A Steam-Powered Heart

A SteamPunk Story by MadMikeMarsbergen

PART ONE: A STEAM-POWERED HEART

1

i

There it was: the steam-powered heart. Under the safety glass. Red and slick with grease, cogs turning, gears shifting, valves flapping in sync as steam spewed forth on each and every pulse and beat. Stories had been told of its great power—it could allow a man to live well past his natural expiration date. Rumours spread like wildfire among Peburian investors... What was next? A whole person made of artificial parts? It was unnatural. Great, yes, but not normal. An outright defiance of Glasomil's own power of creation. The automatons had been bad enough. But this...? It demanded punishment. Men were meant to live and die and create other men; at the very most they were allowed to create vehicles through which to make living and dying that much easier, that much faster. But never would they be allowed to fashion devices to prolong life, nor were they to create new, sentient, previously unheard-of beings with their brains and bare hands. Such was the law of Glasomil; to defy it was to liken one's self to a state of godhood. Restraint was a necessity. Without restraint, wars were waged, sins were committed. And this...

He was different. He was Glasomil incarnate. He alone had the power to give or take life in such a way.

Except in this one circumstance.

In this one way, he was powerless. Defeated. Impotent.

It annoyed him greatly.

He wasn't from this time and place, hadn't been here long. This world was alien to him, yet familiar. This world was a mirror image of the life he knew. He could crush them all, change his past and present, and everything would be different. The enslavers of his past would be nothing, and his race would never have died out. But then he wouldn't have Andy, would he? And wasn't Andy the entire reason why he was here now, staring at a false heart beating beneath its glass? Andy needed him, and he wasn't one to ignore the pleas of those dearest to him. It was very simple: Without this heart, there was no more Andy.

Thin, worn hands reached out, fluttering with anticipation, raised the glass with great care. The hiss of the glass chamber's artificial environment being broken. Grey vapour poured out before dispersing. Prongs grabbed, lifted. The heart placed gently in an icebox. Kept cool for later.

What next? The world.

The future.

ii

Professor Sherlock Milton searched the young faces staring back at him across the classroom. Their eyes were wide, some of them even had their mouths hanging open. He had them completely with today's topic of discussion. They were fascinated. And why wouldn't they be? With ease, he'd moved the lecture from his steam-powered automatons—"robots," he knew they were being called colloquially among the student body, a butchering of the Wannatuk'luk word "robo'tuk," meaning "doer of chores"—to the future possibilities of those same automatons, with some slight tweaking.

"Sexbots!" one red-eyed, stubble-cheeked malcontent shouted, drawing giggles from the others.

"Quite amusing, Randy," Milton said, grinning softly. "Personally, as their 'father,' so to speak, I would prefer they be called something less obscene. Like, say, 'personal automated lady-friend,' or perhaps 'Randy's first girlfriend.'"

Everyone burst into laughter. Randy himself, red in the face and doubled over, wiped away tears. "You slay me, Professor Milton! Better hurry up and build her! I'm lonely."

When the laughter waned, Milton continued: "But no, Randy's 'sexbots' aren't what I was referring to, though it is admittedly a worthwhile and obviously inevitable venture. I was thinking of something more practical for everyday use.

"Imagine a world where mundane jobs aren't worked by you or me, but by specialized automatons. Never again will a cabbie have to work days and nights just to make ends meet, risking death or robbery with every passenger he takes on. Factory jobs will be a thing of the past, as stripped-down automatons complete each task at blinding-quick speeds and with unmatched precision, pumping out more products per day than a team of men can make in a month or more. Construction will be automated, or, to use your preferred term, 'robotic'—and infrastructure across the Peburian mainland and beyond can be built and rebuilt with no regard to workers' needs for food, sleep or whether they're suffering from exhaustion; all that will be required is the automated builders' own state of repair. But an automaton can be created for that, too. And these working, intelligent machines could be built to withstand conditions us humans wouldn't dare attempt. What was once impossible to build on for fear of danger will no longer be so. This is the future of my automatons. But that's only the beginning...

