Sky City (Chap. 1-4)

PROLOGUE
It was still dark when the detective from MCA arrived at the Greenhouse District. He would have preferred to wait till daylight to begin but knew he faced the possibility of losing evidence should he delay any longer. He gave silent thanks that at least the building had been harvested. Searching for clues through bushels of crops in full bloom under the cover of darkness would only have made matters worse. And then there was the fog. Growing crops at this altitude was no small feat. The heating grates that lined the floors of the greenhouses pushed a constant flow of steam providing the zone with warmth, humidity, and the unfortunate by-product of a thick layer of fog. A criminal couldn't ask for better cover and it was a wonder that the crime rate of these zones was relatively low. He hadn't visited an agricultural sector since his childhood, but was not surprised that very little had changed about the area. The areas designated for food production have always had the same basic needs. Row after row of the low lying buildings created an odd juxtaposition against the skyline of the metropolis which stood shining against the night less than a mile behind him. Building 5 resembled an ant hill as a steady stream of officers entered and exited its main door. Like a moth to the flame, he followed the feeble light of the portable gas lanterns set up by the local Ministry grunts who now mulled around the sawhorse barricades.
"This way, Sir." The voice of an officer standing around the makeshift perimeter beckoned to the detective. As he approached, the scene came into focus through the shrouded dark. The paltry lighting accentuated the horrors that had transpired there by casting long, flat shadows that melded into the surrounding murk. Even in this tenebrosity he had no doubt that this was the work of his man. The brass framework of the victim's exposed skeleton lay sprawled out on the ground. The left leg was bent into a flexed position, one arm laid across the chest, and the other projected straight out from the body in the direction of a nearby barn as if the deceased were trying to point out his killer. Light glinted off the shiny metal and the fluids that still clung to it in some places. Underneath the prostrate body a puddle of oily gore drying on the ground twinkled cheerfully in the moonlight that filtered through the building's glass ceiling. The detective noted the deceased's newly flayed skin and underlying tissues arranged neatly around their corresponding body parts. Everything save the face and scalp which had yet to be located. He ignited his own smaller lantern and knelt down next to the metal skeleton. For a moment he found himself marveling at the intricacies of the machine. The lack of skeletal muscles, replaced by gears and pistons. A sharp sympathy pain in his knee brought him back to the task at hand. He forced his eyes to move upwards till they rested on the small boiler located in the center of the thorax. He slipped on his leather gloves and ran the tip of his index finger over the slippery metal surface until it successfully palpated what he was searching for: A tiny hole just to the left of the boiler's center. It's diameter was no larger than that of a pencil. Seeming satisfied with this information he continued his search in the superior direction. The brass skull with its still socketed eyes probed the depths of the starry firmament with an unblinking stare. The detective ran his hand around the top of the exposed metal and confirmed the thought box had been removed per his suspicions. He motioned to the tall Ministry grunt beside him who responded by pulling a small note pad and pen from his chest pocket. The detective began his dictation in a monotone voice making sure to enunciate to avoid having to repeat himself.
"Time of death was approximately three to four a.m. The victim, as of yet, still unidentified, was approached from behind. There is a single stab wound to the chest indicating the killer was left handed. The weapon was most likely a stiletto or similar small knife. Decompression in the victim's boiler caused loss of motor function, which would render the victim helpless while the suspect skinned the victim. The victim's 'thought box' has been entirely removed suggesting the killer had some anatomical knowledge regarding Clockworks. 'Thought box' removal ensured that death would be irreversible. All removed tissues have been arranged around the deceased save the face and scalp, which have yet to be recovered."
The detective interrupted his commentary to inquire of a grunt who was intently dusting the area for prints if he "had found anything yet?"
The man just looked at the detective with bleary eyes, shook his head, and returned to his work. Suddenly yells of excitement erupted from the outside of the building. A young officer, his face wrought with surprise and terror came sprinting up to the perimeter.
"Detective!",he spluttered, "You need to see this!"
The detective rose quickly to his feet and followed his young guide outside to a storage structure not more than 100 feet away. When they rounded the building the first thing he noticed was a shaggy looking mass of dark hair that seemed to be floating in midair. As they closed the distance he could see it was not floating nor was it simply hair. They had found the victim's missing face. The pale skin of the disembodied visage hung limply like a rubber mask on the handle of the pitchfork upon which it had been set. Its black voids for eyes stared at the gob-struck officers in disdainful mockery.
