{"id":48,"date":"2015-09-16T16:43:33","date_gmt":"2015-09-16T16:43:33","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/?p=48"},"modified":"2020-01-28T23:45:01","modified_gmt":"2020-01-28T23:45:01","slug":"the-brass-giant","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/2015\/09\/16\/the-brass-giant\/","title":{"rendered":"The Brass Giant"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"91ndFqXA2YL._SL1500_-634x1024\"<\/a>“The world of tickers was the world of men.”<\/h2>\n

The Brass Giant<\/a><\/em>, a steampunk novel by author and ATU alum Brooke Johnson<\/a>, was recently released by Harper Voyager Impulse.<\/p>\n

You can find an interview with Johnson about steampunk and strong female characters over at The Mary Sue<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Here’s an excerpt from chapter one of her novel:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Petra Wade stood at the foot of the University steps, her hands in the pockets of her borrowed trousers. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked upon the gleaming monument of scientific study, the anticipation of this <\/em>moment finally a reality. She nervously twisted the stem of her pocket watch, feeling the familiar click of the ratchet against the winding gear.<\/p>\n

Until now her only experience with clockwork mechanics and design had been the weekly studies with Mr. Stricket after her shift at the pawnshop, repairing pocket watches and grandfather clocks, or making clockwork contraptions out of spare parts. Still, she knew she had talent enough to compete with the best engineers the school had to offer. Yet the Guild would never allow it. The world of tickers was the world of men.<\/p>\n

So, slipping her hands from her pockets, Petra tucked the loose strands of her hair back into her borrowed cap and gave herself the once-over, making sure her brother\u2019s clothes covered any femininity that might betray her to anyone inside. Satisfied that she looked the part, she marched up the University steps, determined not to let something as trivial as her sex stop her from pursuing the career she deserved.<\/p>\n

Students milled about the door, discussing pitch circles and circumferential velocities. Petra\u2019s skin quivered as she passed over the threshold, the rich scent of paraffin and gasoline in the air. The floor pulsed with the jarring oscillations of the subcity below, the steady hum of perfectly fitted gears vibrating within her bones. Her fingers twitched toward the screwdriver in her pocket. From the lobby, she could see a cluttered mess of schematics papering the walls of the main workshop. Columns of unused gears stood at attention in the far corner, waiting for an engineer to affix them to a gear train. Levers rocked and cranks spun, driving gears and sliders. Steam whistled through pipes. Blowlamps hissed and sputtered over metal joints. The workshop sang an engineer\u2019s lullaby.<\/p>\n

Petra grinned. She belonged <\/em>here.<\/p>\n

To the left and right of the entry, lift gates stood closed before clusters of students, the lights above the doors flashing yellow as the lifts sped up and down the shaft, disappearing beyond the high, arched ceiling\u2014the brass so polished it gleamed like gold. From the lifts, stairs curved upward along the lobby walls, leading to the upper-level workshops, with the entrance to the main workshop just below.<\/p>\n

Petra inhaled a deep breath. She could do this.<\/p>\n

She marched toward the large, circular desk in the center of the entry hall, walking stiffly and purposefully with her hands clenched at her sides. Behind the desk sat a weedy, thin sort of man, annotating a printed letter. His hair was thin and graying, and he wore a name plate pinned to the breast of his coat: w. plaskett.<\/p>\n

Petra cleared her throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne moment,\u201d he said without looking up, continuing to scribble in the cramped margin at the bottom of the letter, until finally he capped the pen and put the letter aside. \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n

She cleared her throat again and spoke in the deepest voice she could muster. \u201cI\u2019m here to apply for the upcoming term.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you a returning student?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Plaskett reached across the desk, grabbed a blank application file and readied his pen. \u201cYour name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWade,\u201d she said, her heart beating faster. \u201cSolomon Wade.\u201d<\/p>\n

He scribbled the false name. \u201cAnd date of birth?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMarch twenty-second, 1862,\u201d she answered, knowing she didn\u2019t look the least bit nineteen, though only two years shy of that age. She tugged on the brim of her hat, shading her soft features from the overhead lighting.<\/p>\n

\u201cFormer institution?\u201d prompted Mr. Plaskett.<\/p>\n

\u201cEton.\u201d<\/p>\n

The scratching of his pen stopped.<\/p>\n

Petra stiffened. Solomon said they\u2019d accept anyone from Eton. Mr. Plaskett bent over and dug through a drawer of files, mumbling the names of institutions as he thumbed through the tabs. She gripped the stem of her pocket watch and waited, panic creeping up her throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, here it is,\u201d he said. \u201cEton.\u201d He slapped the folder onto the desk and flipped to the back pages, running his long, narrow finger down a list of names. With a frown, he turned to the next page and scanned the first few entries. \u201cHmm.\u201d He shuffled through a few more pages before finally closing the file, then clasped his fingers over the folder and peered at her with an accusatory glare. \u201cThere is no one by the name of Wade here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry?\u201d Her voice cracked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have a list of every student who has requested a transfer to the University from Eton, and there is no Solomon Wade on that list.\u201d<\/p>\n