"You may have heard talk of my latest creation." Milton scanned for recognition. He saw nods from some, while others whispered to those beside. "A steam-powered heart? This is true." Gasps and murmurs. "It was truly quite elementary. I like to think the groundwork had been laid with my automatons, like it was a kind of 'training wheels' for the big-boy work, so to speak. From there it was simply a matter of mimicking an actual heart and its functions, replacing biological valves and tubes with those decidedly mechanical. Instead of blood, it pumps water. To ensure proper function and help regulate fluctuations in temperature, it releases built-up pressure as steam. Veins full of super-cooling grease line the heart like the roots of a flower line the soil where it resides, moving 'nutrients' this way and that where needed. It pumps quite well. Human blood could easily pump through it. Or, perhaps, a suitable alternative might be created, something that could be manufactured but wouldn't be rejected by the body. The top scientists across the planet are working on such a thing; it's out of my realm of expertise, unfortunately.

"And from there the sky is the limit. I'll let you in on a little secret, since you're all so kind as to take my class and keep me employed. I have drawn up schematics for my next creation: the steam-powered brain. Different from a computer, which is technically quite perfect but lacks the theoretical 'soul,' or sense of self, like that of an actual person. And a computer can't presently be placed within a person's cranium. It's my ambition to see those of us who need it receiving artificial organs and continuing to live as though we're all-natural. Never again will a child be given the short end of the stick, born with a missing kidney or a failing heart—all that and more can be subverted with my artificial organs."

"Better keep the brain out of my girlfriend!" Randy shouted again, chuckling like a madman as he high-fived others in the class. "I'd hate for her to think me ugly!"

Always a showman, that Randy. Affable and bound to make you laugh. Wouldn't be a bad salesman, Milton thought, if he could hunker down and focus.

The classroom's rear doors suddenly flew open. Alongside a great gust of icy air and snowflakes, a huffing-puffing man entered, clearly too winded to speak. Milton recognized him.

"Watson, what is the meaning of this dramatic entrance?" he asked.

Running down the stairs, crying out, "Sherlock! Sherlock Milton, sir!" Watson stopped in front of him and held one corner of the desk for support. He was pouring sweat from his forehead. He took the time to remove a cloth from his pocket so he could dab it dry. A coping method, a way to calm himself. His normally watery eyes were even more so, spilling tears down his cheeks and wetting his brown goatee. "I came as soon as it was discovered..."

"What is it, good man? Spit it out!"

"The heart, sir... It's been stolen!"

2

Peburia City was alive with festive spirit as cheery crowds shuffled from shop to shop and snowflakes drifted down from the blindingly white sky in the lazy manner of a drunkard. It was almost December twenty-fifth, the time of Crossmass, which had its roots in the crucifixion of Pebusa, the evil god Glasomil's noble brother. Slung sideways on a large wooden beam and set ablaze, Pebusa had died miserably, and—so the story went—evil had died with him, though the city's crime reports would clearly state otherwise. But Crossmass had evolved (or decayed, depending on how you looked at it) into a money-making schemer's wet dream. Only a select minority attended mass to actually commemorate the holiday and remember Pebusa's sacrifice—most Peburians were content to simply splurge on gifts to give to friends and family.

Weather reports called for a blizzard later, but Milton felt "later" actually referred to "now," as he and Watson fought against the face-numbing flurries and slid on ice-slick streets. They wove in and out of clusters of people. No time to stop at shop windows and admire the goods behind the glass. Watson tripped on someone's foot and nearly broke his nose on a windowsill, were it not for his quick hands using as an anchor an unsuspecting little boy, who'd been ogling an expensive SteamPlus Hair & Makeup Studio Home Edition prior to being knocked down.

"Go to hell, perv!" the kid immediately blurted, as if he'd been longing to use such a line for ages. Seeing the horrified reactions his comment had garnered, a devilish smirk appeared on the kid's face, his eyes lit up, and he tugged on his dad's sleeve, saying, "Daddy, this man tried to molest me! Make him buy me a present as a way of silencing my accusation! I was raped, Daddy! This man's a big homosexual pervert!"

Milton and Watson cleared off before the boy's father could catch on to the scheme. "Pay no attention to that," Milton said to the surrounding crowd. "Merely a spoiled youngster, rotten to the core." He tugged Watson's arm and dragged him into an immense throng, sure to lose the kid and his father for good. "What exactly happened, dear Watson? Tell me again."

"As I said before, Sherlock, sir: I entered our shared quarters in hopes of drawing a hot bath and perhaps catching some shuteye afterward. Naturally, as you know how dearly I honour you and your work, I went to have a gander at the heart. It was then I discovered its disappearance. The glass covering lay on its side and crude graffiti had been scrawled on the floors and walls."

