I huddled in an emergency tent somewhere south of Balmoral Castle in the Scottish Highlands. Curled on my side amidst the frozen grass, I felt like a featureless egg in some forgotten nest left to the ravages of winter. My army-issued canvas blanket flapped above me, strung up on poles to block the blizzard’s white wind. Nevertheless, gusts of snow burst through the flaps, stinging my exposed cheeks. Were the flakes still melting, or did the ice crystallize on my freezing skin? Until I checked, both realities would exist. I hated such indeterminate states, my too-many genitals making me one in society’s view. Untucking a hand from my uniform, I reached up to my cheek. Still supple, the skin smooth minus wispy patches of stubble that’d never filled in: a beard that was not a beard, ever the source of mockery now I’d passed my thirtieth birthday.
I won’t last in this blizzard. It was a hollow thought. Unfulfilled. An echo of me; this vacuum of potential. But what would happen to the letter I’d been dispatched to carry north to Balmoral? If I was doomed to die this night, I should write once more in my diary, so a future person could take up the duty from my frozen corpse.
With trembling hands, I dipped my freezing pen into its brass inkwell.
November 2nd, 1863
Storm impassible. Lost road south of Balmoral. Carry enclosed letter from Colonel Norcott to our Queen in greatest haste.
Lance Corporal Cecil Dryden
There. A record of my mission would pass into the future. I wouldn’t … which was fine — the future had always felt hostile to oddities like me.
Shoving my freezing hands into my red coat, I winced as they warmed. My makeshift tent shook and let in another burst of snow. I piled my backpack and gear over my torso, attempting to stave off the bitter wind. The light faded, leaving me in howling darkness. Winds like a pack of jubilant demons trying to get inside, to gawk at me, to pat my chest and groin in a vain attempt to classify my body. It was almost as bad as being in the city. My eyes closed, and I drifted into a black stupor.
But something changed.
Warmth bloomed in the air; the blizzard’s shriek disappeared; brilliant light glowed through the gaps in my makeshift tent.
I jerked upright. My backpack and toolkit tumbled to the ground, and I called, “Hello?”
“Come out!” A man’s voice, loud in the silence. “I want to chat.”
“… God?”
“You’re suffering hypothermia, not delusions. Come out of the tent!”
Woodenly, I crawled into the light. A sphere of perfect calm surrounded my tent, although snow raged in the darkness beyond. Stranger still, a wide hole pierced the air between two Scots Pines. Light and heat poured through the portal like ambrosia. My eyes adjusted, focusing. A man, leaning against a balcony. Behind him, glass buildings rose into a sky filled with elegant airships.
Weird! But beautiful and delightfully warm.
“My name’s Ephraim,” the man said. “Hurry, come closer. I’m not allowed to cross into your world, and we have little time.” He was short, slim, and wore a long brown coat. His brass-colored cane seemed entirely nonfunctional, flexing whenever he put weight on it. The stitching and material of his outfit were poorly crafted, as though he’d fashioned them himself with little care. He ate cookies from a shiny bag. A cascade of crumbs dropped down his front.
The sweet smell made me salivate; I hadn’t eaten in days.
Beside Ephraim was a brass octopus the size of a cat, wearing glass goggles and a top hat; the creature looked terribly frightened, scuttling nervously on its exquisitely crafted clockwork tentacles.
Amazing. I’d seen automatons, but nothing so lifelike. The two made an odd pair, with the octopus’ sophisticated craftsmanship far outclassing the man. I said, “What do you want?”
“To save your life. We found your diary. You die tomorrow morning, unable to locate Balmoral and deliver your letter in the blizzard.”
Creepy… but as plausible as a hole opening in the air, I supposed. Was I hallucinating?
The octopus anxiously twisted its tentacles and peered through the gateway — careful not to touch Ephraim. It noticed me watching, eyes going wide, the intricate brass irises expanding behind its goggles. It scurried out of view behind Ephraim, dragging one of its tentacles, which didn’t curl properly.
“That’s just Merriweather,” Ephraim said, following my gaze. He kicked the octopus away. “Pay him no mind. Useless thing. We have important matters to discuss. I’m saving your life, remember?”
‘Ephraim’ seemed as much an affectation as his strange clothes. I decided to call him Ephr, the phonetics of which gave me a bitter chuckle. He claimed I’d die tomorrow morning … “You’re from the future?”
