The Clockwork Medium

By M. Elizabeth Ticknor

Originally published in Spirit Machine, 2022.

♦ ♦ ♦

I find Linen’s ectosuit floating, sunken and empty, in the cockpit of Charon’s Ferry. Her anchors drift about the room like glitter in a snow globe, thimbles and needles twinkling like stars. The apron that served as her core anchor is stripped down to threads. Without the objects she cared for in life to bring her personality into focus, she’ll never be able to manifest again.

My ectoplasmic form flickers with shock and confusion. I’ve seen the aftermath of discorporations before, but never one so violent. This can’t have been an accident–the damage is too recent, too extensive, and far too thorough. Linen’s anchor chamber is pried open, the combination locks twisted and mangled. The Clockwork Medium burns those codes into our very plasm so we can perform self-care and maintenance. This wasn’t suicide–this was murder.

Was it Razor or Butcher? Both are capable–they take great care to keep their blades sharp–but I’m uncertain of motives. We all enjoyed Linen’s company, her softness a counterpoint to our more hardened perspectives.

Fear builds within me, solidifying the plasm in my suit’s chest cavity. Someone killed Linen. Will they do it again? Terror pulses from my anchor chamber to my extremities, robbing my soul of its natural fluidity, leaving me frozen, immobile.

In order to soothe myself, I meditate on my core anchor: a jewelry kit in a metal box laden with chisels, pliers, files, tweezers, a ball-peen hammer, and the jeweler’s loupe I took as my namesake. When that isn’t enough, I meditate on my gems: amethyst, diamond, jade, topaz.

A measure of calmness returns, returning my plasm to a more liquid state. I continue my examination, my movements stiff from the lingering sense of foreboding.

There’s no damage to the consoles–nothing new, anyway–but our course has been altered, aiming us toward the nearest star. When? By whom? Did Linen do it and get discorporated as punishment? No, far more likely her killer did the deed. They might have killed her in order to make the alterations.

My ectoplasm solidifies again as my imagination runs wild. The crew of Charon’s Ferry, once twelve strong, is down to only three; all of us are mere fragments of the souls who married themselves to the Clockwork Medium. Linen Apron was the last of us to retain a semblance of delicacy. The rest of us harbor cold, hard names: Jeweler’s Loupe, Straight Razor, Butcher’s Knife. All of our soft bits wore away centuries ago.

Loupe. Jade. Hammer. Topaz. Each object is the spiritual equivalent of a deep, cleansing breath in and out. I put the ship back on its intended course, and leave all other evidence of Linen’s demise to float untouched as I retreat to the séance room. I need to consult the Clockwork Medium.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was a beautiful idea, in theory: send a ship crewed by ghosts into the vast expanse of the universe to find a new beginning for mankind. No need for the vast quantities of supplies necessary to support human life–just a Clockwork Medium, a dozen modified diving suits capable of channeling ectoplasm into humanlike forms, and carefully preserved cryo-containers for the unborn seeds and embryos we’re meant to thaw and incubate when we find a suitable destination. How hard could it be to find a planet whose waters don’t run black with coal runoff, whose skies aren’t choked by smog?

Unfortunately, space is vast–more so than any of us realized. A millennia of searching has yet to reveal a world capable of sustaining human life. Some of us lost hope centuries ago, but I retain a flicker of optimism. As long as the ship continues operating, as long as our cargo remains unharmed, I have faith that we will accomplish our mission someday.

♦ ♦ ♦

Butcher is already in fellowship with the Clockwork Medium when I arrive in the séance room. His ectosuit is plugged into one of the twelve aetheric charge-ports affixed to a wall of reinforced glass. Massive gears made of brass and stainless steel click and whirl behind the glass, an ever-twitching, constantly-shifting hive of activity. It reminds me of the watches my father made, although the scale is far more massive.

I couple my suit into the charge-port farthest from Butcher and push my spirit into Medium Space so it can merge with the energies generated by the possessed machinery. The process seems unusually slow and sluggish, not unlike the feverish struggle to fall asleep when one suffers from insomnia. Then my physical form dissipates and the Clockwork Medium’s pool of aether subsumes me. I avoid merging my ectoplasm with Butcher’s–I can’t trust him right now.

Each spirit imagines Medium Space differently. I prefer to think of it as a dark room with billowing curtains hanging in front of arch-topped bay windows, illuminated only by the glow of half-melted paraffin pillar candles. Delicate trails of smoke blend with the heady scent of mulberries.