"Yet no evidence of a forced entry had been otherwise detected?" Milton asked, stroking his naked, angular jaw.

"None as far as I could tell, sir. Otherwise I surely would've noticed before I'd entered our house."

A man with his hands in his coat coughed as they walked past, muttering, "Fuckin' fags."

Milton stopped, turned. "What was that, good fellow? Do you require a fresh cigarette to hold in your hand and smoke in and around your mouth?"

The man raised an eyebrow and stalked off, saying something about "the damn homos," and that Milton should "smoke on this hard and delicious meat-stick."

"You're not up on the lingo, Milton, sir," Watson said as they crossed a street once the trio of automobiles roamed by, steam shooting out the vehicles' many holes and cracks. "Likely with all the time you spend in solitude or at the university, teaching those young adults."

"Hmm?"

"That man wasn't requesting a fag to smoke, sir. He was calling us homosexuals, or fags."

Milton looked baffled by such an idea. "Why, dear Watson? Because we live together and do not have girlfriends?"

"Precisely, sir. Perhaps if a parade of whores strutted in and out the front of our house..."

Milton grunted thoughtfully. "You know I prefer to keep such matters private and via the back door."

One of his automatons—this one specialized in janitorial duties—swept the streets in front of the house with one broom-attachment arm and stabbed candy wrappers with the sharp-ended attachment on its other arm. "Excellent work as always, PG-451." Milton clapped the automaton on what passed for its back. It gave no response and continued its programmed chores.

The pair climbed the steps to the front porch. Sure enough, as Watson had said, it looked undisturbed.

Inside was an entirely different story, however.

3

i

The place had been trashed. Furniture flipped over and urinated on; entertainment systems smashed beyond all repair; one-of-a-kind pieces of Peburian antiquity broken and scattered about, soon to be forgotten from history forever. Toilet paper decorated the walls and floor, glued in place with what was clearly a unique-coloured concoction of urine, fecal matter and semen. Brown letters were smeared wherever the eye looked, making up epithets like: FRUIT FLIES GONNA DIE, HOMOS R GAY, BUTT BUTTIES, and BURN FAGS BURN. Poorly drawn penises, erect and spurting like a peanut-butter geyser in the Twin Snakes Burl, embellished the crude language—also penned with poo. Whoever had drawn the obscenities had quite a steady hand.

Staring at the mess, Watson stated, "It wasn't like this when I arrived earlier, I assure you, Milton, sir."

"Hmm, yes, I didn't think so," Milton said, pacing around the house, visiting each room. "This would be the sort of thing one would think to mention." He took out his pipe from his coat and packed a bowl, lit it, took a puff. Blew smoke from his snake-slit nostrils. "The question is, dear Watson, whether this relates to the matter of the missing steam-powered heart. Or perhaps it was meant as a distraction from the real crime..."

Watson followed Milton into the metal-walled containment room, where they saw what was clearly a different hand at work. BLASPHEMER, THOU SHALT BE PUNISHED, DEFILER OF GLASOMIL, ONLY GOD AND HIS SON MAY PLAY AS SUCH, CREATOR OF YOUR OWN DOOM, BRINGER OF THE CATACLYSM, DEATH OF HUMANITY.

"The letters are shakier, like our man here was experiencing a tremor-like reaction to the adrenaline rush which came as a result of committing a serious crime. Likely also relating to the sense of vindication he surely felt, in casting out a nonbeliever such as you or me. And the religious overtones here have a fairly different feel from the anti-homosexual slant of the rest of the house's vandalism. However, you and I both know the two aren't mutually exclusive ideals—merely two paths to the same objective: forcing one's outdated dogma on another, and eliminating what makes us all different people with different dreams, desires and the like..."

"So, what do you think?"

"What I think, dear Watson, is that good fellow outside, for whatever reason, misjudged our relationship and decided to take it out on our good home here. Now, logic would dictate that—since we did not see him come out, and since the homophobic garbage was not there when you found the heart was missing—this must have occurred soon after you exited the premises and rushed to the university to tell me what you'd discovered."

"But was it the same man, Milton, sir?"

