Ocean Deep: Because That's Where Gaffa-Tape Belongs...

by AngusEcrivain 

"...nnnnmmmgahitsafuckingbirdsharkandimawake!"

Her feet were wet, and it did not take much of Leanne's reasonably high intelligence to work out that likely meant water was getting into the Precious Stone from somewhere.

It also seemed that something had plugged the oxygen leak, too, temporarily at least. She hoped it was permanent, of course, though she highly doubted she was that lucky. If she had any chance of surviving long enough to be rescued, that plug needed to be made permanent.

Her head still felt incredibly foggy though, and she could not shake those dreams... Birdsharks, of all things. She had seen them, of course. Everyone had. Harmless things they were, if mightily ugly and cumbersome, though why she would be dreaming about Birdsharks she had no idea at all.

That was far from being the most disturbing of those dreams though, but she put it down to it being a lack of oxygen that had caused her to imagine a world where people actually walked on land and where travelling in time was possible, as the latter notion, certainly, was far too bizarre for words.

Leanne was plenty aware that 'land,' used to be a thing, a much bigger deal than it was nowadays when only the tips of the tallest undersea mountains broke the otherwise pure and unadulterated surface of the World Ocean.

"Right, Li. On your feet." She vocalised the commands, hoping that doing so would encourage her body to do what was required of it rather than sheer will alone, which she was well aware would probably not have the desired effect.

Leanne unclipped her harness and forced herself to her feet, peering through the reinforced glass and into the murky depths.

She could see precious little, in fact all she was able to discern with any clarity was the fact none of the three liopleurodons were within a few feet of the Precious Stone, in that direction at any rate.

"The ocean and the wind and the stars and the moon will all teach you many things," she muttered. "Yeah, well... the fucking ocean is telling me jack-shit at the moment! As for the rest of them, not much chance of any of them making it down this far..."

She shrugged somewhat helplessly and turned away from the window. For the first time, via the limited amount of emergency lighting, Leanne saw the extent of damage in her immediate vicinity. She guessed there was probably two or three inches of water upon the deck. That was not really the end of the world, but the water leak would need to be tended to eventually, secondary to the oxygen leak.

Her suspicion was that something had come loose in the engine room and had caught the pipe in the process.

Whatever the cause, a leaking pipe was nothing that a little gaffa-tape would not be able to fix and there had to be some of that around, somewhere.

It took some time, certainly more than she would have liked, but she did manage to find a roll of gaffa-tape - in the galley's cutlery drawer, of all places.

Whilst in the kitchen area she helped herself to a couple of power bars, hoping that the incredibly high amount of calories they contained would go some way to killing off her throbbing head and she wolfed down the second bar as she headed along the narrow corridor to the engine room.

The Precious Stone had pitched on the ocean floor at a slight angle that made walking a little awkward but soon, using the walls on either side to keep herself balanced, she reached her destination.

Leanne paused in the doorway and stared for a moment. Something seemed off and it had nothing to do with the angle at which the Precious Stone was pitched but what it was, she could not quite put her finger on.

There were pipes and cables, cogs and gears, clocks and fuel pumps, gauges and...

"...clocks?"

There were three of them. Three clocks that Leanne had no recollection of seeing before, certainly not in the engine room.

As she stared at them, the three large grandfather clocks, the hands of the one on the right sped forwards incredibly quickly whilst those belonging to the clock-face on the left spun backwards. Whether they were doing so at the same pace Leanne was unable to tell.

What she was able to say for sure though, was the clock-face in between those two was actually laughing at her.

// Timekeeper

by Alice_Iceflower //

Silk sheets sliding off her skin, Andromeda Ashby slipped away from the naked young man next to her. By the light of a single candle, she snatched up her purse and wrapped herself in the youth's dressing gown, the delicate fabric brushing the hardwood floor. She cast him a last look over her shoulder, assuring herself that he would not stir before the next morning, and then left the opulent bedroom.

