The Clockwork Dynasty

  “I am not simple,” she says, her jaw clicking. She slides to the edge of the chair. Feet dangling, she drops lightly to the floor.

  “And I am not a child,” she adds, lowering her forehead. It is a threatening gesture, yet I sense grim amusement. She glares up at me without embarrassment or fear.

  I peer into those black pits she sees out of, considering.

  “Tell me your name,” I demand.

  The porcelain doll takes a step back.

  Slowly, deliberately, she reaches down to grasp her dress on either side. Eyes trained on mine, her fingertips tap together delicately. One foot deftly sweeps behind the other, and she bends her knee and curtsies.

  “By the grace of the tsar, I am called Elena Petrovna,” she says.

  The old man is beaming.

  “My friend,” he says. “She is your sister.”

  5

  OREGON, PRESENT

  Oleg is smoking a hand-rolled cigarette on the cracked sidewalk outside my motel room. I can see his silhouette as he paces, blinking back and forth between cheap vinyl blinds that hang like old flypaper. In a fake leather jacket, the middle-aged man is speaking rapid-fire Ukrainian into a mobile phone, waving his hand and spitting foul smoke.

  Beyond him, the tall pines of the Willamette Valley sway against a gray sky. For someone from the brick suburbs of Tulsa, the world out here feels oversaturated with the color green and the scent of trees and rain. The white crown of Mount Hood looms on the horizon, scowling through clouds, intimidating to a kid who grew up on grassy plains under blue skies.

  Outside, Oleg says that word again: avtomat.

  I half smile to myself, remembering the surprise on his face as I coaxed a centuries-old message out of the vandalized automaton. That’s the reason Kunlun pays for my travel, I think, sending me crisscrossing over North America with an occasional foray to Europe—to give a voice to long-silent artifacts.

  Glancing at a spotted mirror permanently mounted to the beige-painted concrete block wall, I see my reflection. It’s pretty obvious I’ve been on the road for weeks. But the message I found in that doll has made it all worthwhile—not just the trip but the empty apartment, the crummy post as a research scientist, and the disappointed looks from my parents on my yearly visit home.

  Today, I witnessed a moment that stretched back three centuries.

  Something moves in the mirror. Oleg has appeared in the doorway, standing hunch shouldered, a half-smoked cigarette smoldering on the sidewalk behind him.

  “Kunlun called,” he says.

  “Great. Did you tell them what we found—”

  “Yes, yes,” he says, waving a hand impatiently. He is looking at the wall just over my shoulder, not meeting my eyes. “They have decided to end their support.”

  “What—”

  “A person is coming to collect Kunlun materials. We are told to wait here.”

  I’m in shock for a long moment. Without funding, field research is impossible. There is no way I can afford technology like this on my own. I’ll be stuck teaching introductory courses back at the university, or fired altogether.

  I sit on the dresser and take a deep, shaky breath.

  “Very sorry, Miss June,” says Oleg, head lowered.

  “Fuck,” I say to myself, leaning my back against the dirty mirror. By reflex, I press my fingers against the reassuring curve of my grandfather’s relic where it hangs under my shirt. “Why would they do this? Why now?”

  From the open motel door, I smell rain and cigarette smoke.

  “You must wait and ask the person. It is bad news, I know,” he says, pulling a sweating bottle of vodka out of a brown paper bag.

  “You just carry that around?” I ask.

  The man shrugs, motions with his shoulders.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, Oleg,” I say. “Come in.”

  The Ukrainian enters and sits on a low air-conditioning unit sticking out of the wall below the window. He drops the butt of the vodka bottle onto the rusting metal. The screw top comes off with a twist of his palm. He pours shots into a pair of thin white plastic hotel cups. Picks them up with thick fingers and offers me one.

  My hands are shaking as I take the cup from him.

  “Did they give any explanation?” I ask.

  Oleg shrugs and stands up, lifts his cup.

  “Budmo,” he says, downing his shot.

  I down the shot and hand him the empty plastic cup.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Something I want to ask,” he says, sitting again, not looking at me. “You talk about a power supply on the doll. How did you know what might fit in that spot?”