"I think not, but naturally we cannot know for sure until we catch him red-handed—or, in this case, to coin a phrase: brown-fingered and reeking to high heaven. Of course, the shaky hand in here and differing pedigree suggests two suspects, but it could easily be one man on a schizo streak only making us think we're searching for two, so as to distract us from his escape. Perhaps he used his good hand for the homophobia and his bad for the religion. But, as I said before, it very well could be two men and our homophobic vandal was merely hired by the heart-stealer to divert our attention. Or, of course, two entirely separate incidents. Those are the possibilities I see, dear Watson."

"But why?"

"Why not?" Milton savoured a lungful of smoke from his pipe. "A religious-loner type very well may think what I've created is an abomination in the eyes of that shunned-aside god Glasomil, and perhaps his way of seeking humanity's forgiveness for such a deed was to destroy the heart—of course, he must not realize I have detailed schematics and computer readouts locked away in a secure vault buried beneath a precise location in the Twin Snake Burl; so this is merely a stumble-step on a long and inevitable journey of the human condition... Nothing more, nothing less. However, another possibility is that SteamPlus may want my technology, or some other up-and-coming corporation, or a rogue individual. This religious nonsense could have been a smokescreen for the real motive: stealing my technology so they can reverse-engineer it for their own financial gain..."

"That's who I think did it, sir," Watson said with one emphatic nod. "SteamPlus must still hold a grudge against you for repeatedly turning down their offer of employment. And this Glasomil-worshipping nutter is all a load of bollocks."

"Yes, Watson, the religious aspect does intrigue me. You tend not to find very many devout individuals in this day and age of logic and reason and scientific research. Certainly not towards Glasomil, in an age where Pebusa is no longer vilified, in an age where Glasomil is."

"Not since it was discovered the flood was merely the result of excessive livestock-farming having a warming effect on the planet, thus melting the icecaps, and not Glasomil's wrath upon a world losing its way. That really turned the tables on our interpretations of the holy texts," Watson said, his chest swelling and his eyes widening. An anti-religion rant always got him perky.

"Precisely." Milton emptied the ashes of his pipe into a bin in the corner of the room and glanced at the rubbish on the walls. PG-451 could take care of the various messes in no time at all. And perhaps he should activate 8T88, the security automaton, before they took leave... just in case the intruder—or any other intruders—decided to return. Clearing his throat, Milton said, "I think, dear Watson, we may need to pay a visit to SteamPlus."

ii

The two of them inside, surely seeing what'd been taken, and yet he wondered who the man was who'd exited the building shortly before they'd arrived. For that same man still watched from across the street. A fitting patsy, perhaps? Not that it mattered much, in the end.

Thin, worn hands patted the icebox. Soon this heart would be where it belonged. And Andy would be safe again. But would it be enough, he wondered, to alter the trajectory of time itself? And did he wish to? Glasomil no longer spoke to him, not since the ritual. Now, Glasomil spoke through him. And what did the voice inside him say?

It didn't say to kill, no. Not the tall one, who he knew was the creator of such blasphemy. So perhaps time was meant to be altered in ways more subtle, because weren't those slight tweaks all the more profound?

And there they both were, stepping out of the house. Hailing a tram as it belched and click-clacked its way down the street. They climbed on. All aboard and off they went.

And there the man across the street was, looking both ways as he stepped up to the front door. Jimmying the lock ever so, and in he went.

Rat-tat-tat.

So much for petty criminals. The sound of weaponry hadn't changed in the least.

Thin, worn hands painted the air with symbols, steady in their age and experience. This was familiar to him, an old joy: magik. A swirl of blue- and grey-tinged pictures opened up before him, showing a changed Peburia—his Peburia—through the haze.

He stepped through and vanished. The snow on his shoulders evaporated before he appeared on the other side.

PART TWO: ACROSS TIME AND SPACE

4

i

The season was the same in this other, older world. But the temperature and climate were different. For decades the skies had been awash with chemical clouds, trapping the heat within the atmosphere, and—until the Connection had taken place—the land had been tired and dead. Now, grass grew and animals scurried about. The Sun, obscured by roiling yellow vapours, appeared blue and wispy.

Winter was a thing of the past.

Thanks to him.

His name was Justin Keuvelaar, and he was Glasomil incarnate. He was a god.

The portal had taken him forward to his time, and he carried the icebox with thin, worn hands towards his mansion in the secluded town of Doomgloom, where Andy awaited an operation to give him a new heart. Passing a still-water pool, he did not dare to look at himself.