Andromeda was not here for the boy, although he turned out to be quite enjoyable. He was simply a means to gain access to the house of his uncle. Even in the dark, the manor house was gaudy, moonlight reflecting on marble stairs and gilded ceilings everywhere she looked. Once, it had been the home of an aristocrat, but since the French Republic had gotten rid of those, it now belonged to the infamous merchant and trader of questionable goods, François Darimon.

Her bare feet on the cold floor, she stalked through the hallways towards a pair of familiar doors. Warm light spilled from the narrow opening, casting a glowing line onto the Persian carpet in the hallway. Andromeda frowned. Darimon wasn't the sort of man to leave his study unlocked.

She pushed open the doors and froze.

François Darimon lay slumped over his desk, an antique dagger sticking from his chest, a pool of blood under him.

She swore and closed the door behind her. This was not the plan. She was only meant to collect a package, not deal with murder. Not bothering to feel for a pulse, she searched the study thoroughly. The safe inside the bookcase was empty and her package gone. A mess of papers and spilled ink and blood covered the rugs, outlining half a footprint in the cloth. Reaching inside her purse, she pulled out her camera, disguised as a pocket watch. It clicked out into half a dozen small tubes and she took a photograph of the footprint and of Darimon.

Her fingers trembled as she closed the camera. Reality sank in. Her contact was murdered and her package was gone. She was a in a stranger's house, in a foreign country.

Andromeda took a deep breath. Focus. This wasn't the first dead man she had seen and it certainly wouldn't be the last. There had to be something useful here, some clue. She patted the pockets of his velvet waistcoat and searched every drawer in his desk, finding nothing but a package of Ecrivain's cigarettes and crumpled newspaper article about the explosion that killed Severine Alyria in her laboratory.

She sighed, stuffing both the cigarettes and the article into her purse, and turned away to leave. A glint in the corner of her eye made her pause. She turned back, spotting a metal object clutched in Darimon meaty fist. Her heart sped up as she pried open his stiff fingers. A small watch fell out—a lady's watch, elegant and flowery, and unlike her own watch camera or the astronomical clocks used in astromechanics, it looked ordinary in every way.

Her shoulders slumped and she traced the engravings. On the inside a fitting proverb, One must work with time and not against it. On the outside initials, S. A. Beautiful, frivolous engraving. She almost put it back on the desk when she frowned. Severine Alyria?

Andromeda flipped it back and studied the handiwork. That style, it had to be hers. She sighed with relief. It wasn't her package, but it was something, proof that it had been here. The Directorate wouldn't be pleased, but at least she could give them the pocket watch of the greatest inventor that had ever lived.

Her true objective, the prototype of Alyria's last invention, was in the hands of thieves—or worse, enemies.

The ride home was uneventful, the carriage creaking with gears that were desperate for some oil. A crude rendering of the Constellation of Motion was drawn on the vehicle's doors, mirroring the real motion configuration on the wheels' rear axis, powering its propulsion. The progress in astromechanics, had made life easier in some ways, such as the easier forms of transportation she now enjoyed. It was a complex science, but profitable. To rotate a set of crystals in the exact position of a constellation relative to the current position was difficult to say the least, and without a charged energy coil, no astromotion carriage would budge an inch, but it was much less messy and troublesome than horses. More importantly, it was compact and it could power far larger things than.

The city ahead, currently anchored several miles north of Paris, was the absolute pinnacle of the astromechanic arts. Once simply called London Above, it now boasted countless windmills and propellers on its many turrets, all powered by energy coils and motion units. The lower spires were dark in the shadows cast by the midlevel and the upper spires bathed in the evening sun. It had docked here a couple of weeks ago and was now recharging the energy coils with its white windmills, before moving on to the next stop. In the centre sprawled a massive clock, its gears running throughout the city to connect every motion unit together, to make every one of them beat with the same rhythm.

It was the Floating City, a magnificent sight to behold, every time again. And it was home.

Andromeda's carriage climbed the winding road that connected the mainland to the Floating City's midlevel. As she crossed the bridge to the city, a magnificent landscape flashed by her window, the clock towers of Paris gleaming in the distance. She could no longer make out the house of François Darimon, which she had left early in the afternoon, without attracting significant suspicion from the constables. She was merely a woman, after all.