"Bloody hell...", one of the cadets muttered in awe and disgust.
"Sir, have a look", said another as he shined his lantern along the wall of the building standing behind the gruesome totem. The detective joined him and added his light. Large, streaky red letters glimmered in the torchlight.
"LIFE BELONGS TO THE LIVING", read the officer holding the lantern. "What do you make of it, Sir?"
The detective didn't answer. He ran his glove across one of the letters and scrutinized the residue that came away on his hand . It looked red and slick. Much like...
"Blood?", asked the officer.
The detective shook his head. "Have a sample sent to the lab."
A blinding flash of light burned his eyes and left black spots floating through his vision.
The Ministry photographer had set up his camera on its tripod and commenced with his duty just as the sun breached the eastern horizon. With antipathy the detective turned to cross the fields pulling down his bowler to shield his eyes from the onslaught of the new day.



CHAPTER 1
Detective Mulligan avoided the gangway and made the short jump off the deck of the airship Salvation to the cobblestone dock of the skycity. He issued a quick hiss of pain upon impact and silently cursed his clockwork knee replacement. "The damn thing never has worked quite right", he thought angrily. "'Just like new' my ass." Straightening himself and summoning as much dignity as he could muster, he raised his eyes toward the gleaming skyline of the city backlit by the setting sun. The fading light assaulted his eyes forcing him to use his goggles to shield them. For a fleeting moment his heart leapt at the sight, but was quickly weighed down at the thought of the task that lay before him. "Archer is going have my head on this one", he thought bitterly. Ignoring the pain still lingering in his knee, Mulligan made his way to the airdock's parking structure in which he had parked his steamcycle a week earlier. The cycle's copper boiler glistened happily in the last vestiges of daylight. "Damn, I hope the fuel is still good", he grumbled to himself, "I don't need anymore problems." At the push of the starter his fears were waylaid as the flint sparked the coal in the boiler's furnace. The little boiler's fire started and the engine began chugging, slowly at first, but with a couple of pushes of the choke the bellows fanned the flames into a roaring blaze and the engine's rpm's responded in kind. When the pressure gauge hit green, he shifted the bike into gear and tore down the bumpy road that ran dangerously close to the precipice. In the gloom of dusk he could just barely make out the billowing black clouds covering the earth's surface below.

Commandant Frederich Archer looked wrung-out. His already pale skin, if possible, took on an even more anemic appearance. He leaned his head against his palm, eyes closed, pushing his thinning, sandy hair askew. Mulligan looked at him with equal feelings of pity, respect, and discomfort knowing what was coming. Slowly Archer opened his eyes, straightened his spectacles, and began to speak: "What do you think I should do, James?"
His voice was flat, almost entirely devoid of emotion.
Expecting a monumental dressing down, the question caught Mulligan off guard as it was, no doubt, intended to. "Pardon, Sir?"
"If you were in my position, what would you do?"
"Here it comes", thought Mulligan.
"It’s been Three months. Three Goddamn months, Three 'arties' destroyed, and still no solid leads, am I correct?"
Though Mulligan was no Clockwork activist, he found the slur chaffing.
"Well.."
Archer interrupted, the expected emotion now rising rapidly in his speech, "Three months, damnit! Do you want me to take you off the investigation? We've got plenty of other agents who would be more than happy to take it. Pennywhistle's been chomping at the bit to get on this one."
Mulligan grimaced at the name. Pennywhistle was a young upstart detective trying to make a name for himself. A bit of a know-it-all and definitely a schmoozer but he had some skills, which only served to stoke the fires of Mulligan's dislike of the man. It didn't help that he constantly hassled him about hiring a Clockwork nor that he had given Mulligan the interoffice nickname "Squeaky".
"Please, Sir, I think if you'll read my report you can see that..."
"I already have. It's the same bloody thing all over again. The skinned artie, the disembodied face, and another blasted message painted on the wall. What it doesn't say anything about is a suspect. I'm giving you one more week," the intensity in the commandant’s voice gave way to a tone of sadness. "James, please...no one blames you for what happened to Roger. I have faith in you, but I'm afraid we are running out of time. This whole situation is on the verge of revolt and I have a lot of pressure from the top to close this one soon. I need my detective on this one. All of him."
"I won't let you down sir," Mulligan replied, doubting himself as he said it.