  He is already pouring another pair of shots, holding the bottle neck like a bicycle handle, not spilling a drop. The white plastic cups shiver as the clear liquid surges into them. He hands the small cup back to me, full.

  “Budmo,” repeats Oleg, half standing, tossing his shot back immediately.

  “I’ve been studying these things a long time,” I say, with a smile that feels like a grimace. “I had a hunch.”

  Oleg cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “But why study this? It is very old, yes? Just junk. Why do you care?”

  I look at my slender legs in dirty jeans, my boots planted on the thin motel room carpet. Everything I’ve worked for in my career is ending. The court automata I study are either destroyed or locked in private collections around the world. Without support, I’m not a real scientist anymore—just a lady with a really weird hobby.

  Locking my jaw against the sting of alcohol, I down the second shot.

  “My grandfather. When I was a kid, he got me started.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, he fought for Russia in World War Two,” I say. “And he came back with a lot of interesting stories. About history, and other things.”

  Oleg nods, watching me closely. Something dark has settled into his expression. Something quiet and still.

  “And what is this story?” he asks, enunciating carefully.

  The heat of the vodka is crawling between my collarbones, spreading through my sternum and into my belly. I can feel my cheeks flushing. My grandfather’s stern face flashes in my mind. Tell no one.

  “A ghost story,” I say. “Something he saw once on a battlefield.”

  The familiar shape of the relic presses against my skin. For years I’ve studied its inscrutable runes, measuring and weighing it, even doing my futile best to bend or deform its unbreakable curve. Having it around my neck used to make me feel important, like I was keeping an incredible secret from the rest of the world. But now I just feel dumb. A little girl wearing a worthless trinket.

  “A ghost story,” Oleg says, voice flat.

  “Well, he called it an angel. An angel of vengeance,” I say, smiling at the memory.

  “Oh, I see,” says Oleg. Dark eyes holding on to me, he lifts his empty plastic cup and taps it with a finger. “You pour some of this onto a war story. It gets bigger and bigger. Stranger. Your old dedushka probably even thought he was telling the truth—”

  A sudden flush of anger courses through me. I blurt out without thinking: “Well, my dedushka found a relic in Stalingrad. His angel bled metal.”

  The words linger in the air for a long second. My anger fades as quickly as it came, leaving a vague regret.

  I just disobeyed my grandfather.

  Oleg slowly stands up, the smile fading from his face. His lips are shining with vodka, stubbled cheeks settling into old hard lines.

  “The Battle of Stalingrad?” he asks, slowly. “What did he find there?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, cautious now. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

  “You have a guess?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Why are you asking—”

  “Where is it? Is the relic here?”

  The edge in his voice is strange. I look up at Oleg and my vision takes a beat to catch up. I put a hand on the
dresser to steady myself.

  “No,” I say. “No, Oleg. It’s somewhere safe.”

  The metal of the relic is warm against my chest.

  “Where?” he asks again. “Can I see it?”

  He accidentally knocks the vodka bottle to the floor as he pushes away from his seat. The glass bottle bounces and rolls as Oleg advances. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he whispers fiercely.

  “Show me the relic, June. Show it to me now.”

  6

  MOSCOW, 1712

  The golden throne room threatens to overwhelm my vision. Chandeliers hover over a sweeping corridor framed by gilded wooden posts. Gold-painted sculptures writhe and twist along walls that stretch up into dim, dust-kissed heights. My boot heels click on worn marble. Today, I am wearing a formal infantry kaftan that hangs to my knees, black and red, curls of polished armor built into the forearms and chest, with a black hood pulled low over my forehead.

  Although I have never been here, I know from Favorini’s descriptions that a tsar’s throne room should be crowded with people—filled with courtiers and supplicants, or perhaps even the dreaded tsarina. But on this day it is empty.

  The only occupants of this room are court automata.

  Favo hobbles ahead, leading me through the long, narrow room. In a gallery to the side, three baby ducks are waddling by, feathers wrought in silver, awkwardly following a golden mother duck. One of the ducklings shits as it shuffles along after its fellows.