He avoided mirrors and other reflective surfaces. It was bad enough seeing what had happened to his hands in the short time that had elapsed since the Connection had taken place. He knew—just by feeling with his fingers—his face now looked gaunt and wrinkled, like he'd aged sixty years when it had merely been six months. And as the days went by, he knew he appeared ever more haggard. Especially after his jaunts to the past.

In his pocket he fingered a blade with his free hand. It soothed him to do so.

There had been technology before the Cataclysm. Nanotechnology. When he'd been a less-deified man, he'd even carried a blade stolen from his android master Boss Hoggbot, and it could cut through anything. But he'd since traded in such a tool for a newer, better weapon. Builder—that freak bastard—had previously possessed the strange blade which now rested in Keuvelaar's pocket. Also utilizing nanotech, it had the ability to inject victims with nanites that repaired cells. Useful for temporarily dispatching foes one would prefer not to kill. He'd stolen the blade off the freak during a violent exchange.

He longed to use it again, hadn't used it for some time. It called to him, beckoned him to plunge it into some mortal's pliant flesh, to let it taste and feel the blood. It was addicting, but not as much as murder itself was, which of course was a pleasure it was incapable of providing.

He walked the palm tree–shaded path to his mansion and went inside. The house was blazing-hot and the lights were off—Andy in his present state found the lights did more harm than good, made his head hurt and his eyes burn.

Of course, the actual terminology for his pain was a little different.

Keuvelaar entered the darkened den and found Andy where he'd left him: on the couch, under the blanket, shivering despite the heat.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Andy, setting down the icebox and kneeling beside.

A chill overtook Andy and he tilted his head to his left and vomited a thick black liquid into a well-placed bucket. "Build me b-better... next time."

"If I'd built you the first time, I would have built you to last forever."

"Do you... h-h-have the h-heart?"

Keuvelaar thumped the icebox's lid with a thud.

"P-P-Put it in me." Andy threw down the blanket and attempted to rip his flannel shirt off his body, struggling at first, the artificial veins in his arms standing out. Using the last of his strength he managed to tear through the shirt. Buttons popped off. His chest swelled disturbingly with every beat of his robotic heart. The rubbery skin rose like a fist was on the other side, stretching the skin, until it appeared as though the fist would punch through. It gave a little flutter, the spasm of an overworked organ, and then his chest collapsed to repeat the arduous process. His breathing laboured with every climax of this motion. "It hurts," Andy whimpered. "Wish I was h-human."

"I wish you were, too. I could make you better with the slightest impulse."

Keuvelaar worked quickly to alleviate his friend's pain. He felt Glasomil's power coursing through him as he made a slice down Andy's chest with his finger.

It wasn't the first time he'd dissected a life-form. As a matter of fact, the majority of those he'd worked on had been androids, though none of them had been counted among those he'd loved.

Such a strange word to use, love. But he did love Andy. He knew that as much—if not more—than anything else.

Andy was different.

He reached inside and felt around for the defective heart. Grease made things slippery. Made things difficult to get a grip of. Finding what he was probing for, he squeezed as gently as he could while still maintaining a firm grip and plucked the faulty organ out like one would pluck an apple from a tree.

Andy's eyes went wide, his mouth held in a frozen O. His circuitry would degrade if a new heart were not inserted soon.

Hands dripping with oil, Keuvelaar held the black heart up. It looked like a human heart, almost impossible to tell the difference were it not for the difference in colour. It still beat in its erratic manner, and he was able to see how the artificial tissue ballooned until the point of certain explosion. But it didn't explode, of course. It fluttered and deflated.

With his other hand he opened the icebox. Still cold. Condensation misted up from inside. He placed the old heart inside, picked up the steam-powered heart and marveled at the technological expertise required to fashion such a thing. Like a prototype of the current model, when really it had been more than that. The progenitor, and the faulty one was its progeny. He slid it into Andy's open chest, twisted it, turned it, slotted it into position and magikally sutured the artificial organ into place.

Andy blinked and gasped. Stared down at his open chest, which Keuvelaar closed by running his finger up and down the wound like tracing a scar. His cut left no scar of its own.

"How do you feel?" Keuvelaar asked.

"Like I could live for a thousand years," Andy replied, laughing. He sat up and took him in a crushing embrace.

