A Conflagration of Clockwork

My polished boot, a gift from the renowned leatherworks on Main Street, sank with a most dissatisfying squelch into a particularly viscous puddle of what I can only assume was automatone lubricant and dissolved pigeon. A small, involuntary shudder ran down my spine. This simply would not do. Not on a Tuesday, and certainly not after a particularly restful summer morning that had promised nothing more taxing than the precise calibration of my new self-buttering toast rack.

“Mr. Findlay,” a voice, raspy with official indignation, cut through the remaining cacophony of distant sirens and the desultory tink-tink of recovery crews collecting gears. Inspector Peterson, his own uniform surprisingly unblemished, stood over a section of what had once been a decorative civic fountain, now merely a geyser of broken ceramic and spurting, rusty water. He brandished a scorched, multi-toothed cog like it was evidence of my personal moral failing. “Care to explain this… *disarray*?”

I straightened, adjusting my spectacles, which had developed a faint smudge near the left lens. “Inspector,” I began, endeavouring for a tone of weary professionalism, “the disarray, as you so aptly phrase it, appears to be the rather predictable consequence of a Class-B municipal automatone experiencing a catastrophic core implosion whilst traversing the public thoroughfare. A mere… mechanical incident, one might say.” My left trouser leg felt damp. Oh, the indignity.

Peterson’s brow furrowed, a performance he had perfected over years of dealing with my peculiar projects. “A ‘mechanical incident’ that has flattened three lampposts, demolished the entire east wing of the Provincial Bank, and sent the populace scattering like startled sparrows, Mr. Findlay? Your ‘mechanical incidents’ have a rather un-mechanical propensity for dramatics, wouldn’t you agree?” He tapped the cog against his palm, a rhythmic, irritating clack.

“Exaggeration, Inspector, is hardly the ally of truth,” I countered, stepping gingerly around a piece of crumpled brass, the unmistakable remains of the automatone’s primary locomotion housing. “The lampposts were merely buckled, the bank’s façade is remarkably resilient, and the populace, I observe, are already queuing for their morning coffees, albeit with a tad more vigour. Besides, the automatone in question was not *my* design. I merely consulted on its hydraulic pressure regulators. A small, almost negligible input, I assure you.”

Peterson let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “Small input, large wreckage. A consistent theme, Mr. Findlay.” He then gestured broadly with his cog-hand. “And the automatone’s sudden predilection for… urban demolition? Was that part of the consultation?”

I stooped, ignoring the Inspector, to examine a particularly large segment of the automatone’s chassis. It was scored, not merely with impact marks, but with deep, linear gouges, as if something sharp and immensely powerful had raked across it. Odd. The automatone’s original programming for civic sanitation did not include ‘aggressive scraping.’ My fingers traced the cold, rough metal. The summer sun, beating down, made the metal shimmer faintly.

“No, Inspector,” I replied, pushing myself upright with a faint creak in my knees. The heat was making my tweed jacket cling uncomfortably. “This is most curious. The automatone, a ‘Sanitation Unit Alpha-7’ if I recall its designation, was designed for refuse collection, not this… theatrical display of force. Its internal governor should have restricted any movement beyond a sedate two miles per hour. This level of destruction suggests… an override.”

Before Peterson could unleash another volley of official scepticism, a new voice, clear and sharp as a freshly honed razor, cut through the air. “An override, or perhaps a rather unfortunate enthusiasm for its duties, Octavius?”

I turned to see Miss Agnes Penniton approaching, her parasol twirling with elegant nonchalance, casting a cool shadow over her impeccably tailored travelling suit. Not a speck of soot sullied her personage, an astonishing feat given the current atmospheric conditions. Her eyes, as ever, sparkled with an intelligent, almost impish, amusement.

“Agnes!” I exclaimed, a genuine warmth replacing my earlier irritation. “You are precisely the dose of logical common sense this morning requires. Inspector Peterson here seems to believe I have personally engineered this municipal calamity for the sheer joy of it.”

Agnes offered the Inspector a polite, if somewhat dismissive, nod. “Good morning, Inspector. You seem to be having a rather brassy start to your day.” She then turned her full attention to me. “Indeed, Octavius, your flair for the dramatic is well-documented. However, even you would struggle to program a refuse collector to develop a taste for architectural deconstruction without some external… *encouragement*.” She peered at the wreckage, her gaze far more piercing than Peterson’s bewildered stare.

“Precisely my thought!” I declared, emboldened by her agreement. “The gouges on the chassis, Agnes. Look here.” I pointed to the deep scores. “These are not random impacts. They are… deliberate. As if a claw, or a very large, sharpened appendage, sought to gain purchase, or perhaps… *control*.”

Peterson, meanwhile, was meticulously noting down details on a small pad, his pen scratching furiously. “Claw, you say? Mr. Findlay, are we now introducing fantastical beasts into the municipal records? I shall have to requisition a larger ink pot for this report.”

Agnes merely raised an eyebrow at Peterson, then knelt, surprisingly agile for her years, beside a particularly mangled section of wiring. She produced a small, silver monocle from her purse and scrutinised the tangle. The sun glinted off the lens. I watched, fascinated, as her expression shifted from amusement to a keen, almost predatory focus.

