thegoodfellas/blogset-br huggingface dataset:
The first principle of the forge is Intention. It is this impulse, whimsical or practical, that has fevered Manfor all his long ages. Man would temper this impulse oftentimes with the ethics and rationality of his ownnature, but the impulse itself is slave only to its own needs. In this it is found that the words of scholar andmadman have equal weight, for all creation is Holy, and the realm of the Divine.Curse God for giving his power to creatures such as She.V. iiFar away, a ticking.As of a single watch passing its time in a vast space. It was peaceful. He lay in the warm void andenjoyed the sound, let it slide into him, let it overwhelm him, until he was nothing more than the watchsecho.He felt a welling of sadness, as if his crushed body were weeping for him, and ignored it. All that waspast him now. Hed gone beyond the fragile identities of a cruel and vulgar world. He had the void, thisendless gap just beyond life, just before whatever came after. He revelled in the stillness, inviting it into hisbroken mind and willing the few remaining pieces of himself to vanish into it. Lost in nothingness, everyvibration ended, all momentum expended.And he was happy for a time.Then something else found him.He could not tell what it was, for perception was different here, but it moved through the nothingness likea drop of dye spreading in clear water. It reached a limb for him, one too small to straddle the void.He found no need to turn to face it, finding no existent directions to speak of. And that was beautiful initself.Who are you?he asked.Its answer floated slowly to him, buoyed on an invisible ether. He caught the answer in outstretchedlimbs, hugged it, explored it. It was the frigid, shifting chill-warmth of the human body in sickness, andoozed a clammy toffeelike liquid into the void. The answer did not speak to him, and he was grateful, forthe thought of human speech repelled and terrified him.The answer dissolved into bubbles of oil and slipped from his grasp.Who are you?he repeated.His companion shifted closer, slithering through the spaces with the sinewy motions of an octopus. Hecould not see it, nor hear it; rather he felt it, like a piece of coarse wool dragged across the arm, or atrickle of sand running down the face. Its movements revealed themselves as might ripples in the wake ofan invisible swimmer.When it reached for him again, he stretched out to greet it.A vision came to him.No!Pain. Fever. Sweat. Suddenly bone and flesh ensnared him, bound him, and he was screaming,screaming , as growths of metal broke his skin. He trembled and spasmed, scraping hot nerves againstfibrous blankets on top and beneath. He shrieked again as hundreds of growths inside his body shiftedwith his shudders, tearing flesh and muscle, scraping and sawing at bones.Light ripped into his eyes as he flung them open; noxious air seared his lungs. An unbearable coldslapped onto his forehead. Over him, a woman cried and prayed. Behind her, two pale-faced childrenwept and shivered.Please
end this. Please, I want to go back.His stomach clenched and he vomited on himself. A rib cracked as he convulsed, and he clawed at hisown throat with hands gnarled from age.And suddenly he toppled back into the void, leaving the world of pain and light far above.It was not the stillness that greeted him, but a seething boil of madness. It seized him and drew him into afire of screeching monstrosities. Tiny metal monsters crawled all over him, biting and scratching, growlingand gnashing their teeth. He withdrew as far as he could, shrinking into himself, but they closed on him,writhing.Help us,they shouted.Go away!They howled in despair. They ran amok, driven by a ceaseless agony conjured with every movementand every breath. Their pain bled into anger and they fell upon one another in a cannibalistic frenzy.At length, the creatures withdrew, leaving him in a pool of his own substance. Much of him had beenbroken and consumed. What little remained lay shuddering in that lightless place.Gradually, the tick returned, and warm viscous fluid lifted him up. His companion settled into the darkbeside him.Are you the pain?he asked.Words did not exist in the void. His companion encircled him with sticky arms.I understand. You are the source of the machine-disease. The Mothers heat and the Fathers noise hurtyou, and you hurt them back, and that causes only more pain.The thing wept tears of pus.I will help you,he said.I will help you to end it.Gratitude. His companion swept one long limb out into the void, and from immeasurable distanceretrieved something that it laid before them both.A tiny metal monster: a clickrat. This one lay on its back, jaws wired shut, legs bundled against itsstomach. It did not thrash about. The bindings had prevented it from lashing out against its pain, and thatpain had consumed it. It lay now empty and inviting.A gift.Aaron floated up and took it.John Scared knew he was immune to the clacks, and he did not know why. The question bothered him,as all unanswered questions did. If he did not know the reason, he could not be sure of the result.Perhaps that was why these poor, diseased wretches made him uncomfortable.He leaned heavily on his