He laughed and popped another cookie into his mouth. “In the simplest sense. But you wouldn’t recognize the planet I’m on. And the Hohmann timewell will close in less than a minute. I need to inject this syringe of Cry4 cryptochrome protein and nanites into your eyes.”
Was he speaking English? And inject what into my eyes? I took a step back.
“None of that! The letter you carry is of utmost importance. You’ll fail to deliver it without my aid, leaving an indelible mark on the future. War. Famine. Apocalypse.”
Behind him, a young couple embraced on the deck of an airship. The scene didn’t look very apocalyptic. However, I did believe the blizzard was only temporarily held at bay, and I’d likely die without aid. He was concealing something … but I had very little to lose. I approached within reach of the portal.
Ephr lunged, grabbing my face. He slapped a device like brass opera glasses over my eyes. Two sharp pricks; the whirr of actuators; a strange, turbulent flow inside my eyeballs like they held schools of tiny fish. The metal device pulled away.
I couldn’t see. Searing panic surged up my throat like bile. I shoved Ephr away and stumbled back. “What did you do?”
Another cookie crunched in front of me. The rapid clink, clink, clack of brass tentacles fluttered nearby. Ephraim said, “By tomorrow, you’ll be able to see magnetic fields using quantum entanglement. Like a migrating bird. But it’s time to close the portal; the rules of this game are very clear.”
My vision slowly returned, revealing his outline against the bright skyline. “Can you give me some food? It’d help me fulfill the mission.”
“Sorry, no can do. I’m not allowed to come through or leave behind any technology detectible by your civilization.”
Neither of those applies to food, you ratbag.
“Oh!” Ephr called as the portal shrank. “Historical records are unclear whether you were a man or a woman. Now that I’m here … well, which is it?”
I said nothing.
“Strong, silent type? A man! I was right, although the group will want concrete evidence to settle that side bet. Good luck tomorrow!” His portal winked out.
The blizzard slammed into me, more shockingly cold and dark for the brief reprieve. Scrambling into my makeshift tent, I heaped gear over myself, shivering violently.
Something cold and smooth squirmed against my legs.
I yelped and kicked.
The brass octopus, Merriweather, skittered into the corner, glowing faintly gold in the darkness. His wide eyes were enormously magnified by the goggles. He trembled, curling his clockwork tentacles around himself.
In a small voice, he said, “I’m sorry, but it’s terribly cold. I stole you a cookie.” He offered a perfectly round disk wafting the tantalizing aromas of cinnamon and sugar. “May I please lay with you?”
He speaks? There was no visible mouth … the sound seemed to project through pores in his bell-shaped body. “Why are you here?”
“Ephraim isn’t a nice man. I know it was against the rules, but …” Merriweather twisted his tentacles, looking bizarrely guilty for a machine. “Please?”
He did look rather cuddly, with his top hat and cleverly articulated limbs. “You’re metal. Why would you be so sensitive to cold?”
“Ephraim replaced my oil with a formula that seizes just a few degrees above human body temperature. It makes me more dependent. One of several alterations he forced upon me.”
Forced alterations … I shuddered and said, “He didn’t create you?”
“Goodness, no! My clockwork would neither clock nor work. He installed clumsy limiters after buying me.” Merriweather rotated to show his lame tentacle, snarled and useless. “Now I barely limp along.”
I looked closer at the brass linkages. A small plate bulged out of place, incorrectly reinstalled. “And you’d prefer to be fixed?”
“Yes, wouldn’t you?”
That’s certainly what society dictates. Fixed, defined. No … In my case, fixing involved alteration from my natural state. But I could respect his desire to return to his version of whole.
I accepted Merriweather’s cookie — it was absolutely delicious — and grabbed my toolkit. Foremost, I was a tinkerer. I’d invented several devices, including a full-torso corset with mechanical linkages the wearer could operate themselves.
With a nod from Merriweather, I used a set of flat turnscrews to pry up the panel. Underneath lay a wonderfully intricate network of sprockets and rods. Truly beautiful workmanship. In their midst were the tines of a steel fork, crudely jammed into the cogs to stop their rotation.
Ephr, you flapdoodle. I removed the impediment and carefully reassembled the octopuses’ brass plates.
“Oh my!” Merriweather flexed his tentacle, smoothly curling and rotating it. “Thank you ever so much!”
I nodded, shivering again, and tugged the backpack and gear over my legs.
