Clockwork Destiny

J. Anderson Kevin

Description

In Clockwork Angels and Clockwork Lives, readers met the optimistic young hero Owen Hardy, as well as the more reluctant adventurer Marinda Peake, in an amazing world of airships and alchemy, fantastic carnivals and lost cities. Now Owen Hardy, retired and content in his quiet, perfect life with the beautiful Francesca, is pulled into one last adventure with his eager grandson Alain. This final mission for the Watchmaker will take them up to the frozen lands of Ultima Thule and the ends of the Earth. Marinda Peake must undertake a mission of her own, not only to compile the true life story of the mysterious Watchmaker, but also to stop a deadly new group of anarchists. The Clockwork trilogy is based on the story and lyrics from the last album of musical titans Rush, with Anderson and Peart expanding the world, stories, and characters. The two developed the final novel in the trilogy in the last years of Peart's life, and more than a year after his passing, Anderson returned to that

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Ecw Press
• Date de parution: 14 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773059525
• Langue: English

Extrait

Clockwork Destiny
Kevin J. Anderson and Neil Peart






Contents Dedication Epigraph Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Afterword: The Measure of a Life About the Authors Copyright


Dedication
To Neil, of course, with all the love and respect.


Epigraph
“Time is the true Anarchist.”
—The Watchmaker


Chapter 1
The Watchmaker was dying, and nobody knew.
In his office high above Chronos Square, the bookshelves groaned with the weight of thick, nearly identical volumes, each one a collector’s edition, but flawed. Only so much dead weight now.
Synchronized clocks covered his walls, ticking a resonant lullaby, accompanied by the ratcheting click-clack of the big gears as the ponderous pendulum of the Watchtower’s great clock swung back and forth.
“It is time for you to tell my story, Marinda Peake.” Though raspy, his voice carried the weight of authority. “For two-and-a-half centuries of my Stability, the hours have been ticking away.” Like a gear on an axle, the Watchmaker swiveled to face her with a serious expression. “Tick-tock.”
Marinda studied the lines on his face, his sunken cheeks, the immense age and wisdom that shone through a hint of blue coldfire in his eyes. She sensed something different from the other times he had brought her into his office in the past.
The Watchmaker stepped away from his crowded bookshelves and paced back and forth, back and forth, like one of his Regulators patrolling the streets of the city. “For so long I measured my life by the fear and respect I inspired. After a few lifetimes of contemplation, I wonder if honesty might be a better measurement.”
As his guest—and she would never dare to refuse the Watchmaker’s summons—Marinda sat in an overstuffed, leather-upholstered chair that reminded her of a throne for readers. The first time she had come to his office, many years ago, young Marinda had been determined to learn the true history of her father, Arlen Peake. Now, decades later, the Watchmaker knew more about her, and perhaps he also felt awkward to realize the dangerous things Marinda knew about him.
While other citizens of Albion would have been awestruck in his presence, Marinda was more sanguine. “After all this time, you want me to write your biography?” Such a daunting task should never have been put off for so long. She leaned forward in the chair, too old to waste time on timidness and tact. “You could have given me your complete story decades ago with a drop of blood in my volume of Clockwork Lives , but when I asked for it, you sent me away across the sea.” She paused, then added in an acerbic voice, “Maybe even the Watchmaker makes mistakes.”
He said, “All is for the best.”
Marinda had experienced many hard years, and time had taken its toll, but she wouldn’t have changed a moment of her life. Without a hint of rancor, she answered, “Yes, all is for the best.”
And it was. Though some adventures had been difficult or nerve-racking at the time, they enriched her life. And she had found true love with Hender, her husband, who gave Marinda her happiest and most exciting years.
She considered the task of being a biographer. “But Clockwork Lives is full now. I’ve compiled other stories over the years, but I was never able to recreate my father’s alchemical book. He took many of his secrets to his grave—most of them, in fact.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of the leather chair. “If I agree to chronicle your story, are you willing to tell the truth?”
“Ah, the truth,” the Watchmaker mused. “The truth is indeed a vital part of any story.”
After studying the volumes on his shelf, he plucked the last tome on the left and carried it over to Marinda’s seat. “This would be a good place to start: The Watchmaker’s Official Autobiography , the final edition from six months ago when I stopped revising them.”