Archer's voice caught him from behind as he swung the door open to leave. "How's the knee treating you?" The statement was created from genuine concern, but it still stung all the same.
"It's been better, Sir."
"Perhaps you had better stop by Joshua's office on the way out"



CHAPTER 2
Dr. Joshua Drakolisk's office was conveniently located in the basement of the MCA building. It was from here that he operated his private practice while carrying out his duties as Primary Coroner for the Crown. Officially, it was said, his office was in the basement because the slightly cooler temps aided in the preservation of the bodies he was required to inspect and retain until they could be assigned to eternal rest. Unofficially it was because no one could stomach the onslaught to the senses created by the nature of such work. Even Mulligan, who had been exposed to similar things on a regular occasion, felt a certain chill every time he paid the doctor a visit. It came as no surprise to him that the place had earned the moniker "the catacombs". Because of its subterranean location, there were no windows. Instead the long room was illuminated by gas lanterns which were suspended from the low ceiling over the elevated stone slabs (some of which were occupied) that jutted in regular intervals from either wall. The door on the far end of the room led to the doctor's office in which Mulligan now sat. In keeping with the theme, the office itself was repository of the bizarre. The walls were painted a deep shade of red. Tacked to them were a battery of the usual documents of certification and anatomical posters, as well as several graphic photographs related to cases in which the doctor was currently involved. The desk held a collection of sample pieces of clockwork based transplant hardware. Mulligan had often thought, as he did now, that he wouldn't bother coming here if it weren't for Dr. Drakolisk's immense skill and brilliant bedside manner. Of course, the complimentary treatment he received as a ministry employee also helped.
At the present, Mulligan gave a silent thanks as his unpleasant deliberations were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, James. Just had some ministry business to attend to, you know how it is." The man seemed positively flustered. His wild white bushy hair looked more disheveled than usual and his complexion, though normally ruddy, was almost completely flushed. James had never asked how old Drakolisk was, but at a guess he would say around 50. Today, for some reason, he looked 10 years older.
"Heh", James laughed, "had you kept me waiting in this dungeon you call an office any longer, I'd have thought you didn't like me."
The doctor chuckled heartily, "Now James, it's not like I enjoy it down here anymore than you."
"Somehow I doubt that", said James with a sly grin.
"You may be right, my boy. You're friends with someone for 5 years and suddenly they know you.
Now what can I do for you today. No, wait, let me guess. The knee is acting up, am I correct?"
Of course he was correct as this was the reason James stopped by on a near-weekly basis.
"I'm afraid so", said James. "Such bothersome technology. Honestly I'm surprised there are any Clockworks up and walking around today."
"Now, now, James", contested Drakolisk, "If it wasn't for such 'bothersome technology' as you put it, it would be you who wouldn't be walking today. Or perhaps there is another reason the knee troubles you so much?" Dr. Joshua conjectured correctly, but James was too proud to openly admit he saw the contraption as a reminder of the events which necessitated the need for a transplant to begin with.
James laughed off the doctor's inferences, "I wasn't aware you had your psychology degree, Joshua. Honestly, the damn thing has been catching and squealing like a rusty hinge."
"All right. Why don’t you hop up on the table and we will have a look."
A few moments later James was seated on the leather top examination bed with his pant leg rolled above the offending articulation. The metal joint sparkled in the light of the inspection lamp. Drakolisk hunched down until his face was inches from the knee. He flipped various maglenses in front of his spectacles and scrutinized the medley of metal for several awkwardly silent minutes.
"It’s a shame we were never able to replicate Clockwork optical tech. Perhaps I could have had my eyes replaced", the doctor laughed. "Oh, hold on, I think I see the problem."
He turned around to rummage in his black tool bag and returned with a small screwdriver.
"It looks like one of the collateral stability screws may have been torqued a bit too much", he speculated while giving the screw in question a few small turns to the left. "You've been oiling it like I told you?"
"Of course", lied James who did not feel up to another lecture at this moment.
"Ah, that should do it. Give it a try", John said as he took a few steps back to give Mulligan room. James swung his leg out straight a few times with ease.
"Looks like you've cured me, Doc."
"Always a pleasure, my boy. Is there anything else I can do for you?" The doctor asked as he put his instruments away. James paused as he rolled down his pant leg. He had been hoping for a while to pick Dr. Drakolisk's brain, but was fearful he may appear ignorant. However, time was not on his side and he knew he may not get a better chance.