“Not a beast, Inspector,” Agnes murmured, her voice low. “But perhaps a rather beastly human, with an unfortunate grasp of automatone engineering. Octavius, come here. Do you see this?” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at a small, almost imperceptible module embedded deep within the ruined wiring. It pulsed with a faint, errant current, a tiny, sickly green glow against the scorched copper.

I leaned in, my heart quickening. That wasn’t standard issue. I knew the Alpha-7 schematics like the back of my hand, and that particular component—a compact, high-frequency modulator with an unfamiliar serial etched into its side—was most certainly not part of the original design. My inner monologue, usually a well-ordered series of logical deductions, became a jumble of frantic questions. What was that? Who put it there? Why had no one noticed it during maintenance? My gaze bounced from the module to Agnes’s face, then to Peterson, who was still trying to find a page in his notebook that referenced 'automatone claws.'

“That… that is not regulation,” I whispered, almost to myself. “A foreign implant. It appears to be broadcasting a highly volatile frequency, possibly designed to override primary safety protocols and amplify motive power beyond its intended limits.” I straightened, suddenly forgetting the squelch on my boot, the uncomfortable heat. “This was no accident, Inspector. This automatone was hijacked. Or rather, *possessed*.”

Peterson finally looked up, his pen hovering mid-air. “Possessed, Mr. Findlay? Are we now delving into the realm of the supernatural? My constables are not equipped for exorcisms of steam-powered street sweepers.” His tone was formal, as always, but I detected a faint tremor of genuine perplexity, a rare thing for the stolid Inspector.

Agnes stood up, dusting off her hands with a delicate motion. “Hardly supernatural, Inspector. Merely criminal, with a dash of technical sophistication. Someone wished for the Alpha-7 to cause maximum disruption. And, more importantly, they desired to remain untraced. This modulator, Octavius, appears to be an experimental model, quite fresh. See the manufacturer’s mark? Faint, but distinct. It leads to a rather obscure parts distributor out by the Red River docks. A Mr. Silas Grubb, I believe.”

A jolt went through me. Silas Grubb. A man I had dismissed as a petty peddler of dubious second-hand gears and questionable aether-coils. That scoundrel, responsible for this summer day’s utter chaos? It was almost too perfectly vexing. My mind raced, connecting the dots: the deliberate gouges on the chassis suggesting a struggle for control, the foreign modulator, the utter, unmitigated destruction. It all pointed to one thing. Someone had a bone to pick, and they’d used a municipal sanitation unit to grind it.

“Well, Octavius,” Agnes said, a glint in her eye, “it seems our quiet summer has just acquired an unscheduled itinerary. We have a rather pressing appointment with Mr. Grubb, wouldn’t you say? One involving questions about his procurement methods and, perhaps, the exact nature of his clientele.” She tapped her parasol against the ground, a light, expectant rhythm. I realised then that my heart was no longer merely thumping from exertion, but with the thrill of a new pursuit. My ruined boots, the lingering smell of ozone, even the Inspector’s furrowed brow — all faded into the background. A genuine mystery, delivered right to my doorstep, amidst the very gears of a city I thought I knew.

An Unveiling of Intent

The immediate aftermath, messy and public, was merely the overture. The true composition, I now understood, lay hidden in the quiet hum of that illicit modulator, in the faint, almost-erased serial number that Agnes had so cleverly spotted. It wasn’t just a device; it was a signature. A challenge, perhaps. Or a warning. The kind of warning that only a fellow enthusiast, or a particularly ingenious nemesis, would bother to send in such a technically convoluted fashion. I found myself grinning, a rather undignified expression for a gentleman of my age, particularly one currently standing in a pool of automatone discharge. But the chase, the intellectual pursuit, was precisely the tonic for a soul weary of predictable toast racks.

Agnes’s eyes met mine, a shared understanding passing between us. The mundane task of explaining the incident to the increasingly flummoxed Inspector Peterson could wait. The true work had begun. This wasn’t just about a broken automatone; it was about an unseen hand, pulling wires, tweaking cogs, and setting machines on a destructive course. The summer heat suddenly seemed less oppressive, replaced by the cool thrill of imminent discovery.

“Inspector,” I declared, adopting my most authoritative tone, “I believe Miss Penniton and I have sufficient information to begin our own… *inquiries*.” I gave him a curt nod, already turning towards the less damaged streets, Agnes falling into step beside me, her posture radiating purpose. The faint green glow of the modulator seemed to beckon, a promise of intrigue amidst the mundane.

The question was no longer *what* had happened, but *who* had orchestrated it, and to what nefarious end. And I, Octavius Findlay, along with my most discerning companion, Agnes Penniton, intended to find out. Our destination, a rather grimy warehouse by the Red River, promised an entirely different, perhaps equally messy, set of answers. It appeared my day of leisurely calibration was officially, and delightfully, over.

The hunt for Mr. Grubb and his peculiar parts would undoubtedly lead us down a twisting path of gears and shadows, a path I was now, despite the lingering smell of burnt oil and lubricant, remarkably eager to tread.

The question was not merely who, but what intricate scheme had been set in motion, and what further brass-and-steam calamities awaited us in the sweltering Winnipeg summer.

The Unspoken Compact