Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables by Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett

In moments, she had chewed her waythrough every morsel on the table, bones and all, and she emptied the kettle in one long gulp. Vasyl was glad he had already eaten—the witch didn’t leave behind a single tendon or bit of gristle. And when she was done, she was as thin as ever.
    “Tomorrow,” Baba Yaga said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “you’ll finish my weaving for me.”
    Vasyl shot a glance at the enormous loom in the corner and the tangled mess that spilled out of it. Had his mother taught Broom to weave? He couldn’t remember. Vasyl himself certainly didn’t know how. His hand tightened around the bloody bandage and he swallowed.
    “All right,” he said uneasily. “How’s the mechanical coming?”
    “Glad you asked. I need your…input.”
    “Input?” The word was unfamiliar to Vasyl. “What do you mean?”
    In answer, Baba Yaga flung the door to her workshop open and gestured for Vasyl to follow her inside. Vasyl hesitated. No one had ever seen the inside of Baba Yaga’s workshop and lived to tell the tale. Why was she bringing him in? To kill him? On the other hand, if she wanted to do that, she could do it at any time. And curiosity pulled him forward. Baba Yaga’s workshop would be a place of wonder. He took a breath and stepped through the open door.
    A wave of heat met him, and an alarm bell clanged. Vasyl flung his hands over his ears.
    “Oops,” Baba Yaga said, and shouted something Vasyl didn’t catch. The bell stopped. “Alarm goes off whenever anything living enters my workshop, so don’t get any ideas about swiping a souvenir.”
    “Uh…sure.” Vasyl was sweating now. The source of the heat was a forge that squatted like a demon in the center of the huge room. An anvil floated before it, and nearby sat the huge brass pestle and metal mortar with its strange engines mounted on the back. Two kegs of what Vasyl assumed was fuel waited nearby, and Vasyl nervously wondered why Baba Yaga would store something flammable so close to her forge.
    Stone worktables of varying heights were scattered everywhere, including the walls, ceiling, and floor. Racks of gleaming tools stood among them, also clinging to the walls and ceiling. Vasyl turned, trying to look everywhere at once. Every table was covered with machines, cogs, pistons, and parts. Brass gleamed, steam puffed, and sparks spat. An army of mechanical spiders skittered about every surface, some of them making adjustments to the half-built machinery, others delivering bits and parts. Vasyl dodged a trio of them carrying the head of a mechanical St. Bernard. A tall metal arch in one corner glowed, while the interior flickered through a dozen scenes—jungle, desert, forest, ocean. Through it all, a rhythmic thump thudded against Vasyl’s bones.
    “The hut is dancing again,” Baba Yaga said at his elbow, and Vasyl jumped. “Over here, boy.”
    “What are you building?” Vasyl asked as they threaded their way through the workshop.
    “Negative entropy.” She stepped on a wall and walked up it, still upright, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. Vasyl came with her, and the room lurched. The floor he had just left became the wall behind him, and the wall ahead of him became the floor. His stomach oozed with nausea.
    “Don’t barf,” Baba Yaga warned, and led him to a particular table. It sported a garishly complicated set of machinery. Coils of copper leaped over bent pipes and exposed wire in impossible patterns. Switches and dials festooned a large control panel at the head of the table and thrummed with enticing rhythm. Tiny tongues of lighting flicked across the entire array. Vasyl stared, fascinated.
    “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where’s the mechanical?”
    Baba Yaga glanced about. “Where’s your broom?”
    “You’re going to make
Broom
think for himself?”
    “He’s halfway there already, boy. It’s faster than starting from scratch.”
    Vasyl blinked several times.