Would such a heart last for that long? Keuvelaar found himself thinking. And if not, how can I get more?

ii

The SteamPlus head office was located in the heart of Peburia City, surrounded by high, barb-wired walls, and armed guards at the gated stations interspersed around the property's perimeter. The finely sculpted building stood taller than any other tower in the city, a work of art-deco wonder, not a slab of stone wasted, precision-cut perfection, shining silver and steel-grey under the limited light of the winter Sun. Gold-plated corners, going up storey after storey to sparkling bronze eagles, which perched like sentinels of the sky. Massive letters grew out from the roof: STEAMPLUS—said to be visible from the other side of the city, and lit with neon, hydrogen, helium, nitrogen, argon, xenon, krypton, and mercury gases at night.

In fact, such a goal had proven to be successful, as Milton and Watson stepped off the steam trolley and thanked the very-much-human driver. They'd held the SteamPlus building in their sights when they'd first boarded the trolley outside of the house, and it'd remained there for the entire duration of the journey.

"How long 'til that driver's out of a job, you reckon?" Watson asked, buttoning up his coat to ward off the chill.

"A few months, if I have it my way," Milton said, leading the way to the nearest gated entrance. "These guards, too."

"But what will the men do?"

"Find new work, I should think."

"But what if they cannot do anything else? What if driving the trolleys and being security guards is what they are best at?"

Milton stopped and gripped Watson by the shoulders, digging in with claw-like hands. "Then they need to adapt, dear Watson. This is a world becoming increasingly educated. Very soon people will refuse to do these jobs because they will see them as being beneath their abilities. And if jobs are in need and educational needs are not met, jobs will be created solely for these people. Believe that. Don't be a cynical bastard. Believe that this world of ours cares for its own. At some point most of us won't even need to work. We will all receive a living wage and be free to pursue whatever truly makes our hearts sing. Believe that."

"You know I do, sir, but sometimes I wonder if capitalism won't go unchecked in future generations, whether they'll begin putting profits ahead of people."

"I should certainly hope not."

They reached the gate and found the guard inside the small enclosure staring daggers their way. No recognition in the man's eyes, despite Milton's numerous visits over the years to meet with SteamPlus executives, despite using this very same gate with this very same guard manning the station.

"Hello, chap. Professor Sherlock Milton and one guest, here to meet with Mr. Juniorson. I'm afraid I do not have an appointment, though."

The guard's eyes widened. He looked to the photograph to his left, tacked to the wall with a message above in bold: VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE. Milton was listed, due to SteamPlus' seemingly never-ending attempts to broker a deal with him regarding his steam-powered automatons. "Mr. Milton! Go right on through! I shall alert Mr. Juniorson's secretary that you're coming to see him!"

The gate lifted. Milton and Watson passed through, marching between the snow-topped hedgerows toward the front doors. Removing from his coat a small vial, Milton uncapped it and put it to his nose and took a snort.

"Snow to get the blood flowing," he said, jogging on the spot.

5

The secretary was a pretty blonde by the name of Shauna Bangsmore. Clacking away at her desktop computer, she looked up and smiled when Milton and Watson entered the building. "Good day, Mr. Milton."

"Hello," Milton said, reading the nameplate at the front of her desk. "Shauna, eh? Such a beautiful name. My mother's name, in fact."

"How lovely, Mr. Milton."

"Please, call me Sherlock. And this is my good friend Watson."

"Watson what?"

"Just Watson," said Watson, with a raise of his eyebrow and a twirl of his moustache.

"He's a mystery like that," Milton said. "Anywho, we're here to speak with the Mr. Juniorson."

"I've alerted him," she told him, back to rattling at her keyboard. "I hope you're finally taking SteamPlus up on our offer..."

Milton winked. "I just might have to. If a fine woman such as yourself were to go on a date with me... perhaps I might be even more tempted to take the offer..."

She leaned forward, revealing ample cleavage. "I never date, Mr. Milton."

"Sherlock, please, Shauna."

She bit her lip. "Call me Miss Bangsmore. Sherlock."

"Bangsmore," he said thoughtfully, imagining her naked and bent over a waist-high credenza. "What might be the etymology of such a name?"

"You're welcome to study me later, if you'd like. You could do me for your next doctorate."

"How does eight this evening sound?" he asked, reaching for her hand.

Accepting the kiss on the back of it, Shauna replied, "Eight? I guess I'll be staying the night, then."