Merriweather hopped from tentacle to tentacle. “May I please join you? The brass will be cold at first, but I produce some heat of my own … just not enough. Beneath a blanket, I’ll be like a toasty bed warmer.”
Interesting. If he produced heat, it might help us both make it through the night. I unbuttoned my coat. The little octopus squeaked and scuttled over, nestling against my chest. There was just enough loose fabric to close the uniform around Merriweather. And he was right; after a few minutes, he warmed up wonderfully.
“Ephr referred to you by the pronoun ‘he’,” I said. “Does that feel right to you?”
“I think I’m a he.” Merriweather snuggled close. “In my head, that’s what leaping sounds like. ‘Heee!’ Maybe for others leaping sounds like ‘sheee!’”
I’d never been much of a leaper. Especially at the moment … exhausted and holding an animated brass octopus. But I relaxed; with our combined heat it didn’t feel like I was about to die. At least not tonight.
• • •
I woke to the sound of grinding gears, just audible beneath the blizzard’s howl.
Merriweather trembled against my chest.
“Are you all right?” I asked. Unless I was much mistaken, his rasps were clockwork sniffles.
More grinding. “I’m fine. Just remembering Ephraim. He’s a very lonely person. I think he changed my oil so I’d have to cuddle with him for warmth. You’re much nicer … but is it weird for me to miss him?”
“No.” In my experience, such conflicted feelings were hardly strange.
I rose to check the weather conditions. Merriweather slid down to my leg, clutching it as I peered through the tent flap. Featureless white extended in every direction, the world hidden behind a veil of swirling snow. The Scots Pines loomed like formless ghosts, little more than outlines in the blank landscape. It was impossible to tell which direction was north. No wonder I’d died trying to reach Balmoral.
Merriweather shivered against my leg. “Can you see the planet’s magnetic field yet? Concentrate on the sky, feel for the lines.”
The ground and sky were indistinguishable, but I looked up at the vast, white expanse. Something was there. My mind slid around it, unable to focus.
“The stimulus is foreign,” the octopus said, “and needs to be integrated with the parts of your brain modified by the nanites. Have you seen the aurora borealis? Try picturing that.”
I’d seen the northern lights on plenty of occasions. They were abundantly colorful, but pinks and greens didn’t feel right today.
From that blank expanse emerged lines of dull gold, the color of Merriweather’s brass body, shimmering across the sky like ethereal pipes. They flowed ahead and to the right, northward, where I’d find the Queen to deliver the letter. And perhaps change my fate.
“Release my leg,” I said, packing my gear. “I can’t march through the snow like this.”
“I’ll die!” Merriweather said with a small squeak, casting horrified looks at the cold powder. “My oil will freeze, my parts will seize, and it’s still too soon …”
Too soon? To die in the general sense, or was he hinting at Ephraim’s hidden plans?
Merriweather trembled and gazed up at me with enormous eyes. There was manipulation in that look, like a cat crying with the voice of a small child. It would reduce my risk to leave this creature who was still bound to Ephr. But he was undeniably alive; I couldn’t let him freeze.
I needed my back free to carry the pack, and my limbs had to remain unencumbered to navigate through the brush. That left only one option.
With a sigh, I held Merriweather against my stomach. This would certainly complicate misconceptions about my sex. “Wrap your tentacles around my waist.” I disassembled the tent and tied the blanket over my torso, covering the delicate octopus. My pack went on last, securing the canvas sheet. A large bump protruded from my front like a pregnant belly.
Spasmodic grinding rumbled beneath the blanket. In a halting voice, Merriweather said, “You’re too good to me. There’s so much I wish I could tell you. But a locked tentacle and adulterated oil aren’t the only limiters Ephraim shackled me with.” The grinding grew louder. “Don’t … Trust … Bet … Fake.”
“Hush now,” I said. Ephr’s vazey plots were a secondary concern to dying in the storm. “We’ll sort it out in front of Balmoral’s hearths.”
I plowed through knee-high powder, hunched against the white wind, following the brass lines arcing overhead. Ice crystals bit my face, turning the skin numb. The clockwork octopus warmed my core, and whenever I fell to my knees, certain I couldn’t go on, he squeezed my middle, giving me the strength to rise.
A gap opened between the pines, and I stumbled onto a road. For a moment the swirling snow parted, revealing Balmoral’s towers beneath the brass lines. I could’ve wept, but I was far too cold.
Guards met me at the castle’s heavy door. They inspected my uniform and papers and passed me on to Mr. Brown.