The carriage stopped in the city's central plaza on the midlevel, surrounded by whirring spires full of gears. She tossed the driver a handful of coins and hoisted up her skirt. Making her way past the horizontal gearwork of the Heat Constellation that dominated the plaza, she took one of the winding roads down to the lower spires.

The House of Silk was beneath the richest part of the city, with a front that could almost pass for respectable. The tension in her shoulder eased as she pushed open the door and walked past the strongman, a familiar waft of oriental perfume greeting her.

"Hector?" she called.

"Welcome back, Madam Ashby." Her butler looked up from tinkering with a tiny clockwork scorpion. Despite his impeccable uniform, he looked nothing like an ordinary butler, the transparent casing of his head showed the bronze gears clicking within as he bowed. "Was your excursion productive?"

"Not quite." She tossed him the pocket watch. "Be a dear and have a look at this, please. I think it might have belonged to your creator."

"Of course, madam." Hector held the silver object reverently. His masked face turned up. "I must inform you there is a gentleman caller in your private quarters. He insisted you were expecting him."

Andromeda paused, weariness settling over her. "Thank you."

She sighed and shouldered open the door to her rooms.

By the fireplace stood a tall man, blond and handsome, hands clasped behind his back. He turned and flashed her a charming smile.

"Miss Ashby, a pleasure." He extended a gloved hand, an envelope between his fingertips. Its seal was of black wax, an ornate clock face gleaming in the firelight.

"I don't believe we've met, sir."

"Of course." He bowed with a flourish. "Nicholas Truman, at your service. We have a mutual friend, or so I'm told."

"I was not made aware of any change of plans." She snatched the letter from his hand. Had Ingleton sent him? "You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"

He pulled a watch from his pocket and flipped it over to her, as she caught a glimpse of an elaborate letter D on its back. It was a Directorate watch, for certain. Now, the passphrase.

"I'm afraid your timepiece is broken, Mr. Truman."

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day."

Andromeda looked him over and nodded curtly. She cracked open the seal, cramped words lining the inside of the paper, in the handwriting of Tiberius Ingleton, her handler. Andy, he started, D has sent Nick to pick up the package in my stead. He will come when you have retrieved it. A patron will visit soon. T.

Nicholas Truman raised an eyebrow, a pleasant smile on his face. "So, Miss Ashby, do you have my package?"

She crumpled the note and tossed it into the fire. "I don't."

"What?" His face fell into a much darker expression.

"Darimon was dead before I set foot in the house. His safe was empty."

"Did you even look?"

"Of course, I looked," she snapped. "A metal box the size of a lapdog is hard to miss."

Nicholas smashed his fist on the fireplace. "Do you have any idea how important this could be? What our enemies could do with this, if they manage to make it functional?"

Andromeda straightened her back, reaching for the service bell on the table behind her. "As a matter of fact, I don't. I'm the delivery girl, remember? That's what I do. I meet the contact, trade the goods, and smuggle them back. I don't ask questions, or deal with dead merchants and things that were stolen under someone else's care."

Hector opened the door. "Madam?"

"Hector, please show Mr. Truman out."

"Now wait just there. That prototype could be very dangerous. Whoever stole this, has no peaceful intentions, surely. Who knows what the Prussian Empire, or even the French Republic, could do with it? We have to get it back, for the sake of Britain."

"We?"

Nicholas sighed and rubbed his neck. "I'm going to need your help, Miss Ashby. You are the closest thing I have to a witness." He paused, at loss for words. "Please."

She looked back at Hector. "A guest room, then. Without company."

"Yes, Madam."

Hector lead out the ill-tempered gentleman.

He returned shortly after and produced the delicate watch from a compartment in his arm and placed it on the table. He indicated with his gear-powered hands for her to sit down, so she flopped down on the velvet chaise longue. Inside him, the faint light of three energy coils glowed, an astromechanical unit connected to each, one for motion, one for mind and perhaps the most peculiar, one for soul. He touched a mechanical finger to the watch.

"Madam, this watch did indeed belong to Mistress Alyria."

"And?"