The door to Mr. Juniorson's office opened and a red-haired, freckle-faced man poked his head out through the crack. He looked like a little boy wearing his father's much-too-big suit. It was rather comical but Milton tried his best to hold back his laughter. "Sherlock, buddy? Boy, am I glad to see you! Come in, come in! Hello, Watson. Sherlock, when I heard Shauna on the phone I nearly had a clog in my cogs, friend. I thought I'd scared you off with my last offer of employment, worrying myself to death you'd never call me back, and here you are. Have a seat. What's clanking?"

Milton patted down his suit once he was seated beside Watson in front of Juniorson's large desk. On the desk were stone replicas of native masks, a miniature bird's nest, and even a little set of those brass balls that clacked back and forth. "I'd like to lay it all out on the table, Junior." He looked to Watson, who nodded.

"What's up?" Junior Juniorson asked. He appeared concerned. "I'm steamed to find out!"

"Our shared place of residence was desecrated, assaulted, sullied, dishonoured, despoiled, debased, violated, and vandalized. An item of immeasurable value was stolen."

"Oh dear. Do you know who did it? Why are you telling me this, Sherlock?" Junior scanned the room and whispered, "Do you have spies listening in on this?"

"We do not know who did it, no, but we thought you might know."

"Why would I?"

"Let us—as they say on the street—cut the shit, Junior. SteamPlus has been after me and my work for countless years now."

"I can assure you," Junior said, his pitch rising, "Sherlock, we wouldn't do that. Not while I'm still head of this company, that's for damn certain. Do you have reason to believe an employee of mine was responsible?"

"That depends, my friend. Do any of your employees hold religious beliefs?"

"I'm sure some do, yes. Why?"

"Well, as it were, scrawled amidst the vandalism were various religious terms and phrases. Some of them outdated, no less. Do you worship Glasomil?"

"Do I— What?" Junior booted a spherical ball of light on the floor under his desk. "Glasomil? Heavens no! Pebusa is the true Lord and Saviour!"

"That glowing sphere you just kicked was from a bygone era of Glasocentric worship, no?"

Junior sighed. "Yeah, yeah. My gears spin so fast when people find out about that. We're a dying breed. Can't help myself. Sorry, sorry. Listen, Sherlock, I don't know who trashed your place, but I can assure you it—"

A radiant amethyst-coloured door—for lack of a better term—opened up within that office, and out from the sudden swirling mass walked an old man. He raised one wrinkled hand and two things happened in one flickering flash of a second.

A blade found its way lodged in Watson's chest.

And Junior Juniorson's head exploded.

6

No time to mourn friends lost, the old man grabbed Milton by the collar and yanked him through the door. The kaleidoscope of colour collapsed around them and they were surrounded by a pit of nothingness, of blackness, a void where even thoughts did not dwell.

Only the old man was gone. Milton stood—floated—alone, and before he had time enough to contemplate his newfound existence, an hallucination so grim and powerful forced itself upon him.

A hall of mirrors, curved and stretched and all-encompassing, bordered him from all directions. But the mirrors did not reflect his world, clearly, for Milton factored not even the slightest within those mirrored worlds beyond. For all intents and purposes he was a ghost, staring at a world which continued and repeated without him inside it. Watson died again and again, concurrently in real-time, fast- and slow-motion. In each door to that other world, Watson died at a different rate. But still he died. Repeatedly. The blade shooting out like a bullet from the old man's hand in some, in others like a snail creeping along a leaf to some sought-after fruit, in all of them Watson's face contorting as his life left the vessel for his soul that was his body.

As a scientist, it was as fascinating to Milton as it was horrific.

Oddly enough, Juniorson was nowhere to be found, either. It was like this world rested on the shoulders of Watson, solely existed to catalogue the fabulous life and excruciating death of Watson.

It was maddening to watch his best friend die once. Soul-crushing to watch it again and again.

Just when he thought he could take no more, when he thought all that he knew would disperse to a vapour and all that he was would crack like plaster, the old man appeared again, filling his brain with the wrinkled face that looked to be long past knocking on Death's door and already making itself at home.

HOW DOES IT FEEL? the old man's booming voice asked. TO LOSE A FRIEND. TO BE POWERLESS TO STOP IT.

Enough, I beg you. Please.

IN TIME. YOU MIGHT WONDER WHY I AM HERE. WHY I'VE STOLEN YOUR PRECIOUS HEART.

That was you...?

