The City in the Sky
CHAPTER 3

The journey home was a cold one. At this altitude the rain was almost always freezing and made for a most wet and uncomfortable ride. The trip would be treacherous, if it were not for the city-wide climate control system. Far below the city streets the giant boilers pumped steam out of the grates that lined either side of the cobblestone roads which prevented the precipitation from turning into an icy shroud. But after spending the last week investigating the murder in New United Kingdom South, such marvelous technology seemed almost trivial, and even the bitterness of the cold could not deter him from his introspection. Detective James Mulligan had never possessed a fondness for the clockworks. He didn’t hate them as some did, rather he just never considered them more than machines. At least that’s the way he thought until his knee replacement. And then of course there was Lucy. Ever since then he felt a sort of affinity for their plight in spite of his careful logic. He certainly didn’t think they deserved what had happened to them at the hands of the “Clockwork Slayer.” “‘Slayer’,” Mulligan said the word aloud then laughed bitterly. “How can you kill that which was never truly alive in the first place? Archer was right, though”, Mulligan thought. The whole city is filled with tension to the point of bursting. And if something wasn’t done soon the delicate order of the city they fought so hard to maintain would surely be destroyed. The Clockworks, it seemed, had some powerful allies as well as enemies. A minority of the population had banded together under the banner of equality. Most of the groups were benign, simply spreading their message through protests and pamphlets, demanding the clockworks be given equal standing with humankind. However, as it is in all groups of purpose, there were a few extremists who would use violence as their means. Most recently this malignant sect had accused the M.C.A. of turning a blind eye to the clockwork slayings and threatened violence at the skyports if the situation wasn’t resolved in a timely manner. Thus Detective Mulligan found himself under great pressure to apprehend the so called “Clockwork Slayer” and to do it quickly.

As he pulled up to the two story stone townhouse Mulligan called home, he found the sight a balm to his injured soul. The warm glow of an oil lamp flickered merrily in the front window in contrast to the steely sky’s rain which poured off the slate shingled roof in sheets. Mulligan was met with a brief moment of elation as he stepped over the threshold and into the warm embrace of the foyer where, Lucy, his live-in clockwork maid greeted him.

“Good evening Mr. Mulligan”, she chirped in her soft voice, “may I take those wet things for you?”

“Yes, Lucy, thank you,” said Mulligan handing over his woolen brown coat, and black bowler. Lucy had only been in his service for three months, but he couldn’t remember how he got along without her. He laid his gloves, goggles, and service pistol on the side table in the foyer. He couldn’t help but admire the weapon as he had many times before. It was something of an antique. Given to him by his grandfather, the pistol was purportedly one of the last weapons crafted by the Sakai Weapons Manufacturer before the ascension. Like most ancient Japanese weaponry, the device was not only a functional firearm, it was also a work of art. Inlaid Mother of pearl in a vine motif ran the length of the incredibly rare rosewood grip. The pistol, originally designed to be a wheellock, had been radically altered to function as a modern pressurized weapon. It could hold up to 10 shots and fire as many as 30 on a single charge. Not quite up to the 50 of the average handgun of the day, but Mulligan didn’t care. When hassled by the Ministry Master of Arms on the firing range, he would simply reply he hoped to never have to fire 30 shots let alone 50.

“I hope you don’t mind, Sir, but I’ve taken the liberty of lighting a fire,” said Lucy from the sitting room where she was hanging his effects on a rack near the fireplace to dry.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Lucy”, he said with a smile.

As the cold vacated his body, the fatigue of the last week rushed in to fill the void. An involuntary shiver racked Mulligan’s body.

“Lucy, could you draw me a hot...”

“bath?“, the Clockwork broke in. “I have one already prepared for you.”

Mulligan stood speechless for a moment, stunned by the caretaker’s efficiency and near telepathic abilities. “How strange,” he thought, “that a machine could be so in tune with the needs of a human.”

“Thank you, Lucy” he said, unable to keep the flustered tone from his reply. But Lucy just smiled, gave a short nod of the head, and made for the kitchen. Mulligan, still awestruck, stood physically rooted to the spot, watching her as she left. His mind was left to roam free for a moment and, at the present, began to question why clockworks were gender specific. It was not the first time the question had floated impromptu into the stream of his thoughts, but as with each time before, the query was swept away before an adequate explanation could be proffered. Despite this, he still found Lucy’s retreating form to be of feminine shape nonetheless. Her impeccably polished, black high heeled boots, knee length pressed black woolen skirt, and black silken tights filled out by her shapely legs. The hint of breast which pushed out the front of her charcoal gray sweater that covered her white ruffled neck linen shirt. The long black curls which fell just below her collar and shimmered as if they possessed a light source all their own. Everything about her screamed woman, and yet she was not. Only her eyes betrayed her Clockwork origins. But even they held a unique beauty that he found alluring. He mentally cursed himself for not weighing the good doctor’s opinion on the matter. Lucy’s voice came as a melody from the kitchen wresting Mulligan’s mind from his musings.

“Dinner will be served in an hour, if that is okay, Mr. Mulligan?”

“Yes, Lucy. Thank you, and please, call me ‘James’.”

The gas light in the bathroom hissed its one note song. Mulligan un-shouldered his suspenders and let his brown woolen pants drop to the tile floor. Slowly he began to unbutton his mud spattered shirt while he regarded his visage in the mirror. The harsh light flushed out his face giving his reflection a sallow appearance. The man who stared back at him looked to be around 30 and of a slender build. His chestnut colored hair, which normally was coifed, now hung lazily about his face like a wet mop. Though he was several days out from his last shave, the thin facial hair that ran the length of his well-defined jawline was hardly visible. He tried to ignore the lines the anxiety caused by Rosilyn’s sudden departure had etched into his forehead. It was a face Mulligan felt he hardly recognized and yet knew all too well. He gave a defeated sounding sigh before turning down the gas light. Though it initially seemed a bit too hot, when Mulligan had finally submerged himself in the claw-footed porcelain tub, he found the temperature to be pleasant and he felt the tribulations of the past week recede as he slid into the water’s comforting embrace.

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