"It might be more than a watch." Hector pried open the back of the watch, revealing the inside, with an astrological clock to mirror the one on the outside.

Andromeda perked up. "It's astromechanical?"

"Not precisely, Madam. It contains no energy coil, and the clock does not depict any functional constellation. I theorised that it might be an experiment, failed perhaps."

"What if you attach an energy coil? Can you make it work?"

"I very much doubt that, Madam. I am, unfortunately, not my creator. But I shall try."

She sighed and leaned back. Patience. Not her strongest suit.

"On a different note, Madam, do you know who might've stolen the true prototype?"

"Haven't the foggiest." She pulled the pins from her hair, letting her long black locks cascade over the chaise's armrest. "Like he said, it's probably the French or the Prussians, but it could be anyone. They didn't exactly leave a note and I had no time to ask questions. If only we could get a look at the constables' reports."

"Oh, but I believe I can be of assistance in that area, Madam."

Two days later, around noon, the maid guided a most tense Mr. Truman into her private salon, waves of pent-up frustration rolling off him.

Andromeda sipped her tea while the maid cleared her late breakfast. "Good morning, Mr. Truman. I hear you've been wearing holes in my carpets with your pacing. Have a seat."

"We have wasted days and barely made progress." His fists tightly balled behind his back. "The thieves could be copying it as we speak."

"What's your theory?"

Mr. Truman schooled his features and sat down across from her, his long fingers twined together. "The Prussians are by far the most likely candidates. They are the only ones with the resources to learn of its existence and acquire it, and with the political motivation to actually do so."

"It could be the French. Or anyone else, really."

He scoffed. "The French can't even decide on who's going lead them, let alone on who to fight. The other continental powers lack either the resources or the motivation. It's politics, Miss Ashby. Espionage is a political art and I am good at what I do."

She raised one sculpted eyebrow. "And what have you discovered?"

His shoulders sagged an inch. "Shockingly little. None of my smuggling contacts noticed anything unusual. Either our thief is hiding, or they are very well prepared."

"Fortunately for you, I am also very good at what I do," she said with a smile. On cue, Hector entered and handed a folder to Mr. Truman. "This is a copy of the constables' investigation notes, most notably, a list of names of everyone who was on the property around the time of the murder."

For seconds, he was speechless. Then his face blossomed into a radiant smile, his eyes shining with warmth. He leafed through the folder and pulled out the page of names, a lock of blond hair falling over his forehead. "Remarkable. How?"

Andromeda glanced at Hector. "My butler is rather inventive."

He produced a palm-sized mechanical scorpion, now finished. It was barely large enough to carry a single astro-unit, a linking unit, which allowed Hector to control it from a limited distance.

"Your automaton builds machines?"

"Correct, sir," said Hector. "I believe my soul unit must've imprinted on my creator."

Mr. Truman turned back to the sheet, his brow furrowing. "This can't be."

Andromeda leaned over. "What?"

"This name." He turned the page over and tapped the gardener. "This is an alias of a Habsburg agent. It might be a coincidence, but I try not to believe in those."

"Austria-Hungary? Are you sure?"

He shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

After a week of searching and preparation, Andromada headed down to Paris in a plain carriage once again. Across from her sat Nicholas Truman, in his usual trench coat and hat, and Hector, without his mask so all the gears inside his head showed.

The sun was setting as the carriage stopped several streets from their destination, a supposedly empty warehouse near the skydocks. Mr. Truman offered his arm to help her down and she accepted, her head held high as if she was decked out in rubies and on the arm of a count—which wouldn't be the first time. Hector followed, carrying a suitcase containing their non-existent luggage. They caught several glances as they walked down the road.

"You're too handsome for a spy, you know," said Andromeda.

He gave her a puzzled look. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment. It's unpractical. You attract attention."

He rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk."

"It's different for a woman. It's part of the disguise, the distraction. A whore is supposed to be pretty, so it doesn't stand out. It fits the expectation. She gets a lecherous look, and they forget her. Her patron, however..."

"So you're saying you would rather have me be fat and bald?"

"That would make things easier, yes." She glanced over her shoulder to check if anyone was watching. "We're here."

