Fiddlehead

The Clockwork Century - 5

by

Cherie Priest

Acknowledgments

So here goes Fiddlehead, which is not exactly the end of the series—but it brings us to the end of the war, at least, and perhaps it may be the last full-length project in the Clockwork Century. For a while.

I am both a little sad and a little relieved at the prospect, really; I love this series from the bottom of my heart, and I have been terribly flattered, honored, and delighted by the response it has garnered from the genre community. But at the same time, twenty years of civil conflict is a very long time, even in a fictional universe. I have always said, from the very beginning, that this series should be the story of two nations on the cusp of what they could withstand. This was always meant to be the story of how the fictionalized war ends, and why.

And now … here it is.

But first and foremost, I must detail my undying thanks to everyone at Tor—in particular my editor, Liz Gorinsky, who first talked me into taking a chance on Boneshaker … and then threw herself behind it with everything she had. None of this would have happened without her. She believed in these books when I believed they were maybe a little too wacky, a little too unconventional; she encouraged and guided me through neuroses, crises of faith, and other assorted potholes in the process, and I cannot say enough to commend the persistence of her awesomeness.

Next up, the inimitable Jennifer Jackson, my agent extraordinaire—my bottle rocket of fiery justice. From whip cracking to hand-holding, she’s 100 percent weapons-grade awesome, and I seriously could not navigate the frothy waters of this industry without her.

And then there are the other usual suspects—so usual, in fact, that I fear I begin to repeat myself in these acknowledgments … because I pull open the last couple of books to take a peek (and remind myself of all those who’ve let me lean on them, all this time) … and I realize that I am hella-lucky to have found myself in such outstanding company.

Therefore, broadly and in brief (this time): a million and one thanks to Team Seattle and the Cap Hill Crew, Uncle Warren’s Secret Service, all the lovely people (and visitors) at Woodthrush and Robin’s Roost, the Nashville Brigade, the Consortium, Team Capybara and all its affiliates, and my spouse.

And of course, all the steampunks, alternate-history geeks, and other assorted amazing readers who’ve been kind enough to spend time with me on this bizarre and beautiful journey.

Thanks again, to all of you. Everywhere. Always. 

Prologue

September 1879

Sally Louisa Tomkins stood her ground. She jerked her elbow free from the congressman’s hand and refused to take even one small step toward the door. Instead, she planted her feet on the speaker’s stand and turned on him, pointing a finger between his eyes. “I came here at your behest, Mr. Caperton, but I will not stand for your disrespect.”

“Captain Sally,” he tried, reaching for her elbow again, but missing, as the tiny dark-haired woman ducked out of his reach.

“Nor your condescension, thank you very much. I came to say my piece. I was invited to say my piece—”

From the second row on the left, Herschel Cobb interjected. “You were invited to discuss your hospital.”

“And so I am,” she fired back. “If you don’t like my report, that’s well and good. It’s a terrible report, one that I hate to make—but my facts and figures are true! Gentlemen, we have an epidemic on our hands. One that the Robertson Hospital is neither equipped nor prepared to fight.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Captain. We have great faith in you,” assured Francis Pugh, in the third row on the right. He smiled indulgently, his muttonchops stretching across the wide expanse of his fleshy pink cheeks. “Your rank is testament to that.”

She sneered, and took one measured step away from Boyd Caperton, who opened his arms as if he might ask her to dance. “Apparently my rank is meaningless here.” And before the gentle hems and haws of protest could rise loud enough to drown her out, she declared, “For nineteen years I’ve served the Confederacy. Nineteen years, I’ve made this work my life—taking no husband, bearing no children, and bankrupting myself in the bargain. I’d do it again in a moment, because it’s good work. I’ve saved thousands of men. Tens of thousands, and still counting. I keep them clean; I feed them and bathe them and stitch their wounds, hold their heads while they bleed and cry. And most relevant to this testimony, I watch them. And I know what I’ve seen! You can’t make this go away by pretending I’m a madwoman!”

Senator Landon Barksdale rose from his seat. “Miss Tompkins, no one is accusing you of being a madwoman.”

“Yet you treat me like a liar or a scoundrel. And a fine irony that is, as I stand here before your Congress.” She spit out the word, and eyed Mr. Caperton, who hovered about her now as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed.

Praying that he wouldn’t make another, more aggressive grab, Captain Sally turned her back and addressed the assembled men. “You sit there behind your little desks in your fine suits and act like you understand this war and these soldiers more fully than I do … but every last one of you knows better than that. Josiah Snead, I see you creeping toward the door like you’re trying to escape me—you, sir. It was your son who picked up three bullets in Henegar; and everyone said he’d die, didn’t they? But they got him to me, and where is he now? Home with your new grandson, unless I’m mistaken. And Wellers Chrisman, don’t you hide your head. Your brother would’ve died without the attention he received at the Robertson. Morgan Cluskey, your father wouldn’t be here without me. Charlie Hartridge, your nephew. Robert Batson, your sons—both of them!—still walk this earth because of me.”

She glowered at them, her gaze darting from face to face.

She knew them all, in some fashion or another. She’d received letters from many of them, begging, accompanied by money, all of them essentially the same: “They say this man is done for, but at the Robertson he may have a chance.”

When they prayed to God, they prayed for her.

And still they treated her like a fondly regarded pet, a reliable watchdog, or a steadfast mule.

While she still had them stunned into uncomfortable silence, she lowered her voice, steadied it, and continued. “Out on the western coast, in the Washington Territory, a substance seeps from the ground—a toxic gas, which kills anyone who breathes it. But the people it kills don’t lie down and rot. They walk, they hunt, and they feed. The gas is largely confined to a walled, partially abandoned city called Seattle, but its ill effects have scaled the walls and headed east in the form of a drug—sometimes called sap, sometimes saffron—which has become terribly popular with fighting men on both sides of the Mason-Dixon.”

“Conjecture!” cried Morgan Cluskey, who sat back in his chair with an impatient sigh.

His sigh gave Boyd Caperton the nudge he needed. Caperton caught Sally’s arm again, and this time, she could not shake him loose.

As he determinedly, carefully ushered her off the speaker’s stand, she called out over her shoulder, “Men are dying—more men than I ever saved at the Robertson! And if you think”—she tripped over Caperton’s foot, and recovered—“if you think it’ll stop with the soldiers, with the poor men from the Southern fields and the Northern factories, you’re idiots, every last one of you! The problem grows bigger every day.”