She stared at him a moment, winding the stem of her pocket watch as she tried to think. She and Solomon hadn\u2019t planned for this. She could demand he check again, but the name wouldn\u2019t be there, no matter how many times he read the list. The winding stem resisted against her fingers as the spring tension in the watch reached its peak. Hastily, she released the stem before the mainspring snapped.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, I\u2019m not from Eton,\u201d she blurted out.<\/p>\n

He eyed her properly now, taking note of her petite size and the state of her borrowed clothes\u2014oversized and soot-stained. \u201cNo. I believe not.\u201d<\/p>\n

She raised her chin and stared defiantly back, refusing to be judged, refusing to let him think she didn\u2019t belong just because she didn\u2019t look the part. \u201cYou can\u2019t stop me from applying.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Plaskett leaned back in his chair. \u201cI have no desire to prevent worthy <\/em>engineers from applying to the University. However, as a nontransfer student with no credentials or statement of reference, I will need your registration of birth, a transcript of records from your former institution, a seal of approval from the Guild of Engineers, and your tuition fees for the first term. If<\/em> you can manage that before September, you may then apply for the upcoming term.\u201d<\/p>\n

Petra\u2019s heart sank. \u201cWhat about scholarships? I thought\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cScholarships are for students of academic merit only, not\u2014\u201d He arched an eyebrow and appraised her with a sweeping gaze. \u201c\u2014the impoverished<\/em>. We are not a charity.\u201d<\/p>\n

She tightened her hands into fists, the hair on the back of her neck bristling.<\/p>\n

Mr. Plaskett smiled thinly\u2014a smug, self-satisfied smirk plastered onto his face. \u201cNow then, if that is all?\u201d When she did not respond, he took her application file, balled it up in his fist, and tossed the crumpled paper into the bin behind his desk. \u201cAs I thought. Good day, Mr. Wade.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gritting her teeth with a grunt of frustration, Petra swiveled away from the desk and stalked toward the door. The prat<\/em>. She shoved through a group of students, stumbled over a discarded knapsack, and fell down. Her knees banged against the hard metal tiles, and her pocket watch and screwdriver slipped from her pockets and skated across the polished floor. As she moved to reach for them, her hat fell from her head, revealing her long braided hair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, it\u2019s a girl<\/em>,\u201d said one of the boys behind her.<\/p>\n

Haughty laughter echoed through the chamber, attacking Petra from all sides. Blood rushed in her ears, and her cheeks flushed under their judging gazes. Not one of them came to her aid or offered to help. Of course they wouldn\u2019t. She didn\u2019t belong there\u2014a girl dressed in boy\u2019s clothing. Humiliation burned at the corners of her eyes. The vibration beneath the floor nauseated her. The smell of oil suffocated her. The clacking and shrilling of the machinery rattled her brain. She had to escape.<\/p>\n

Biting back the urge to shout at the boys to mind their own business, she scrambled to her feet and snatched her things off the floor, stuffing the screwdriver back into her trouser pocket and jamming the hat onto her head. Her eyes stung, but she dared not cry. Petra Wade didn\u2019t cry.<\/p>\n

Her pocket watch lay on the floor a few feet away. The case had sprung open, and the watch face glimmered in the overhead light. Clenching her hands at her sides, she stepped forward to retrieve it, but a shadow crossed her path and snuffed the yellow gleam reflected in the polished surface. The room hushed.<\/p>\n

A large, heavy man crouched in front of her, reaching for her treasured timepiece. His coat strained against him as his fat pinched and bones creaked, like an old, cumbersome machine running without oil. He wore a pin on the breast of his coat, a working planetary gear system ticking in a mesmerizing array of orbiting gears\u2014the official seal of the Guild council. The largest of the gears was acid-etched with a floral pattern, marking this vast fellow the University vice-chancellor, Hugh Lyndon. His thick fingers closed around the gilded case of her pocket watch and fastened it shut. When he stood, the boys around the lobby snapped to attention.<\/p>\n

Vice-Chancellor Lyndon stared at the watch, running his stubby thumb over the ornate C <\/em>that decorated the front of the case. \u201cAt ease, gentlemen,\u201d he said. His voice was deep and gravelly, and though he spoke quietly, it carried through the hall.<\/p>\n

The room relaxed at his command, but the boys remained, the air in the lobby still and silent as they stared at the pair of them\u2014the vice-chancellor of the University and this unknown girl\u2014as if they were some spectacle.<\/p>\n