  Then my footsteps are swallowed by a thick rug looped in brilliant reds and blues. Ahead, the throne rises, golden and scintillating under shafts of light coming in through high, slitted windows. Favorini stops.

  The tsar is not here.

  A concealed door opens in the gallery wall. Ducking his head, an enormous man emerges. He holds a fat green-yellow apple in one hand, utterly confident. The man does not wear gaudy robes or shining armor. Instead, he has on the simple breeches of an engineer.

  Favorini begins to bow and scrape, but the tsar waves him off.

  “So this is what we’ve had locked in the keep all this time?” asks the tsar, looking at me, unimpressed.

  The old man nods.

  “Our enemies have made many attempts to steal this…thing. Relentless attempts. With the number of imperial guard devoted to his protection, you’d think he was made of diamonds.

  “Will he truly be able to fulfill the task I set forth?”

  “I believe so,” says Favorini. “But you may ask it yourself, my lord.”

  Peter rounds on me, taking a bite from the apple. He chews it loudly, watching me with large, intelligent eyes. I notice his lip is disfigured, pulled to the side…the same as mine.

  “They say you are my son,” he says.

  “Father,” I say, kneeling, my head bowed.

  “Tell me, son,” he says, humor in his voice, “what is pravda?”

  “Truth and justice.”

  “Do you swear fealty to me?”

  “I do,” I respond.

  “Rise and draw your weapon,” says the tsar, walking closer.

  He saunters up to my face and watches me with the appraising eye of a mechanician, takes another bite from his apple.

  I rise until I am standing, eye to eye, with the Tsar of Russia. We are exactly the same height. The blade of my saber rings as I ease it from its undecorated wooden scabbard. A common weapon, the shashka has a single edge, long and curved and incredibly sharp. I hold it at my side, the tip pointed at the ground, my arm as steady as if it were carved out of stone.

  “He moves like a man.”

  The tsar leans in and snatches the hood off my head, revealing the tan leather that covers the surface of my face. He presses his fingers into the skin of my cheek, then rubs them together, considering. Reaching into my hair, he traces fingertips over the brass buttons that line the nape of my neck.

  “Doesn’t feel much like one, though,” he says.

  “It follows the truth,” says Favo. “It will serve the Word, and you, no matter what.”

  The tsar looks unconvinced.

  “Your name, avtomat?” he asks.

  Nothing comes to mind.

  “As you will call me,” I respond.

  “Strange to stand next to someone who is as tall as I am,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “I haven’t done it since I was a child.”

  The tsar taps a finger against the polished armor embedded in my kaftan.

  “I think he is prettier than I am,” he says.

  “You are too kind, my Tsar,” says Favo. “Please forgive me any discrepancy. Over time, its appearance can be modified to some extent.”

  “It? You keep calling it an it?”

  “To do otherwise would insult our Lord Christ. It is not a living thing but a bauble. Petty in comparison to God’s works.”

  Peter laughs, a short bark that echoes.

  “You fear Catherine, old man, even in private discussion. Smart. The tsarina does not trust in this project. She would have those relics of yours destroyed as sacrilege.”

  Favorini lowers his head. “Oh no, my Tsar. I do not question the tsarina, of course…would never…but the anima are precious. I have already fitted the other vessel with our remaining artifact. It is an old one, in the form of a child. And we must not forget…our enemies may have their own anima. Other avtomat could be set in motion against us, even now—”

  “Enough,” says Peter. “Your studies are safe.”

  The tsar turns and shoves me with both of his large hands. Sensing a test, I choose not to move. My feet are planted, hand clasped around my saber, and although the tsar is large and he hits me hard, the force is insufficient.

  “He may even be stronger than me,” says the tsar, face dark with exertion and a hint of anger. “Let us see how smart he is.”

  Peter steps a few feet away and clasps his hands behind his back.

  “Avtomat,” he asks. “A boyar noble demands fifty men of the Preobrazhensky Regiment to protect his border. Do I accept his request?”