She pulled him and Hector into an alley next to the warehouse, thankfully deserted. Mr. Truman had located the Austro-Hungarian spy and had discovered they were going to transport the prototype this evening by sky barge.

Hector removed the clockwork scorpion from his suitcase and activated the linking unit. The creature scuttled away into a crack in the building.

"Do you see anything?"

"Patience, Mr. Truman," said Hector, standing unnaturally still. "Ah, yes. There are men inside, speaking German I believe."

"The prototype?"

"I don't see it." The bare energy coil from the linking unit cast an eerie light on all three of them. "One of them just procured a package, presumably our target, considering the dimensions and apparent weight. Another two are heading out, I believe to clear the area."

Andromeda jumped up as the warehouse door shuddered and low voices neared them. "Hector, deactivate the unit."

"But, Madam—"

"Now." She pulled down her neckline and tore a handful of pins from her hair, meeting Nicholas Truman's eyes. Realisation dawned on him. "And hide, Hector."

The glow dimmed and Hector disappeared behind a pile of rubbish, just as the two guards rounded the corner. All they saw was a whore pushed against the dirty wall, her skirt hiked up to her waist as she wrapped a bare leg around her client's thighs. They hurled a couple of lewd remarks before turning away, assuming there was no threat.

For a moment, she remained frozen, his hard body pressing her against the wall, her heart racing. His hot breath fanned the base of her neck, his fingers trailing down her waist as his shoulders sagged with relief. She breathed, her skirt falling down, her arms unwinding from his neck.

He laughed, eyes sparkling. "You are incredible. A natural."

She grinned back.

"Madam," said Hector, pushing himself up. "We have a problem. Our scorpion was discovered while inactive. They know they're being watched." He sighed. "We're doomed."

Nicholas swore. They swiftly devised a new plan.

Once the door opened again, Andromeda stepped out of the alley, her hair still messy and her skirt tied up higher than it should be. She was glad for the glaring red on her lips and cheeks, marking her clearly as a loose woman.

There were four of them and they barely spared her a glance, each one holding a revolver. A thin man in a service livery held a wrapped package. Their small sky barge was already humming with energy, glowing in the twilight. Turning, she caught a glimpse of Nicholas sneaking behind a pile of crates nearby.

"Bonsoir, lads," she said in her best French, sidling up close to them. "You must be exhausted from such a long day of work. Fancy a bit of entertainment?"

The largest one scoffed. "Tired of your fellow already, are you?"

Andromeda smiled, and reeled him in. "He wasn't very impressive. I'm looking for a real man."

He grabbed her by the buttock. "How much, sweetheart?"

"Enough," said the thin man with the package. "Don't waste time."

The big man let her go, grumbling.

She patted him on the arm as she saw Nicholas' blond mop vanish inside the sky barge. The vehicle was barely twice the size of a carriage. "Another time, darling."

Her hand closed around the gun in her purse as she walked away slowly. The muffled thud of the pilot's body sounded from the barge. The first shot sounded and she dived behind a stack of crates, blood roaring in her ears. Nicholas shot from the barge, the three remaining men on the ground firing back as they ran for cover.

The thin man fled without looking back, away from her. Swearing, she went after him, praying not to get hit by a stray shot. She only had one bullet, one chance to hit, and her little handgun was far from accurate. The bulky dress limited her movements, and even without it, she wouldn't be able to keep up. Her fingers tightened around the pistol.

She paused, raised and aimed.

The man stumbled before she could fire. Hector got up from the heap of rubbish he'd hidden under and knocked the man out cold. "Oh dear, violence is not in my programming."

Out of breath, Andromeda caught up to him, tucking away her pistol. "Thank you. You're wonderful."

She plucked the package from his hands, the reassuring weight of metal covered in paper. She ripped off the top layer and caught the book that fell out. The metal cube with curvy initials stamped on it was most certainly the prototype.

Running back to the barge, she wove around the forms of two men, just as Nicholas hit the last one on the head with the butt of his revolver.

"Have you got it?" He jumped onto the barge.

She held up the gleaming box in response.