IT WAS BLASPHEMY. BUT I HAVE COME TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE NEED FOR SUCH BLASPHEMY. IT SERVES A PURPOSE. BOTH PHILOSOPHICALLY AND PRACTICALLY. WITHOUT WRONG THERE CAN BE NO RIGHT. YOU SEE, I, TOO, HAVE SEEN A FRIEND AT THE BRINK OF DEATH. AND IT WAS YOUR GREAT WORK THAT HAS SAVED HIM. THERE'S A HEART INSIDE ALL OF US THAT BEATS TO A DRUM OF OUR OWN MAKING. EVEN IN THOSE WHO ARE NOT HUMAN, NOT EVEN ALIVE.

Who are you?

WHO I AM IS OF NO CONCERN. NOT NOW. NOT YET. BUT IF YOU REALLY MUST KNOW, I AM GLASOMIL. I AM GOD. NOW LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY: YOUR FRIEND CAN BE SAVED. BUT I REQUIRE A TRADE. YOUR HEART FOR MINE.

Anything! Dear Watson does not deserve—

QUIET. I NEED MORE OF THOSE HEARTS YOU HAVE MADE. WHERE ARE THEY?

It was the only of its kind, a prototype.

THAT WAS NOT THE ANSWER I WAS HOPING FOR, MORTAL.

But I have schematics. More can surely be built. All I need is time.

WHERE ARE THE SCHEMATICS? TELL ME NOW AND YOUR FRIEND MAY LIVE. I HAVE NO NEED FOR YOUR HANDS. ONLY YOUR MIND.

In the Twin Snake Burl. Buried two hundred kilometres directly northwest of my home. A straight line. Two cacti flank the site southwest and northeast. Is that specific enough or should I help with the matter of unearthing such—

YOUR CHATTER BORES ME. GOODBYE, UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN.

Wait! Will the trade continue as promised? Will the trade continue as promised!?

7

i

The trade had been one-sided, naturally. Though the fool hadn't the fuzziest idea. His friend had no chance of dying, not with the nanites flooding his system and rejuvenating his cells faster than they could decay.

But the fool—a genius of his time, really—would have no concept of nanotechnology. How could he? A primitive compared to he, Keuvelaar.

To he, Glasomil. The God of Light.

Yes, it had been a bad trade, but good for him.

Soon he'd have for Andy a heart for every thousand years that had passed, and for every thousand years that would pass thereafter.

ii

Professor Sherlock Milton awoke to Shauna Bangsmore's blonde head bobbing up and down on the top of his prick. He pretended to still be asleep and allowed her to finish, crying out and coming to a phony state of consciousness with the unexpected spurt of his jism.

"Isn't that how Pebusa was resurrected?" he asked her, breathlessly.

She wiped her mouth and rested beside him. "Who needs heaven when you've got blowjobs?"

"Who indeed?" He sighed, recalling the events of the... dream? hallucination? memory? What had it been, really? Was Watson dead? It was all so painful and fresh to contemplate.

Lying there in bed with a beautiful woman beside, there was only one way to find out: "How's Watson?" he asked.

Shauna perched herself on an elbow and her blue eyes searched him. "What do you mean?"

"Well..."

There was a knock at the door. It opened ever so slightly and a heavily moustached, pudgy face poked inside.

"Watson!" Milton shouted, jumping out of bed. "You're alive!"

They met in a rib-crushing embrace of squeezes and back-thumps.

"Ho ho ho. Feel better than ever, sir," Watson said, beaming, shooting a wink Shauna's way. "The lady does not know what happened earlier today, and I promised I would not tell her the slightest juicy bit of gossip unless you and I agreed upon it firstly."

"So..." Milton tactfully continued: "The penetration you experienced...?"

"Delightful, to say the least."

Shauna looked from one man to the other. "Penetration?"

"It was the strangest thing. A vision befell me during the act thereof, and I was told some type of trade had taken place, sir...?"

"We'll talk more on this later, dear Watson," Milton said. "This type of talk is not ripe for the ears of a lady." And already he found himself contemplating the nature of what had transpired.

He had never been a holy man, always a believer that with enough logic and proper reason a man could unravel any mystery. But this latest venture had him stumped.

Had Watson really been at the brink of death? Had the god Glasomil really returned to the world that day?

Milton didn't know the answer to those questions, but he knew within his heart of hearts what his forthcoming project would be.