"Actually there is. I have a few questions about Clockworks that I was hoping you could help answer."
Dr. Joshua dropped his bulk into the high backed leather chair behind his desk with a grunt and gestured to the one on the other side of the desk.
"You've come to the right place. What's on your mind?"
James nervously cleared his throat. "I'm specifically curious about clockwork anatomy..."
"Hmm, I see. Would this have anything to do with the recent murders you've been investigating?"
James smiled. "Perhaps it is you who should be the detective, Josh."
"Very droll. Fire away, my friend."
James paused once again wondering where to begin. Though he had always felt Clockworks to be machines, human looking machines, but machines none the less, his latest interactions with Lucy had created some uncertainty in his mind. Uncertainty which he felt he must resolve.
"In your professional opinion, would you say the Clockwork is more human or machine?"
To this Drakolisk seemed amused, "What an odd question. Not one that I haven't given thought to. Of course, empirically speaking, they are machines.."
At once James felt foolish that he ever doubted his own logic, but then the doctor continued, "However, they were created in a very analogous manner to humans. So much like us, yet so different you might say. It almost seems they blur the line between man and machine to such a degree that I would go so far as to assign them their own race: 'Vir in apparatus'."
"Man in the machine?" Now it was James turn to be amused. "Why Josh, I had no idea you were such a philosopher."
"Heh, you jest, detective, but you asked my opinion and now you have it."
James fretted he may have pushed the doctor's good nature too far. "Indeed, my apologies, Joshua. Please, when you say 'analogous', could you elaborate?"
Much to his relief, Drakolisk gave a nod and smile. "Certainly, my boy. What I mean to say is that our automaton friends share similar structures in their physical make-up. Take for instance the human skeleton. It provides us with support and protection. The Clockwork framework is nearly identical but made of metal rather than bone. We have muscles that facilitate our locomotion, they have a complex system of pistons and gears. They have a thoracic rib cage, like us, to protect the more precious organs, but rather than a heart and lungs, they have a boiler and bellows if they've upgraded. Most curious the integumentary system. As it is with us, it provides the Clockworks with a cloak of protection. Unlike us, it is not made of skin as we know it. Oddly you couldn't tell the difference by touch alone, but microscopic examination has told us otherwise. It's just too bad we couldn't duplicate that either. Perhaps, in time, science will reveal those mysteries as well."
Though James was enjoying the lesson, he had a sneaking suspicion Joshua could go on like this for hours. He made an attempt to steer the conversation towards the answer he sought most.
"And what of their brain, Doc?"
"Ah yes, the elusive 'thought box', as it is known. It is theorized that it may be animated by the phenomenon of Electricity. Though we don't fully understand the technology, it is believed to house the controls for the feelings, desires, and logic of the humanoid. The 'soul' if you will."
"And if the thought box is destroyed, the Clockwork ceases to be?"
"Exactly! Unlike our brains, the thought box does not die if the body loses power. However, if the thought box is physically destroyed, then likewise so is the soul." Drakolisk spread his hands in a gesture of finality.
"You said the thought box houses feelings and desires. It is my understanding that a mere machine cannot have such things."
"And yet they do! Sadly we do not understand how. The whims of their Creator I suppose. It seems he wasn't interested in simply creating a beast of burden. Perhaps he wanted his creations to be able to experience and enjoy the life they were given to the fullest. What intrigues me most is though they all seem capable of individual thought, they all share one common desire; that of 'The Purpose', as they call it."
James couldn't help but smile. "I'm familiar with the concept."
Drakolisk once again discerned James' thoughts and replied, "You are referring to Lucy, I take it? I must commend you for taking her on. No doubt you have received much vexation for such a decision."
James gave a wave of dismissal. "Actually she does a tremendous job. And I can't say I don't appreciate the company."
"And I thank you for bringing me a new patient. Strangely my private practice hasn't exactly flourished in this environment", Joshua said with a grin. "When you see her next, please let her know she is due for her six month tune up, will you?"



