The Gravity Escapement (TWS)

The autocar trundles down the well-paved lane, purring as the motivators under the hood wind out compressed potential energy into forward momentum. You eye the fine leather interior as the road goes by.

"Are you sure I'm not imposing on you?" Stained mahogany edging, velvet plush, shined brass fittings. It's one of the finest vehicles you've ever seen, much less ridden in. You feel profoundly dingy and out of place.

"Not at all, m'lass." Lleu doesn't seem to care so much. "The way I see it, right soon we'll be down under Gloriana herself. Now I'm a man of faith, and swear upon the Name I wouldn't want to be down there alone. Better to know your fellows and who you can count on."

"Why not, Lleu?"

"Strange place, the chronochasm. Nothen stays still there. Just turnen, turnen, all the time..." His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Drives a man to distraction, if he can't turn his mind from it. Best to be knowen your fellows," he says again.

"Sounds... interesting." The short road widens as you go around a hill, and Port Huygens comes into view. "Makes you wonder why we bother, really."

"Ach. I suppose a 'braccian lass like yourself has earned that a little bit." He turns the corner, and the wheels slip a little on the wet concrete.

"Careful there."

"Mmm. I'll have to have a word with Tommy down at the gravel mill." He smiles. "Autocars, free of the grid, one in every home. They're the future, lass, they're the future. I'm not a young man myself and I can see that."

"So you say," you say, for want of an actual response.

"Now there's a lad at the machine shop, Henry, keeps banging on about his quadricycle. Thinks he can build a autocar that runs on alcohol, can you imagine?"

"Alcohol? Really?"

"Aye. I told him, alcohol's for burnen not for turnen. Then he started goen on about how that was the point, and... ah, anyway, chemical energy. What a laugh."

"Do you have his name?" You pull out the mechanical pencil. "He sounds as if he would make for a good interview."

"One moment, lass." He navigates the autocar over a particularly slippery patch in the road, and pulls neatly to a stop in the town square. You look around with a start.

"I hadn't realized we were here already. And the rain's stopped, too."

"It's not far, no. Small isle, fast car." He pats the dashboard lovingly. "So you should be able to find the lad down by the machine works, on the east side. Just start talken about economies of scale or somethen loudly enough, they'll know who you're looken for. Oh, and look at this."

He pulls a switch on the dashboard, and the door on your side swings open automatically. "Clever, eh? I had Jimmy Karin fit that bit in." Pause. "It does seem a little rude, now I've actually seen it done... but that's the price of progress."

"Very impressive, Lleu. Thanks for the ride into town." You hoist your satchel onto your shoulder.

"Ah, lass! You might also want to go and be buyen some expedition gear, provisions and the like."

"McCloud and I are doing that tomorrow."

"McCloud," he takes a breath, "is a shutpurse penny-pinchen miser's miser and won't buy anythen but the dregs. If you want to be buyen quality, you'll take my advice and get some now."

You nod. "Thanks, Lleu. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Any time, lass."

---

Port Huygens is a bustling town, not a metropolis. Very few - only the most skilled and talented - are allowed permanent residence on the Pole Isle, the rest being relegated to an ever-rotating roster of service staff and visitors like yourself. It's only because of McCloud's dispensation that you're allowed a hotel room at all. But despite its small population, the quiet affluence and regular military patrols clearly mark this town as the metaphorical and literal centre of the Empire, capitals notwithstanding. The roads are recently- and well-paved; the architecture isn't new but entering that age where one gracefully grows majestic over time; the people are prosperous, intelligent and happy. Truly the mark of a model modern Imperial city.

Unlike, of course, the slums where you grew up, where Gloriana wouldn't so much as pass wind to turn a windmill, as she pleases.

You chase the bitter and familiar line of thought from your mind; you've a job to do. There's the town library on the other side of the square - that half-remembered book memory is really nagging at you - and a general goods store down Main Street.

Oh damn, is that the rain starting up again?

Is that snow?!