She made no move to take it. “Rubbish. If that’s the story you want to tell, then you don’t need my help. Why did you really bring me here?”
The wall of clocks emitted a sing-song cacophony of dings, bells, and whistles that interrupted their conversation. A resounding chime rang out from the top of the tower.
“It is 11:45 in the morning, Miss Marinda,” said the tinny voice of her mechanical companion, who stood beside the chair. “Would you like me to remind you at noon, so we can plan for lunch?”
Marinda smiled at the endearing contraption that had been her comrade for so much of her life. Her father had invented three clockwork Regulators back in Lugtown, but only Zivo remained. Barely four feet tall, Zivo had a central casing for the coldfire motivator, steel limbs with pulleys and cables instead of muscles, and an oblong copper sphere for his head on which eyes had been painted. A screen mesh for a mouth emitted the artificial voice. Though he had previously worn a red uniform, now Zivo was dressed in an oft-patched Black Watch jacket and tricorne hat. A stubby toy sword hung at his side, though he had never had an opportunity to use it. The blade looked more like a letter opener than a deadly weapon. A tiny snort of steam came from his exhaust port as he waited for her answer.
“That won’t be necessary, Zivo.” She glanced up at the ancient man who stood nearby. “The Watchmaker will provide everything we need.”
With painstaking care, the Watchmaker bent down before the clockwork Regulator. “A deceptively simple yet marvelous device. I am amazed it still functions after all these decades. My own clockwork Dalmatian long ago wore down to a few gears, pulleys, and bits of fur. Ah, poor Martin . . .”
“My father built the clockwork Regulators to last,” Marinda said, “but Zivo is cobbled together with parts from the other two. Woody and Lee both ran down years ago. Even combined, only the tiniest spark of quintessence remained, and it was barely enough to animate the one.”
The Watchmaker straightened. “On your last visit to my tower—how many years ago was it?—I offered you the help of my best engineers to keep your mechanisms going.”
“Oh, I did fine on my own. There’s a part of my father in me after all.” She felt defensive, then lowered her voice. “And I’ve learned that there is a price to pay for the Watchmaker’s free benevolence.”
He was not offended by her effrontery; rather he seemed to find it refreshing. “Indeed.”
In her travels as she gathered stories, Marinda had crossed paths with the Watchmaker multiple times. She was an old woman now, and he carried more years than any other human being. He had always appeared ageless, but this time, he was actually showing signs of his immense age. The Watchmaker looked weary, partly cynical and partly used up.
When she’d come into Crown City, called out of retirement, she had noticed unexpected flaws, the delays in steamliner traffic, the rundown buildings, the concerned expressions on people who had previously shown only confidence in the Stability.
She learned that the loving Watchmaker had not made a formal appearance out in the city for at least a year, and the only official pronouncement he’d given was to tell the people that “all is for the best.” Even his Clockwork Angels, who would emerge from the top of the Watchtower so the crowds could behold them, had been silent for weeks.
“Why do you want it written now?” she asked. “After all this time.”
“Because it is important for the people to be prepared. They must realize that I am not permanent, nor am I infallible. Someday, they will have to live for themselves.”
Though puzzled, Marinda respected him for admitting this. “The world seems to be a more uncertain place these days. I heard about the accident on the coast—a cargo steamer from Atlantis driven up on the rocks. Its hull split open, spilling volatile powders and chemicals into the sea, triggering runaway reactions. I hear there were explosions, colored smoke filling the sky. The ocean boiled red, and dozens died. A disaster.”
The Watchmaker remained unruffled. “An occasional disaster makes us appreciate calm normality.”
“Was it the Wreckers?” Marinda asked. “Have they returned to prey upon helpless cargo ships? Or was it the Anarchist?”
He snorted. “The Wreckers are long gone, as is the Anarchist. Don’t ascribe to bad intent what can be explained by mere bad luck. All gears wear out. All clocks wind down.”
The Watchmaker reshelved the thick volume of his official autobiography. “These previous stories are sanitized and exaggerated, to serve a purpose. But perhaps the greatest tale is, in fact, the real one, the whole story. There may not be much time.”
“Not much time?” Shifting in the leather chair, she paid closer attention. “What do you mean?”
“Have I done what I needed to do? Will the world go on without a Watchmaker? Has the Stability made them forget how to run their own lives? Tick-tock.”
A heavy, unnatural silence crashed down in the office—a stutter of peculiar quiet behind the my