CHAPTER 3
The journey home was a cold one. At this altitude the rain was almost always freezing and made for a most wet and uncomfortable ride. The trip would be treacherous, if it were not for the city-wide climate control system. Far below the city streets the giant boilers pumped steam out of the grates that lined either side of the cobblestone roads which prevented the precipitation from turning into an icy shroud. But after spending the last week investigating the murder in New United Kingdom South, such marvelous technology seemed almost trivial, and even the bitterness of the cold could not deter him from his introspection. Detective James Mulligan had never possessed a fondness for the clockworks. He didn't hate them as some did, rather he just never considered them more than machines. At least that's the way he thought until his knee replacement. And then of course there was Lucy. Ever since then he felt a sort of affinity for their plight in spite of his careful logic. He certainly didn't think they deserved what had happened to them at the hands of the "Clockwork Slayer." "'Slayer'," Mulligan said the word aloud then laughed bitterly. "How can you kill that which was never truly alive in the first place? Archer was right, though", Mulligan thought. The whole city is filled with tension to the point of bursting. And if something wasn't done soon the delicate order of the city they fought so hard to maintain would surely be destroyed. The Clockworks, it seemed, had some powerful allies as well as enemies. A minority of the population had banded together under the banner of equality. Most of the groups were benign, simply spreading their message through protests and pamphlets, demanding the clockworks be given equal standing with humankind. However, as it is in all groups of purpose, there were a few extremists who would use violence as their means. Most recently this malignant sect had accused the M.C.A. of turning a blind eye to the clockwork slayings and threatened violence at the skyports if the situation wasn't resolved in a timely manner. Thus Detective Mulligan found himself under great pressure to apprehend the so called "Clockwork Slayer" and to do it quickly.

As he pulled up to the two story stone townhouse Mulligan called home, he found the sight a balm to his injured soul. The warm glow of an oil lamp flickered merrily in the front window in contrast to the steely sky's rain which poured off the slate shingled roof in sheets. Mulligan was met with a brief moment of elation as he stepped over the threshold and into the warm embrace of the foyer where, Lucy, his live-in clockwork maid greeted him.
"Good evening Mr. Mulligan", she chirped in her soft voice, "may I take those wet things for you?"
"Yes, Lucy, thank you," said Mulligan handing over his woolen brown coat, and black bowler. Lucy had only been in his service for three months, but he couldn't remember how he got along without her. He laid his gloves, goggles, and service pistol on the side table in the foyer. He couldn't help but admire the weapon as he had many times before. It was something of an antique. Given to him by his grandfather, the pistol was purportedly one of the last weapons crafted by the Sakai Weapons Manufacturer before the ascension. Like most ancient Japanese weaponry, the device was not only a functional firearm, it was also a work of art. Inlaid Mother of pearl in a vine motif ran the length of the incredibly rare rosewood grip. The pistol, originally designed to be a wheellock, had been radically altered to function as a modern pressurized weapon. It could hold up to 10 shots and fire as many as 30 on a single charge. Not quite up to the 50 of the average handgun of the day, but Mulligan didn't care. When hassled by the Ministry Master of Arms on the firing range, he would simply reply he hoped to never have to fire 30 shots let alone 50.
"I hope you don’t mind, Sir, but I've taken the liberty of lighting a fire," said Lucy from the sitting room where she was hanging his effects on a rack near the fireplace to dry.
"I don't know what I would do without you, Lucy", he said with a smile.
As the cold vacated his body, the fatigue of the last week rushed in to fill the void. An involuntary shiver racked Mulligan's body.
"Lucy, could you draw me a hot..."
"bath?", the Clockwork broke in. "I have one already prepared for you."
Mulligan stood speechless for a moment, stunned by the caretaker's efficiency and near telepathic abilities. "How strange," he thought, "that a machine could be so in tune with the needs of a human."
"Thank you, Lucy" he said, unable to keep the flustered tone from his reply. But Lucy just smiled, gave a short nod of the head, and made for the kitchen. Mulligan, still awestruck, stood physically rooted to the spot, watching her as she left. His mind was left to roam free for a moment and, at the present, began to question why clockworks were gender specific. It was not the first time the question had floated impromptu into the stream of his thoughts, but as with each time before, the query was swept away before an adequate explanation could be proffered. Despite this, he still found Lucy's retreating form to be of feminine shape nonetheless. Her impeccably polished, black high heeled boots, knee length pressed black woolen skirt, and black silken tights filled out by her shapely legs. The hint of breast which pushed out the front of her charcoal gray sweater that covered her white ruffled neck linen shirt. The long black curls which fell just below her collar and shimmered as if they possessed a light source all their own. Everything about her screamed woman, and yet she was not. Only her eyes betrayed her Clockwork origins. But even they held a unique beauty that he found alluring. He mentally cursed himself for not weighing the good doctor's opinion on the matter. Lucy's voice came as a melody from the kitchen wresting Mulligan's mind from his musings.