I have a body here, illusory as it may be. I picture myself as Linen imagined me: a tall, androgynous figure with a tumble of black curls that cover my ears and threaten to impede my vision. I’ve gifted the Medium with a body, too–a humanoid shape made of clockwork joints and ebony limbs, clad in robes and veils that shroud the cold metal unless I look too close. Most days, I don’t; today, I do.

“Linen is gone.” The words wisp out of my mouth and hang in the air like smoke.

The Medium’s head swivels toward me, twin loupes focusing on my muted features. “We know. We felt her disapparation.”

“She was murdered.”

“How does one murder a ghost?”

“Forcibly dispersed, then. Do you know who unmoored her?”

Gears tick and whir as the Medium calculates. “No. There are greater concerns in play.”

“Someone is actively dismantling the crew. What greater concern is there? Without a crew, the ship ceases to function.”

“The engines have fired unexpectedly on multiple occasions in the last 24-hour period. More importantly, the cryo-containers’ temperatures have been imbalanced. It is only a matter of hours before the contents will no longer be salvageable. Without our cargo, we have no purpose.”

I suck in a sharp breath–such a rare sensation, these days. The idea that the cryo-containers might fail shakes me to my core; the preservation of life is essential to our mission. “The engine activity wasn’t accidental. Our course was altered, though I’ve since corrected it. I suspect sabotage.” It’s more certainty than suspicion, but the Medium prefers not to deal in absolutes.

The Medium’s gears click thoughtfully. “This is valuable information. We’ve requested that Butcher’s Knife investigate the source of the malfunctions.”

“Butcher might be the one who killed Linen.”

“So might Straight Razor. So might you.”

The small hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “I’m not a killer.”

“We don’t care. Our primary objective is to locate a habitable location so humanity may thrive. In order to do that, we need to ensure both Charon’s Ferry and its crew remain functional.”

“There won’t be much of a crew if the murderer strikes again.”

More calculating. The Medium tilts its head to the side and emits a soft tch. “Affirmative. You will seek out the murderer to ensure no further souls are lost.”

My spirit is shunted out of Medium Space, back into my ectosuit. It triggers a familiar moment of claustrophobia–I’m trapped, such a small space, spirits aren’t supposed to be confined like this–but the presence of my anchors grounds me. This suit is my body. This ship is where I’m meant to be.

As my vision comes into focus, I register the wrongness of my surroundings. Butcher’s ectosuit lies on the ground in the center of the room, chest plate ripped open. Razor kneels above him, mangling his largest knife with a planted boot and the claw end of a crowbar. The handle splits, the blade bends, and the panicked whirl of plasm visible through the visor of Butcher’s helmet gutters out.

Razor turns to face me, his own plume of ectoplasm unsettlingly calm, and stands, arms spread wide. “I can explain.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Without our suits, without the assistance of our mechanized spirit guide, we would have moved from this world to the next long ago. However, many of us departed more swiftly than expected.

Amber Necklace dispersed before we left orbit. Her anchor chamber was insufficiently padded, and the ship’s juddering as it broke through the atmosphere shattered her anchors with unsettling swiftness. It frightened me at the time, though I’ve since become inured to the idea that all things decay given the right set of circumstances.

Pearl Earrings’ anchors were soft, delicate things that didn’t hold up well to the absence of air. Once her pearls yellowed and turned brittle, it was only a matter of time.

Obsidian Scalpel’s core anchors were sharp, but frangible. The lack of gravity set his collection of knives, arrowheads, and other artifacts floating; they shredded their cushions, then chipped away into nothing as they impacted against their containing compartments.

Not all of our losses were due to normal wear and tear. Antique Pocketwatch was crushed while trying to secure a loose cryo-container. Brass Keyring was melted in the process of repairing an engine malfunction. Cast Iron Skillet and Tin Cup so feared losing supplemental anchors to wear that they combined anchors to stave off degradation and became Mess Kit; they died only a week later when their mag-boots failed during a hull repair. Knitting Needles simply disappeared one night; at the time, I suspected she grew weary of the monotony and floated off into space.

And then there’s Linen.

In the wake of her passing, I wonder how many of those losses were truly accidental.

♦ ♦ ♦

“You killed them.” I point to Butcher, then gesture toward the cockpit. My ectoplasm swirls and bubbles, so turbulent my suit quivers. I didn’t harbor the same feelings for Butcher as I did for Linen, but I respected his bluntness and enjoyed the stories he invented to while away the quieter hours.