  “No, my Tsar.”

  “Why not?”

  “Members of the tsar’s own regiment are sworn to protect their father. To send them into battle for anyone of lower rank is a dishonor.”

  “So, it can think as well.”

  The tsar takes a last bite of the apple and tosses the core across the room.

  “Strike me,” he says.

  I do not respond.

  “I am your tsar, avtomat,” he says. “I am giving you a command that you are honor bound to follow. Swing your saber. Strike me.”

  “My Tsar,” stutters Favorini. “He is very strong. Please do not underestimate—”

  “Now,” says Peter.

  The impulse to obey my leader pulls at my joints with the certainty of gravity. Drawing my arm back, I let the sword tip rise. But to injure the tsar would bring dishonor. The Word blazes in my mind: pravda.

  Truth. Justice. Honor.

  “Do it!” shouts the tsar.

  My vision is blurring. The saber point wavers. I am compelled to obey and to disobey at the same time. The dissonance of it rings in my ears. I cannot refuse and I cannot strike. I am drowning, my mind swallowing itself.

  It is the only pain I have ever felt—the agony of breaking my Word.

  But there is a solution. It resolves itself as the only route of action. If I cannot act, and I cannot not act, then I will cease to be.

  I lift the saber higher, pointing the tip at the tsar. Then, I rotate the flashing blade all the way around until the point dimples the fabric of my kaftan. With both hands I tense my shoulders and I pull the blade against my chest—

  “Stop!” says the tsar, placing a hand on my arm.

  I silently return the sword to its first position.

  “Welcome home…Peter,” the tsar says, clapping an arm around my shoulders. “A pity you can’t have a drink to celebrate.”

  “My Tsar,” asks Favo quietly, “you choose to call it Peter?”


  “I call it by its name: Pyotr Alexeyevich,” he says.

  “But why would—” says Favo.

  “Peter is my name while I am on this earth. But with reason and patience, you have built a ruler who can live forever. As leader of the Russian Empire, our Peter will carry my name like a banner through the ages, immune to the physical ruin of time…always faithful to pravda. A ruler worthy of my empire.”

  Peter the Great stands, smiling broadly.

  “Our Peter has a great destiny. That of an eternal tsar.”

  7

  OREGON, PRESENT

  “Oleg?” I ask, backing away from him, deeper into the motel room. “What the hell are you doing?”

  The Ukrainian is standing too near, his eyes gone hard. I don’t like how his hands hang by his sides, nicotine-stained fingers curled into claws. His posture changed the second I mentioned my grandfather’s relic.

  “It is not your fault, June,” he says. “But I must see this relic. Tell me where it is.”

  “Get out,” I say, reaching behind me. “Please. I’m telling you to leave now.”

  Oleg’s eyes seem blind. He swallows, his Adam’s apple jumping. We’re both slightly drunk, but I’m coordinated enough to feel for the hard plastic of the hotel telephone on the bedside table behind me.

  Hands behind my back, I lift the receiver.

  “We will buy it from you, yes? How much?” he asks, frightened desperation in his voice.

  “Oleg. I’m not kidding.”

  “They told me…I know I must,” he says, turning, almost speaking to himself.

  In a blink, Oleg sweeps my half-open suitcase off the bed with both hands. Clothes and papers fly across the room, a book thumping against the wall. He snatches my big black Kunlun duffel bag and upends it, sending a waterfall of heavy tools dimpling onto the bedspread. Oleg eyes the mess, scanning for the relic.

  Looking up, he moves to block my path to the door.

  “They hear everything. They will know,” he says, voice breaking.

  Clutching the hotel phone, I do my best to jam the buttons for 9-1-1 without looking. I leave the receiver lying on the table as I take two running steps for the open door.

  “Help—” I’m shouting when Oleg hooks me with one arm and pushes me onto the bed. I scratch at his face as I fall and scramble right back to my feet, screaming and diving for the door. This time his arm catches me in the ribs, knocking my breath out. I fall onto the bed, thrown onto my stomach, face lost in my hair as I keep thrashing.