"Dinner will be served in an hour, if that is okay, Mr. Mulligan?"
"Yes, Lucy. Thank you, and please, call me 'James'."

The gas light in the bathroom hissed its one note song. Mulligan un-shouldered his suspenders and let his brown woolen pants drop to the tile floor. Slowly he began to unbutton his mud spattered shirt while he regarded his visage in the mirror. The harsh light flushed out his face giving his reflection a sallow appearance. The man who stared back at him looked to be around 30 and of a slender build. His chestnut colored hair, which normally was coifed, now hung lazily about his face like a wet mop. Though he was several days out from his last shave, the thin facial hair that ran the length of his well-defined jawline was hardly visible. He tried to ignore the lines the anxiety caused by Rosilyn's sudden departure had etched into his forehead. It was a face Mulligan felt he hardly recognized and yet knew all too well. He gave a defeated sounding sigh before turning down the gas light. Though it initially seemed a bit too hot, when Mulligan had finally submerged himself in the claw-footed porcelain tub, he found the temperature to be pleasant and he felt the tribulations of the past week recede as he slid into the water's comforting embrace.



CHAPTER 4
Mulligan walked down the dark alley, his gun drawn. The murky corridor looked as common place and benign as any, but somehow, he could sense something was wrong. A quick check of his pistol confirmed a ball was in the chamber. Feeling reassured he proceeded forward unable to distinguish anything distinctly through the dark and fog. After several yards a shadowed figure bloomed out of the blackness. It was humanoid in shape and seemed to be in a prone position. Mulligan took aim and yelled, "Don't move!" at the motionless figure. No response came to his command. He took a few more steps towards his target.
"help..me..."
The words came in a whisper from his left. With a start he spun training his weapon to the source of the sound and, much to his trepidations, found it. Lucy's wan face hung suspended in air. Devoid of expression, its eyeless sockets stared into the space occupied by the now petrified detective. Unspeakable horror washed over him as her mouth moved like a puppet's, independent of any visible control.
"help..me.."
Before he could react, something stirred in his peripheral vision to the right. He turned to meet it, but was too late as the headless corpse swung the knife towards Mulligan's eye.

James bolted upright with a splash. His hand reached futilely for his face attempting to fend off the specter. From somewhere he heard Lucy faintly singing. The water had grown tepid. Mulligan quickly grabbed the white terry cloth towel beside the tub and wrapped it around him. Still shaking from the dream and the cold he stumbled to his bedroom down the hall. He sat on the bed for a few moments to get a hold of himself before using the towel to carefully dry the knee. Then, after recalling Dr. Drakolisk's admonishments, he took great pains to oil it as instructed. He put on his maroon silk pajamas that Lucy had laid out for him and made his way down the creaking wooden stairs to the sitting room. The fire still crackled warmly, although much less fervently. He went to the handsome mahogany wood buffet and poured himself a glass of gin before slumping onto the red velvet couch in front of the fireplace. Mulligan stared into the fire hoping to divine his answers from the dancing flames. Even the savory smells of dinner which tantalized his nose could not budge his mind from the questions that tore at it like a pack of wild dogs.
"Dinner is ready, Sir."
Mulligan almost dropped his glass as he was so engrossed in thought he had not even noticed Lucy had entered the room.
"Mmhmm, yes, thank you, Lucy", he managed upon recovering. He found it hard to look at her as he was still trying to shake the haunting vision of her disembodied face.
"You're welcome", came the cheery response, and she turned as if to go back to the kitchen.
"Lucy, wait."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Can I ask you a question?", he said and patted the vacant space on the sofa next to him.
"Of course, Mr. Mulligan", she said with a smile. She sat on the sofa, turned slightly towards him. She seemed so demure yet approachable wearing an expression which James could only describe as concerned optimism on her delicate features. Once again Mulligan saw a flash of woman in the machine and quickly looked down into his glass of gin afraid that he may start believing such illogical nonsense. He struggled for a few moments trying to rephrase his question into different variations before finally settling on "Is it true that Clockworks have emotions?"
The question sounded so ignorant he was worried it may have blundered into the realm of the offensive, but to his relief Lucy gave a tinkling laugh.
"Oh, Mr. Mulligan. You want to know if we can experience the biochemical human phenomenon called 'emotions'? No, of course not."
