Turning Springs

By John Christian Hager

A constructed servant is killing people in the old west town of Turning Springs. Traveling technician Amos Matthews and deputy Hank Bramwell must find out why and somehow stop the machine. But the local government has their own plans. If Matthews and Bramwell can find it....if they can stop the murders...will the town let them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Christian Hager
• Release date: Mar 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452326283

John Christian Hager

John Christian Hager is an award-winning writer living in northern Illinois, USA. He has written stage plays and fiction for over thirty years. Besides the Turning Springs works at Smashwords dot com, he is also author of John Christian Hager's Blog.

Book preview

Turning Springs

By John Christian Hager

Copyright 2011 John Christian Hager

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

Amos Matthews fell asleep by mistake on the train and dreamt he was being killed by a construct.

In truth, that train car that day was the perfect place to rest. Amos had spent four hard days winding constructs on a farm up north. Warmth from the late day sun seeped into the steam train at a cozy angle. It stroked Amos's stubbly face and dusty brown hair but didn't wake him. Even his stiff wool traveling suit held him instead of chafing. The usually pinching wooden seat hugged his limbs gently. Even the conductor on this run, not known for compassion, resolved not to wake the weary man. It was the least he could do since Amos was the only passenger in the car.

But his fatigue and the car's comfort would not let him rest for long. Given his choice, he wanted nothing to do with sleeping on trains. The constant rocking and noise and smell gave him dire nightmares, as it did now.

In his travels for Berlengame's Constructed Servants Company, he'd seen dozens of towns like the one in his dream. A long, flat dirt path served as a street. Dusty, weather-worn wooden buildings stood back from wooden sidewalks. Hitching posts stood outside each of the buildings. He knew all of this so well that a moan ripped from his sleep.

Off in the distance, a two tone whistle from a construct piped unseen from the buildings. Though sleeping Amos twitched with terror, dream Amos was pleased. He pulled out a boatswain's whistle to provide a response. The elegantly curved naval device allowed him and other winders to give sonic commands to any constructed servant. Unlike vocal orders, these tones could not be mistaken for other sounds. Amos gave the command to approach. His tones bounced off the wooden walls around him and into the muddled sky. Dream Amos heard no expected response, which was unusual. Sleeping Amos knew why, mumbling a warning.

A construct stepped into view at the end of the street, but not in response to the call. All Journeyman model constructs stood five and a half feet tall. They reflected a man's basic shape and limbs, but with widened lower arms and legs. Steel and iron components pushed its weight above three hundred pounds and it was able to lift much more. Its face from the front view was roughly oval. Amos always thought the Journeyman's expression was permanently sad. The machine's sunken eyes could protrude at need and swivel a certain distance. A square hole just above the chin served as the speech organ.

Shiny metal skin covered the meshed gears and springs that moved the construct and more. The wondrous devices that drove the metal creature resided on the front of the chest. Inside a shallow square box, eight control wheels for the machine's instructions spun to satisfy each command. On either side of the wheel housing were long L-shaped slots with one rounded end at the top of the letter, like giant keyholes. These ports gave access to the construct's two main springs, the critical dual hearts of the machine. Winding and unwinding the springs required a technician, known as a winder, wielding a special notched lever. Sleeping Amos tried to warn his dream self that he had none of those tools. Dream Amos replied blithely that he needed none of that.

The construct's operating noise, tick tack thong hiss, echoed in the dream town, far louder than its waking volume. The machine stood there in the twilight, watching Amos. He twisted his large mustaches nervously, first one side and then the next. He tried the whistle again, repeating the command to approach. The machine remained still. The thought occurred to Dream Amos that he should have brought his weapons. Sleeping Amos twitched from terror that crawled along his spine.

As if to answer, the construct threw its head back and laughed, breathy and shrill, into the sky. Dream Amos felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Machines could not and should not laugh. He wished he had not come there, but could not take back the mistake now. Sleeping Amos insisted that he run for his life, but Dream Amos only backed away warily.

The construct began to move, striding down the center of the street, focused entirely on Amos. That thing, Dream Amos thought with mounting fear, wants to kill me.

As the construct continued to move on him, Dream Amos regretted the lack of a useful weapon. He had his six-shooter, worse than nothing against the weight and bulk of the construct. He had not brought his heavy-duty crossbow and he could not remember why. The archaic weapon shot expanding rounds called fettler bolts, said to be the last resort against an out of control machine. He wished he could recall why he left those and the rest of his tools behind. Sleeping Amos just wanted him to run.

As the construct came closer, he did. Dream Amos pelted through the still empty streets, pulling the pistol from his right pocket. The construct picked up its own pace, catching him and matching his speed. It worried at his arms with thick metal fingers, the sound of tick tack thong hiss whipping fear into Amos. He turned and shot behind him, but the construct moved impossibly fast and ducked the bullet. He tried to dodge away from the machine, but the construct was right on him. Dream Amos looked to Heaven to plead for his life, and plunged to the ground.

As he rolled onto his back, Heaven reminded him that he left his only tools behind, almost laughing. The sky eclipsed behind a slowly descending shiny metal hand. Amidst tick tack thong hiss, he heard a triumphant whisper, I have you now.

At the first pressure of the cool metal, tick tack thong hiss, the sound of turning springs, rang through the world. Under the noise, Dream Amos and Sleeping Amos shrieked with the same voice.

Chapter Two

Well, Amos said darkly into the sunset, still shaking from the dream. That's enough of that. The train labored from the platform, leaving a wake of coal smoke. Soon the air cleared, back to its grassy and heat smells and peace, but Amos was still haunted. The conductor took great pleasure in rousing Amos with shouting and shame. Amos was glad to see him go.

Now he stood alone on an open rail platform in sunset. A sign nailed to a post at the back of the platform marked it as the stop for Turning Springs, Illinois. A lonely paper note twitched in the breeze, nailed to a tree close by, barely bigger than