seemed to swim; I made myself find my sharpest knife, and carry out her request, retching all the while.

It seemed far too normal an act, to clean up the mess afterwards, to find a clean bandage for her destroyed eyes. I knew I could not sleep that night. As Nightingale twitched and whimpered in her intoxicated stupor, I forced myself with pencil and maps to work out the flight-path from my workshop to the Kraken's launching-place. Again and again, to prevent myself having to face the ruined friend sprawled over my Mercurial Beetle, I calculated the precise path that the Dragonfly must take. When at last, long after the night had grown stale, dawn – and the Kraken's launch – was approaching, Nightingale woke.

I gave her water and did what I could for her pain, then wound a clean bandage around her eyes – it became immediately sodden red, then nearly black – and helped her strap herself into the indoctrinated Dragonfly. I put a knife in one hand and a lit storm-lantern in the other, and, choking over the words, bid her go well.

Nightingale did not reply; she merely nodded, unsteadied still by pain and inebriation. The Dragonfly's green glass wings hummed as the steam hissed through its bright brass pipes; a moment later, it was gone.

I climbed slowly up after it, sitting at last on the roof, from whence I could see the bulk of the Kraken, far away, dark against the spreading dawn. I watched for a long time, as the day crept further and the dirigible began ponderously to rise. I knew my indoctrination was not wrong. I was proven correct when the indistinct dark lump suddenly bloomed into a beautiful rose of bright flame; and the rising dirigible faltered and sank once more into a chaotic puddle of conflagration.

I returned to my workshop, saw that everything was in order, and retreated to the house which had once been my mother's. I knew it was inevitable that the police discover my hand in this. I did not anticipate it would take this long.

I begin to hear hammering at the door.

I am discovered.

I will die as a traitor and a terrorist; I hope that my peers, at least, will see past my crimes and be unafraid to continue the work of the fabrickationer of the clock-work nightingale.