The statement could have been derisive, but Lucy's matter-of-fact, upbeat tone dismissed any such notions.
She continued, "However, we have been provided with the ability to emulate many such emotions to help facilitate our acceptance into human society as was deemed necessary by our Creator."
"So you 'feel' things you would describe as love, hate, happiness, anger...fear?"
Lucy sat quietly for a moment of contemplation before responding, "I would say so, as the situation dictates."
"And would you say these feelings are similar to a human's response to a given situation?"
"That is difficult to say, Mr. Mulligan. I can no more tell what goes on inside a human than one human can from the next."
The observation caught James by surprise, but seemed true enough given the subjective nature of an individual's experience. Having laid the ground work, he decided it was time to satisfy his curiosity.
"Lucy, have you heard about this business with the 'Clockwork Slayer'?" He felt himself staring into her eyes as he asked the question hoping to catch the faintest glimmer of emotional response, but he hadn't needed to. In return she did something she had not done in the three months James had known her: she frowned. It was something of a shock to see the corners of her mouth turned down, her brow furrowed. Even her voice had changed tones, taking on a flatness Mulligan had never heard from her before.
"Yes Sir," she said in hushed tones, "very nasty business, indeed."
James felt a bit remorseful as he pressed on with his line of questioning. "When you think about this 'Clockwork Slayer', would you say you feel... 'afraid'?"
"The prime directive of any Clockwork is self-preservation. The 'Clockwork Slayer' would be considered a direct threat to that so, yes, I would say the situation calls for the emotion know as fear." Her demeanor had become so despondent that James was seized by a yearning to comfort her and apologize for his insensitivity. But before he could put thought into action, Lucy's eye had risen to meet his. The carefree smile had returned. "Shall I finish dinner, Mr. Mulligan?", she asked.
"Oh. Yes, of course. And Lucy?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Please call me 'James'."
She smiled warmly before replying, "Very good, James." And with that, she turned towards the kitchen leaving Mulligan alone to commune with the flames once more.
Though he felt his knowledge was still lacking, the conversation had left him with a better understanding of Lucy and all Clockwork-kind. By instilling them with emotions, the Clockwork creator had provided them with an effective tool to incite human empathy thus further safeguarding their chances of survival in society. Making them human in appearance and gender specific seemed like a stroke of genius to Mulligan, who now could see why they had such staunch support from certain elements of the community. Conversely, he wondered how others could be as equally as venomous. For every organization which supported the Clockworks, it seemed there was one that opposed them. Of course, it didn't help that the Clockworks had been steadily increasing the price of coal. This was one of the main reasons it was frowned upon to mix with the automaton population on any level as in many a mind it had created an us versus them conflict. Certainly, some of it stemmed from old prejudices passed on from one generation to the next. To understand such irrational hatred, Mulligan realized he would have to delve deeper into the Clockwork record. He resolved to do some research after dinner.

They sat down to eat at the opposite ends of the long kitchen table as had become their routine. Lucy gave a short supplication to the Clockworks' human Creator, Ayumu, as all Clockworks did. Mulligan was thoroughly bemused by the custom, but, being a tactful man, never said so lest he offend. Upon finishing, she commenced in her dainty way to spoon bits of coal from the bowl in front of her to her mouth being ever so careful to not spill any on her dress. Such an enigma she was to him. It seemed to him that she had materialized from the ether. A machine in possession of beauty and grace that would put most mortals to shame. She drew from a well of kindness that seemed almost infinite. Mulligan found her easy going nature contagious and felt every second in her company was a pleasure. Yet, in spite of all of this, he knew very little about her. She had given a brief history of employment on her resume, but beyond that her past was a mystery. Age and name to a Clockwork were irrelative in the human realm. Most of them were approaching a century but showed no signs of aging, and their names were typically self-bestowed and often changed as the bearer saw fit. Some of them banded together under a surname in the pattern of a human family, but Lucy had not listed any other names at the time of her application, nor had she brought them up in their subsequent conversations. Mulligan felt torn between the detective in him who demanded answers and the civilized man who reminded him how it was impolite to pry.

"...something wrong, Mr. Mul..I mean, James?"
It quickly became painfully clear that he had been blankly staring across the table at her as he was delving into his thoughts. He promptly averted his eyes and felt his face flush, but as he looked at her once more to apologize he found her expression held no reproach.
