wreathed in loose gray scarves. It gives her an oddly top-heavy appearance.
“Right,” she says. “Recap: yesterday, in a pub, in the Highlands. Great big robot comes through the floor, attacks everything. We kill it. It knocks over the pub. We all wonder, ‘what the hell?’”
She looks for any signs of dissent. Hannah looks slightly dubious, but keeps her peace for now.
“Nothing in the digital databases,” Tabitha continues, “but we suck at scanning, so not the end of the world. Hit the analog data.” She points at the papers on the data. “Found something.”
She pushes a piece of blue-gray paper across the table, the edges brittle and flaking. Faded schematics recorded in a tight neat hand. Front view, side view. Detailed sketches of cogs meshing together. Tiny, indecipherable notes with arrows pointing to shoulder joints, to plates of armor.
It is not our robot, not exactly, but it is a pretty close cousin, if not a direct relation.
“Prototype schematic,” Tabitha says, “for an Uhrwerkmänn.”
“That means clockwork man in German,” Clyde throws in. “Not really a very imaginative name, but it sounds fantastic.”
Tabitha rolls her eyes at the interruption. “Whatever. Interesting bit: schematics drawn by Professor Joseph Lang.”
She leaves a pause for the reaction that doesn’t come. She hangs her head. “Fucking philistines.”
Clyde looks around the room. “Joseph Lang? Anybody? Seriously?” We all fail to spontaneously know things. “Oh, this is great stuff. Goes right back to the founding of MI37 itself in 1935. The whole discovery of The Book at the peak of Mount Everest, its revelations about the existence of multiple realities, plus bonus details how to access them. It’s the book that triggered the whole magical arms race of the seventies and eighties. Big deal. But the expedition to Everest—”
“Wait,” Hannah interrupts. “Everest weren’t climbed until Edmund Hillary in the fifties.”
“Exactly,” Clyde nods.
Hannah gives Clyde the perplexed stare that I thought I owned the copyright on.
“You see,” Clyde says, “the actual first expedition was in 1933, but because of the discovery of The Book, it was all hushed up. Stymied Himalayan exploration for years actually. A not much talked about consequence in the annals of magical history in fact. I considered writing a treatise on it once, but the problem with magical treatises is that they’re usually only read after you’ve died by the people ransacking your tomb. In fact, the whole publishing track in thaumaturgy is disastrous, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there, really. The point is that Joseph Lang was part of that original 1933 expedition.”
And that actually gets my attention. “Joseph Lang was involved in the founding of MI37?” I glance over at Felicity. This looks like it’s news to her as well.
“Oh yes, very much so. The Germans at that time were hugely into the whole occult thing.”
“Wait—” It’s Hannah again, apparently unable to let Clyde’s words just flow. “At that time? You mean, like, when the Nazis were oppressing the shit out of everybody, right?”
Clyde beams. “I do! Top marks. Oh wait, that’s horribly condescending. Scratch that from the record. But totally what I mean. Because that’s really the whole problem here. You see, while fundamental to the discovery of The Book, and the founding of MI37, Joseph Lang was also a hideous, hideous, bigoted arsehole of a Nazi. Terrible human being in almost every conceivable way actually. Brilliant thaumatophysicist, but that’s about all the positive things that can be said about him. He was kicked out of the organization in 1938 due to the whole brewing war thing. Plus the arsehole thing, I hope.”
“So MI37 was founded by a Nazi?” Hannah looks decidedly unimpressed. I would like to be able to take umbrage at this, but unfortunately I’m unimpressed with MI37 right now too.
“Well,” Clyde shrugs a
“Right,” she says. “Recap: yesterday, in a pub, in the Highlands. Great big robot comes through the floor, attacks everything. We kill it. It knocks over the pub. We all wonder, ‘what the hell?’”
She looks for any signs of dissent. Hannah looks slightly dubious, but keeps her peace for now.
“Nothing in the digital databases,” Tabitha continues, “but we suck at scanning, so not the end of the world. Hit the analog data.” She points at the papers on the data. “Found something.”
She pushes a piece of blue-gray paper across the table, the edges brittle and flaking. Faded schematics recorded in a tight neat hand. Front view, side view. Detailed sketches of cogs meshing together. Tiny, indecipherable notes with arrows pointing to shoulder joints, to plates of armor.
It is not our robot, not exactly, but it is a pretty close cousin, if not a direct relation.
“Prototype schematic,” Tabitha says, “for an Uhrwerkmänn.”
“That means clockwork man in German,” Clyde throws in. “Not really a very imaginative name, but it sounds fantastic.”
Tabitha rolls her eyes at the interruption. “Whatever. Interesting bit: schematics drawn by Professor Joseph Lang.”
She leaves a pause for the reaction that doesn’t come. She hangs her head. “Fucking philistines.”
Clyde looks around the room. “Joseph Lang? Anybody? Seriously?” We all fail to spontaneously know things. “Oh, this is great stuff. Goes right back to the founding of MI37 itself in 1935. The whole discovery of The Book at the peak of Mount Everest, its revelations about the existence of multiple realities, plus bonus details how to access them. It’s the book that triggered the whole magical arms race of the seventies and eighties. Big deal. But the expedition to Everest—”
“Wait,” Hannah interrupts. “Everest weren’t climbed until Edmund Hillary in the fifties.”
“Exactly,” Clyde nods.
Hannah gives Clyde the perplexed stare that I thought I owned the copyright on.
“You see,” Clyde says, “the actual first expedition was in 1933, but because of the discovery of The Book, it was all hushed up. Stymied Himalayan exploration for years actually. A not much talked about consequence in the annals of magical history in fact. I considered writing a treatise on it once, but the problem with magical treatises is that they’re usually only read after you’ve died by the people ransacking your tomb. In fact, the whole publishing track in thaumaturgy is disastrous, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there, really. The point is that Joseph Lang was part of that original 1933 expedition.”
And that actually gets my attention. “Joseph Lang was involved in the founding of MI37?” I glance over at Felicity. This looks like it’s news to her as well.
“Oh yes, very much so. The Germans at that time were hugely into the whole occult thing.”
“Wait—” It’s Hannah again, apparently unable to let Clyde’s words just flow. “At that time? You mean, like, when the Nazis were oppressing the shit out of everybody, right?”
Clyde beams. “I do! Top marks. Oh wait, that’s horribly condescending. Scratch that from the record. But totally what I mean. Because that’s really the whole problem here. You see, while fundamental to the discovery of The Book, and the founding of MI37, Joseph Lang was also a hideous, hideous, bigoted arsehole of a Nazi. Terrible human being in almost every conceivable way actually. Brilliant thaumatophysicist, but that’s about all the positive things that can be said about him. He was kicked out of the organization in 1938 due to the whole brewing war thing. Plus the arsehole thing, I hope.”
“So MI37 was founded by a Nazi?” Hannah looks decidedly unimpressed. I would like to be able to take umbrage at this, but unfortunately I’m unimpressed with MI37 right now too.
“Well,” Clyde shrugs a
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