"Hurry." He pulled her up and powered the controls, the motion and gravity units straining, almost ready to take off, as Hector loosened the ropes on the ground.

Breathing heavily, she leaned back against the barge's railing, wiping strands of sweaty hair from her face. "We did it."

With shaking hands, he took the prototype from her hands. "So this is it."

"It is," she said with a weak smile. "It's what we've been risking our lives for."

He put the box down and kissed her. His hands holding her face, his lips over hers. He was gentle and solid and she wanted it more than she dared admit. She melted into his embrace, clutching his stained tech coat to pull him closer, her heart racing.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against her.

"I'm sorry," he said, sadness filling his voice.

And pushed her off the barge right before it shot up in the air.

His name was Nicholas Moreau, a French republican agent, sent to recover the last prototype of Severine Alyria, with a bare minimum of resources. So, he used someone else's. He had held Tiberius Ingleton captive for several weeks and took the place of the recently deceased English agent, Nicholas Truman.

He had succeeded, leaving her with nothing but bruised skin, scars and stitches, a battered heart inside. This time, she thought, it might not heal. She tasted iron on her tongue still, her eyes red. She plucked at the thin book that had fallen from the package, its cover too loud and sporting a blue haired child jumping from a monster's jaws. Fray, it read in odd letters. She felt frayed. She hadn't been able to sleep for days.

Ingleton's agents had been trying to track him down, so far unsuccessfully.

Hector entered with a cup of tea, sitting down next to her. "I've figured out how it works, Madam," he said after a while, placing the pocket watch on the table. "That book you're holding held some scribbled notes."

Andromeda stirred her tea without drinking. "What is it, then?"

"It would seem this is Mistress Alyria's true prototype," said Hector. "She called it a timekeeper."

Her gaze snapped up. "So I had it all along?"

"Apparently so, Madam. Mistress Alyria discovered a new constellation, the Constellation of Time. Her notes suggest it is remarkably difficult to calibrate and to control. However, if functioning correctly, it would allow the user to alter the speed of time itself."

Andromeda was speechless, her spoon forgotten in her cup. "Time itself?"

"Yes. The model Monsieur Moreau acquired was a attempt at a timekeeper on a larger scale, although I am unsure whether it was finished or not."

"Can you make it work?"

"Not without a proper energy coil, Madam." He glanced at the clock, which read three-thirty. "On a different note, the city takes off at four o'clock. You should go."

"I see no reason to."

"You have always enjoyed the festivities, have you not?"

A knock on the door cut him off. Hector went to open it, and one of Ingleton's spies—Mr. Hill—stumbled in, out of breath. "Nicholas Moreau has been sighted on the midlevel."

Andromeda shot up and ten minutes later she was dressed and storming up city, Hector and Hill following after her, the watch in her pocket. The central plaza was crowded with only half an hour left to take-off, the ideal place for a spy to disappear.

Moreau, however, had no intention of being invisible. He grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her aside, raising his hands as two guns trained on him.

"Give me one reason not to shoot you," said Andromeda, her new revolver touching his chest.

He shrugged, the gesture so familiar it hurt. "Because I've been trailing a Habsburg spy with a bomb and I lost him in the crowd? I thought you might come if I showed my face."

"Why should I trust you?"

Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Would I really come here if I didn't have to? Besides, do you want to risk it?"

She sighed and looked at Hill. "Search him."

"Where would you place a bomb if you wanted to crash this city?" he asked while Hill went through his pockets. "This thing is going to fly over Paris soon and I'd rather not have them collide."

She exchanged a glance with Hector. "The clock tower."

They made their way towards the giant clock on the face of the city, Hill holding Nicholas at gunpoint. The guards at the entrance were out cold, right as the thin spy from the skydocks left the building. His eyes widened at seeing the four of them, and he ran.

Andromeda shot him in the leg. "Hector, tie him up and bring him inside."

"It's too late. This city will fall and that prototype with it. That technology is ours."

Nicholas knocked him over the head, making him drop like a stone. "It's not here, moron. All yours, my metal friend."