"No. No everything is wonderful, thank you, Lucy."
He picked up his knife and fork and stared at them for a second as he regarded his distorted reflection in their silver luster.
"James?", Lucy's voice sounded hesitant.
Mulligan's eyes rose to meet her own, but found her to be gazing at the bowl of coal that sat before her. Her hand had set the spoon down and now rested on the table.
"What is it, Lucy?", he asked trying not to let his imagination spawn what was coming next before Lucy had a chance to elucidate.
"I..just..", she began but broke off as if she were afraid to let herself voice the words she sought to speak. For his part Mulligan welcomed almost anything she might have to say. Those months spent eating his meals alone had brought a new appreciation for any conversation that might be shared during these simple moments of domesticity. And he was overjoyed to have found Lucy to be, at the very least, an interesting conversationalist. She had surprised him more than once with a question that the average person would find to be a bit 'out of the blue'.
"Lucy, I know you may feel that our relationship is too professional to ask questions of a personal nature, but let me put all that to rest. I enjoy our conversations and I want you to feel that you can speak freely around me. Please ask what you'd like to know, and if it’s a question I can't answer I'll just decline to do so. Fair enough?'
Lucy nodded and let her copper eyes meet his own green ones.
"It's just that I've noticed you seem so sad sometimes. Can you tell me why she left?"
Mulligan wasn't completely surprised by the question, but he felt his cheeks flush all the same. If Lucy had a blush response perhaps hers would have done the same. James could make out the unmistakable sound of remorse in her voice as she quickly added, "I..m sorry, Mr. Mulli.. James. I shouldn't have asked that. I was out of.."
"No", said Mulligan firmly, raising his hand to cut off what would surely be an extensive apology. "I gave you explicit permission as I recall." He felt a smile creep onto his face in spite of the burning in his cheeks. He did not relish talking about such a painful subject, but at the same time he felt his intrigue grow. Here was someone that couldn't even truly be classed as human taking interest in his personal emotions. For some reason he suddenly felt more comfortable discussing the issue with his clockwork maid of the past three months than he did with any of his longtime acquaintances at work.
"Well, honestly I'm not completely sure, but", he began and then stopped, uncertain of how much she could possibly understand in the matter. "You have been around humans for a long time now, right?"
Lucy nodded.
"Then perhaps you have occasionally seen examples of what we humans term 'love'."
Lucy nodded once more but said nothing. Mulligan tried to ignore how unnerving it was to have those shining copper eyes boring into him, hungry for what he might say next.
He cleared his throat and went on. "Love is like.. a fire. Sometimes it takes some effort to get it started and sometimes it erupts suddenly, with great fury. But once it gets started it merrily burns spreading warmth and happiness to those who bask in it." Mulligan stopped for a moment hoping that his analogy didn't sound too ridiculous, but Lucy showed no indication of contempt, so he pressed on. "However like all fire it'll eventually start to die if you don't feed it fuel. I think that was the problem, perhaps I should have stoked the fires more. But I guess I couldn't tell there was a problem until it was too late. You see, the embers still burned inside me, but they must have gone out inside of her. I'm afraid in my complacency I failed to notice.."
"But Mr...I mean, James. Isn't everyone responsible for feeding their own flames, like I've been doing by eating this coal?"
Mulligan almost laughed at the childishness of the question. It looked to be as he feared: his explanation of a distinctly human problem couldn't penetrate her Clockwork sensibilities.
He couldn't help but smile at her as he said, "If only it were that simple, Lucy".
Lucy smiled back at him, unfazed by his dismissal of her suggestion. "May I speak freely once more, James?"
Mulligan could only wonder what might be coming next, so he simply replied, "Of course, Lucy".
"I still don't understand why she left you. I think you are a very kind person."
James could only sit in stunned silence. Once again she had caught him off guard. Could it be she was complimenting him? Was she expressing some kind of interest in him? He felt awkward, excited and happy all at once. He wanted to ask her more, but the moment had passed. Lucy had already resumed spooning bits of coal into her mouth. Mulligan's stomach reminded him that he had not put the knife and fork he still held in his hands to use. Not knowing what else to say, he dug into the pot pie that Lucy had prepared for him. Though it had grown somewhat cold, it still warmed his insides and tasted like manna after the past week of shoddy dining taken on the run. For a brief moment, Mulligan reveled in the feelings of peace and contentment that had been seemingly absent from his life for some time.