Razor shakes his helmet ‘no’, the traces of ectoplasm visible through his visor small and still. “I freed them.”

“They didn’t ask for that! We have a mission, a goal. Until we complete that mission, until we accomplish that goal, moving on to the next stage of existence is meaningless.”

“Spirits aren’t meant to be tied to the material plane–we’re meant to grow, to evolve. We can’t do that here. We’ve been trapped here for hundreds of years. If the Clockwork Medium has its way, we’ll go on like this forever. This isn’t life, this isn’t even hope–it’s stagnation. Every day our souls wear away a little more. Can’t you feel it?”

“Of course I do. But we’ll make planetfall before we lose ourselves completely.” Or at least, that’s what I believed before today. It’s just Razor and me now, and Razor’s gone crazy, and if he kills me before I stop him then our mission will fail.

Even if I stop him–or kill him, I’m going to have to kill him, aren’t I?–the only ones left will be the Medium and me, a ghost and a machine wandering endlessly through the cold of space. We’ve found no other spirits out here–just us, the exports of a smoke-smothered planet.

Even if I win, we lose.

Razor’s gloves tighten around his crowbar and he charges toward me like a samurai preparing to duel. Fresh from Medium Space, I have no tool kit, but that means my movements are unrestricted. I turn off my mag-boots and push off into the air, floating above Razor’s helmet. His strike goes wide, catching my leg rather than my chest plate.

The crowbar bites into my suit and tears a small hole in the canvas. The unwanted momentum sets me whirling haphazardly across the room. I ricochet into the supply room, venting ectoplasm, and catch the door frame with both arms; I swing toward the ground and reactivate my mag-boots so they stick to the floor when I land.

No weapons on board, but useful things all around me: tethers and tool belts; screws and nails; screwdrivers, drills, and hammers; wrenches and crowbars. I slam the door shut and lock it with my private combination code.

Razor pounds at the door from the other side. Boom. BOOM. BOOM.

Silence.

Then the crunch of a crowbar impacting against safety glass.

Good god, I left him alone with the Medium.

♦ ♦ ♦

When, exactly, did Razor go wrong? I suspect it was after Tin and Cast Iron’s merger. Razor and Tin had been close for the better part of a hundred years, but Mess Kit proved… well, messy. They were too caught up in trying to decipher their new identity to pay more than cursory attention to Razor–or anyone else, really. I think, given time, they would have opened up again, but they were gone before any of us had a chance to adjust.

Did Razor kill them? He was working alongside them on the breach when their mag-boots broke. No one else was there to witness their loss, and intra-suit communication doesn’t pass through the thick, radiation-proof hull. They could have argued, skirmished, even tried to murder each other, and none of us would have been the wiser.

Razor grew quieter after Mess Kit passed–colder, darker, as if a part of his own soul had been vented into space. His ectoplasm began to compress in on itself, never quite to the point of hardening, but always just on that edge. I tried to help him unwind more than once, but he never acknowledged my efforts, and in the end I let him be. Perhaps I should have pushed harder, kept a closer watch on him, or paid more attention to Linen. She never liked Razor.

♦ ♦ ♦

I patch the tear in my suit with cloth tape to keep my ectoplasm from leaking out. Then I wrap every part of myself in the stuff, sticky side out in case the glass breaks before I’m able to stop Razor. I snatch up a wrench, and charge out of the supply room.

Cracks spiderweb through the glass that protects the Medium’s clockwork. Most of the pipes and valves that channel ectoplasm into charge-ports have been bent, cracked, or broken. Razor doesn’t even give me a glance as I enter the room–just raises his crowbar to finish the job.

I rush forward and grab his arm. “Stop! You’ll ruin everything!”

“How many ghosts have we met in the deep, Loupe? How many people? Nothing lives out here–all the planets we’ve found are desolate.”

“Space is incalculably vast. Just because we haven’t found a planet that supports life yet doesn’t mean we never will. Maybe we went in the wrong direction. Maybe–”

Razor pulls free of my grasp and grabs for the cloth tape that covers my arm. I jerk away instinctively–I need that protection–and the intensity of the movement sends me reeling. My mag-boots keep me anchored to the floor, but the upper half of my suit tumbles backward. I push my gloves backward, stopping my fall just before the tape wrapped around my torso connects with the floor.