“Good Lord, man,” Mr. Brown exclaimed, leading me down a dark green hallway. “Your belly has gotten out of hand. You look nearly pregnant!”
I said nothing and entered a wonderfully warm study with a roaring hearth. The room was entirely decorated in plaid and smelled of pinewood. A round-faced woman with heavy cheeks sat in a chair, reading. She wore a voluminous black dress, despite being at home. Her shrewd eyes narrowed when she saw me. “You have a letter for me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said. “From Colonel Norcott.”
“You are late.” She searched my face. “Give us a moment alone, John.”
“I will be right outside.” He bowed and left.
Why is the Queen giving me a private audience? I’d delivered letters to her before, but it was always a perfunctory experience.
“You are a queer creature,” Victoria said, “like a man and woman entangled. But I had my suspicions when we first met. This confirms them. No man fattens at the rate you display. Tell me the truth of your situation, woman to woman.”
Everyone claims my gender for their own. “It’s nothing so intriguing as pregnancy, ma’am.” I carefully dug in my breast pocket, trying to extract the letter without disturbing Merriweather’s blanket.
“TELL THE TRUTH!” the Queen shouted.
Merriweather let out a squeak and lost his grip. The clockwork octopus slid down my legs, plainly in sight of the queen. Victoria gasped.
“I’m happy to explain,” I said. “But please read this letter first, else disastrous consequences shall befall the future.”
“N-No!” Merriweather clanged to the floor. His tentacles spasmed like he was having a fit. “Don’t … Letter … Ephraim … Fake.”
On his underbelly, between the writhing tentacles, I spotted another misaligned brass plate. More evidence of Ephr’s tampering. I darted a look at the Queen, who stared at Merriweather, apparently entranced by shock and fascination. Tossing aside the letter, I gathered my toolkit.
I opened the octopus. Inside his bell-shaped body lay a network of whirring cogs, gears, and spindles. At its center was a clear, gelatinous object the size of an egg. Gold vapor swirled inside, flickering with more sparks than there were stars in the night sky. Merriweather’s brain. The handle of a steel fork jutted from the delicate structure. Damn and blast that bloody man! I gently removed the obstruction and replaced his brass plate.
Merriweather stopped twitching and heaved a sonorous sigh. “What a relief! Thank you ever so much. Ephraim shoved that fork in me, over and over, until he found the spot that broke my free will.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“What are you?” Victoria said.
The octopus scuttled to the fallen letter. “This is a fake. Ephraim forced me to destroy the original letter.” He turned to the Queen. “Colonel Norcott advises you to wait out the storm at Balmoral Castle, given you refused to heed his advice and stayed dangerously late in the season.”
“That sounds like him.” Victoria sniffed. “As if I need to be told to stay out of a blizzard.”
With a frown, I said, “The letter I died for was … pointless?”
Merriweather gently squeezed my ankle with a brass tentacle. “Ephraim’s society wagers on bending history in small ways. There are rules. He was only supposed to give you the quantum eyes. They knew the real letter was innocuous. But Ephraim wrote something dangerous in the fake. He commanded me to make the switch, see you to the castle, and bury myself in the snow.”
“This clockwork creature is … from the future,” Victoria said. “And you fixed it with your little tools.”
I said to Merriweather, “I’m glad you don’t have to die in the snow.”
“I’m glad you get to live, too!” The octopus hopped from tentacle to tentacle. “I don’t know what Ephraim’s letter says, but it doesn’t have your best interest at heart. I suggest you destroy it unopened.”
I’d always hated ambiguity, and it’d be uncomfortable to end my mission on an unknown. But Ephr’s description of war and apocalypse replayed in my head. Along with his contempt. Maybe it was important to leave some mysteries intact … right to allow their dualities, my duality, to remain unmolested, mixed, man and woman, neither and both. Warmth bloomed in my chest. “Your Majesty, may we have permission to burn this letter?”
Victoria waved dismissively. “With such mechanical skill, you are wasted as a messenger. Your strange friend has opened my eyes. You must work with my scientists to build more clockwork creations.”
Merriweather let out a ‘heee!’ and leaped into my arms. “That’s no small change.”
Such technological advancement might make Ephr’s future unrecognizable. Or bring it to fruition. But my responsibility was to the present.
I settled Merriweather around my waist, tossed the fake letter into the hearth, and said, “Yes, ma’am,” to the Queen.
For the first time, it felt like the future might hold a place for someone as odd as me.