Lyndon flipped the watch open, and deep frown lines creased his brow. The reflection of light on his round glasses obscured his eyes, but then the glare shifted as his gaze flickered from the watch to Petra. He seemed to be searching for something\u2014fear, subordination, shame. She wouldn\u2019t give him the satisfaction. Gathering to her full height, she raised her chin in defiance. He might have been vice-chancellor of the University, but she wasn\u2019t going to bow down to anyone, least of all him. He was the reason she couldn\u2019t attend the University in the first place.<\/p>\n

But he did not challenge her, did not ask why she was there or who she was. He merely looked once more upon the watch, and the crease in the center of his forehead deepened.<\/p>\n

Petra watched him carefully, wondering if he had seen the watch before, recognized it somehow\u2014but it must have been years and years ago, before she was born, before Matron found her and took her in. Her pulse quickened. If he knew something of the watch, knew its maker or who might have given it to her, perhaps he knew the answers to questions that had plagued Petra her entire life, questions she had all but given up on. The watch, and the screwdriver in her pocket, were the only two things she owned that were truly hers, found in her pockets the day of the fire, the day she became an orphan\u2014but neither had led her to her home. Who had she been before the fire? Who were her parents? And why had no one come looking for her?<\/p>\n

Slowly, Vice-Chancellor Lyndon shut the case over the watch face, again running his finger over the gilded C<\/em>. Petra chewed her lip as questions bubbled up inside her, but she was too aware of the crowd of students standing around her, judging her, mocking her. She held her tongue.<\/p>\n

Burying her curiosity and anger and humiliation, she held out her hand and, in the politest tone she could muster, addressed the vice-chancellor. \u201cMay I please have my watch back, sir?\u201d<\/p>\n

Lyndon glanced up at her, as if just remembering she was there. \u201cYes,\u201d he said with a nod. \u201cOf course.\u201d Closing his fist over the pocket watch, he tentatively placed it in her palm.<\/p>\n

Afraid she would lose her calm if she stayed a moment longer, Petra nodded curtly and left the lobby without another word, fastening the watch chain to her belt. Ignoring the silent stares of the students, she descended the steps into the courtyard, stealing a brass-plated bench on the far side of the square. The hot metal scorched her skin even through her trousers, burning the bitter embarrassment away.<\/p>\n

She never had a chance.<\/p>\n

Even with a disguise, even if she forged all the necessary documents, she would never manage to procure enough money to cover a semester\u2019s tuition. She sighed and buried her face in her hands.<\/p>\n

She would never attend the University. She would never become a qualified engineer. She would forever be the shop girl at Stricket & Monfore, or if Matron had her way, she\u2019d be married off to some well-to-do idiot with no sense for mechanics.<\/p>\n

A shadow passed between her and the sun.<\/p>\n

\u201cGuess you\u2019ll be heading to work soon, then.\u201d<\/p>\n

Petra lowered her hands from her face and looked up at the leering face of the pawnbroker\u2019s son, Bartholomew Monfore\u2014Tolly, as she knew him. Beneath the brim of his newsboy cap, he wore a smirk to match Mr. Plaskett\u2019s.<\/p>\n

She fumed. \u201cShove off, Tolly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be like that,\u201d he said, plopping down next to her on the bench. He nudged her with his shoulder. \u201cNow listen \u2026 me, Norris, and Hoyt are playing cards tonight, and we need a fourth. You in?\u201d<\/p>\n

Petra groaned. \u201cCan\u2019t.\u201d She reached up, twisted her braid into a knot on the top of her head and hid it away with her cap. \u201cI\u2019m working with Mr. Stricket tonight.\u201d Even if she wasn\u2019t working, she would have come up with an excuse.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy bother? They said no, didn\u2019t they?\u201d he asked, gesturing to the University. \u201cThat\u2019s why you\u2019re out here pouting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not \u2018pouting.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you call this, then?\u201d he said with a laugh. She scowled. \u201cOh, come on, Petra. That school is no place for you. They<\/em> know it. I<\/em> know it. Only person who don\u2019t is you. Girls aren\u2019t supposed to be engineers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShut up, Tolly.\u201d<\/p>\n

He merely shrugged. \u201cJust telling it like it is, Pet. Someday, you\u2019ll admit I was right.\u201d<\/p>\n

Petra stood up and exhaled sharply. \u201cI have to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tolly grinned. \u201cDon\u2019t be late for work.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“The world of tickers was the world of men.” The Brass Giant, a steampunk novel by author and ATU alum Brooke Johnson, was recently released by Harper Voyager Impulse. You can find an interview with Johnson about steampunk and strong female characters over at The Mary Sue. Here’s an excerpt from chapter one of her novel: […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":39,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-48","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","category-blog","entry"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/48","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/39"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=48"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/48\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":126,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/48\/revisions\/126"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=48"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=48"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.atu.edu\/nebo\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=48"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}