“We should have stayed on Earth. Humanity was never meant to ascend to the stars. They dug their own graves–they should have accepted their fates and passed on to the next stage of evolution.” Razor raises the crowbar above his helmet, ready to bring it down on the hub spiral of cracked glass.

I fling the wrench at Razor’s helmet. It connects violently and ricochets off to rebound against the ceiling, the floor, a stainless steel wall. The unexpected addition of momentum shifts the point of impact for Razor’s crowbar, but knocks his ectosuit forward. His helmet slams against the glass.

It shatters.

Fragments explode in every direction, pelting Razor like hail. Ectoplasm leaks from the fresh pinholes in his suit. He won’t be able to hold himself together for long. Glass crushes and grinds between the Medium’s gears–they stutter and slow, but don’t stop entirely.

I bounce from wall to wall frantically, bumping up against as much glass as I can touch. Shards and fragments stick to the tape wrapped around my ectosuit, forming a protective barrier and reducing the amount of floating shrapnel. When the crusting of glass makes it difficult to move, I retreat to the supply room, unravel the now-useless ribbons of tape, shove them into a closet, and wrap myself up a second time.

It takes the better part of an hour to clear the open spaces in the séance room. Razor’s ectoplasm pools uselessly on the floor, still manifest due to the presence of his anchors, but formless and immobile without a container to hold him. I leave him there, for now–let him stew, let him think about what he’s done.

The Clockwork Medium’s gears continue to turn, but their movements are slowed, their efficiency mangled. Powdered glass churns around them, the only part of the séance room I haven’t been able to clean. The gears mustn’t stop turning. If they remain in their current condition, failure is inevitable. But then there’s the issue of the cryo-containers’ imminent failure–I haven’t had time to check on them, and if their temperature controls fail then there’s no point in preserving the Medium.

Charon’s Ferry was never meant to be crewed by a single ghost. I have too many tasks to perform, and all of them urgent. In the time it will take me to fix the cryo-chambers, the Medium could break. In the time it will take me to fix the Medium, the cryo-chambers could fail. I can’t be in multiple places at once.

Think, Loupe, think.

Butcher’s ectosuit got destroyed in the glass storm as surely as Razor’s, but Linen’s suit is undamaged aside from the broken clasp meant to keep her anchor chamber closed. I use my jeweler’s tools to replace her clasp with Razor’s. Then I collect as many undamaged keepsakes from Linen and Butcher as I can: thimbles and needles, a whetstone and honing rod, remnants of fabric, a pocket knife. I plug the suit into the lone charge port undamaged by Razor’s meddling and wait, meditating on my anchors to keep calm.

Ectoplasm puddles into Linen’s suit, but the anchors don’t harbor strong enough connections for it to manifest as a complete spirit. Panic knots the plasm in my chest cavity. I can’t do this alone. I can’t. I have to call a spirit into this body.

With a trembling glove, I open my own anchor chamber. Mere gems won’t help. They’re supplemental pieces, like the objects contained in Linen’s suit. Something from my jewelry kit, then–something that resonates strongly enough to give a sense of identity. I pull my jeweler’s loupe from the box. The loss of clarity threatens to discorporate me on the spot, but I focus on what remains: chisels, pliers, files, tweezers, ball-peen hammer. This isn’t death so much as the loss of an eye.

I wrap the loupe in shreds of Linen’s apron to cushion it, then place it inside a compartment of her anchor chamber and latch it closed.

After a moment that feels like a century, Linen’s ectosuit detaches from the wall and says, “The Clockwork Medium says there are multiple failure points throughout the ship. The cryo-containers will lose integrity in half an hour, the Medium’s gears are operating at suboptimal capacity, and eleven of twelve aetheric charging stations have been damaged.” Its voice is a strange synthesis of Linen, Butcher, and myself.

“Stabilize the cryo-containers. I’ll work on repairing the séance room.” I can’t replace the glass, but I can clean the gears in time, and I should be able to cobble together a second charging station from pieces of the broken ones. We don’t need twelve–only two.

My new-made companion rushes toward the tool room, but pauses for a moment as they reach the door. “I’m Jeweler’s Loupe. And you are?”

An excellent question. Who am I, now? I think for a long moment, then say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Loupe. Call me Hammer.” A flash of satisfaction sets my ectoplasm whirling like a miniature tornado. Yes, that will do, that fits nicely. Hammers are building tools; they shape, they forge, they fix.

♦ ♦ ♦

END