The clock tower was a magnificent construction, gears whirring in every wall and under the glass floors. The clock face was impossibly large and glowed milky white with the glow of the setting sun. Bodies in engineer uniforms were spread over the floor, puddles of blood spreading over the glass. In the centre stood a control hub, a stack of dynamite wired into its core.

Hector sighed. "We're doomed."

"Don't be so pessimistic, metalbrain," said Nicholas.

A rectangular display was tacked onto the dynamite, with four red numbers counting down. It seemed set to go off half an hour after take-off, when they would be cruising right over Paris. Andromeda swore and knelt down between the wires and gears.

"Does anyone know anything about bombs?"

The two men shook their heads.

"Very little, Madam," said Hector, "Especially about this kind. It seems a rather advanced sort of composition. I do know, however, that cutting the connecting wires will set it off almost certainly."

"Well, that eliminates that strategy," said Nicholas. "What now?"

Andromeda's thoughts raced. "Mr. Hill, tie up Moreau and try to get our Austrian spy to talk."

She ignored Nicholas' protests and turned to Hector. "Can you get that timekeeper to work?"

"I'm afraid not—not without a powerful energy coil."

She rubbed her temples. "Then try to focus on disarming that bomb. I'll get help."

"Madam," he interrupted her, hesitant. "There is one other option. I have three perfectly functional energy coils in here." He tapped his chest.

Andromeda stilled. "Hector, you can't."

"Of course I can," he said with a small shrug. "My soul unit is not vital to my functioning."

"What will happen if you remove it? Will you be the same afterwards?"

"I honestly wouldn't know, Madam."

She bit her lip and glanced around at the bodies and the blood pooling on the floor, the Austrian spy with his wounded leg, Nicholas Moreau grumbling next to him. She looked at Hector, bronze gears whirring inside his glass shell, his familiar mask covering his face.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Madam." His voice was determined, with a hint of sadness. "It is our best chance."

She nodded. "Then do it."

Hector opened up his coat, followed by the glass casing around his core. The energy coils glowed with warm light as he reached inside for the central coil, and pulled it out. His soul unit powered down in seconds, the astrological clock stopping short and circuits all over his body losing their radiance. Stiffly, he plugged the coil into the back of the watch, fiddling until he handed the messy prototype to her.

"Mr. Hill," she said. "Change of plans. Go find help—fast."

The man frowned, but obeyed her, running off into the crowded city to search someone who could dismantle a bomb.

"Madam," said Hector, his voice metallic, "The possibility of successfully saving the city is approximately 3,720 to 1."

"Don't tell me the odds, Hector." She wrenched open the watch, which now read the time accurately and glowed from the inside. The minute hand moved slowly, while the second hand ticked away time as rapidly as the red numbers on the display.

The control hub lit up and the city lurched under them.

"It's four o'clock, Miss Ashby," said Nicholas Moreau, his wrists bound. "You'd better hurry up!"

"It shall be whatever o'clock I say it is." She twisted the knob on the side of the watch to turn the hands back, and it grinded to a halt. Around them, time seemed to speed up, blood seeping faster, breeze blowing sharper, the city speeding up towards Paris.

Nicholas crawled over. "What the bloody hell is happening?"

"A timekeeper controls time in the space around the device," said Hector, his back straight. "In this case, it slows down time. Because we are inside it, we experience time as we normally would, but the world around us seems to speed up, making us move slower compared to it."

Andromeda sighed in relief. "This will give Mr. Hill more time to find help."

"As long as the coil holds."

They waited and waited, the light of the energy coil slowly dimming as Hector tried to figure out how the bomb worked. The numbers on the display ticked down steadily, 15:44, 15:43... The coil would run out at some point, and their small bubble would return to normal speed.

Suddenly the clock tower filled with people, moving impossibly fast, circling around their bubble. With a sigh of relief, Andromeda released the knob and time returned to normal, revealing Tiberias Ingleton smiling down at her. Mr. Hill rushed in to take Nicholas Moreau and the Austrian into custody. A couple of men with pincers and pliers hurried to the control hub and gathered around the bomb.

"Excellent work, Miss Ashby," said her mentor. "Leave the rest to us."