cane. Below, dockworkers struggled to unload the goods descending by cranefrom two zeppelins tethered to the Aldgate spire. No single class seemed as afflicted with the mechanicalgrowths as the dockworkers. They shambled around like parodies of men, covered in gleaming ironpustules, hobbling on malformed brass legs, and picking at ropes and crates with hooked hands andfingerless steel stubs.Why dont you tell me what they are?he asked of the hot tingling in the back of his mind.Are they theresult of inhaling your breath, my dear? Little spores cast off by the belching of your long throat, nestlingin places warm and wet and springing to vibrant life?Tick, tick, tick, he muttered. A bad habit. He did it for no good reason, but that it might annoyher .He lifted his gaze to the Stack beyond and watched it flare to crimson life. A cloud of black foulness likethe tenth plague gushed
up into the air.Ah, my lovely, my dear, my sweet mistress. I do not understand you. Any one of your beloved childrenwould be faithful to you until the oily grave took him, and yet you place your trust in me. You are astupid, stupid creature.John Scared was not averse to stupidity, as long as it was practiced by others.He turned from the electric glare of the dock lights, hobbling like a cripple to the opposite end of therooftop of the Pilots Club, where Boxer hung suspended by his feet from a hook.Astride the trapdoor leading to the Clubs highest floor, where men gambled their livelihood away on fixed games, stood a broad-shouldered man in rigid military pose. Two shifting-eyed boys huddledtogether just forward of his reach. Scared waved at the two children.Come forward, my grubbers. Time for a lesson.Scared read them as they advanced. Each piece of them became a variable: the motion of the eyes, thedip of the shoulders, the speed of the breath, the weight of the footfall. These he categorised mentally andapplied against a mathematical function long ago devised, and the boys personalities became plain to hisunderstanding. The one on the left, called Shoe, was good for nothing more than spying and fodder. Theone on the right, called Tuppencethat one could be moulded. Another Penny, perhaps, if there wastime enough for more lessons.Did you know, children, Scared said, that this hook was originally added to allow a piano to behauled to the second storey? The piano fell and crushed the clubs original owner. He turned to Boxer.An accident. And a fortunate one it was for me, as it put the club on the market. Dont you agree?The man called Boxer hung mute and shirtless, facing the blackness of Bishops Gate tower, and beyondthat, the muted lights of London. His arms had been excellently bound behind his back by bands ofironpounded into shape while still hot.Gather here, grubbers. You must see. Come, now, dont be shy or there may be no food at all.Like hungry dogs they padded up, unconsciously rubbing their little tummies. Scared swept his armswide, gathering them together in front of him. He settled his fingers on their shoulders, one hand on eachboy, and thrilled at the warmth and the shivers he felt. He knelt behind, leaning over them so that the foldsof his cloak encircled them like the wings of a mother bird.This man has done a bad thing, Scared explained. He has lied to me, you see. One may lie as muchas one likes, so long as one tells only the truth to me.He fetched his cane and poked Boxers shoulder. The man slowly rotated around to face them. Hischest had been opened, the skin peeled back and pinned to the edges of the torso. An iron plate hadbeen riveted across his mouth. The children gasped and drew back against the rough wool of Scaredscoat. He held them steady as they tried to hide their faces.Yes, itis horrible, my dears. Your reaction is nothing to be ashamed of. After more lessonsand therewill be many moreI
will teach you to appreciate the artistry of what our good hunchback has donehere.The military man behind them shifted the position of his feet.Scared pointed forward with his cane, indicating the red glow that issued from between Boxersexposed ribs.You see this, grubbers? Mr. Boxers heart is not like yours and mine. His has been replaced with acoal-burning furnace, as have his arteries and vessels been replaced with pipes. Do you know what thismeans, grubbers?They did not respond. Through shudders and twitches, he watched bits of both of them curl up and diethen and there.Innocence crushed beneath the red meat of reality. A thing of beauty, is the growth of achild. Would you not agree, my love?It means, he said, that Mr. Boxer is a black cloak. He doesntwear a cloak, of course. Being adeceitful man, he has endeavoured to hide his nature from me since he came into my employ.Scared deftly flicked the latch holding Boxers furnace closed. Boxer growled something unintelligible.That was his first lie to me. But he is a bad liar, and thus I have known about his treachery for sometime now.Scared passed his cane to Tuppence. Go on, now. Give him a poke.Tuppence reached up a shaking hand and wrapped his little stubby fingers around the canes silver head.The polished mahogany gleamed red in the Stacks omnipresent glow. Tuppence stood still, eyes fixedon Boxers gaping chest, as if unsure what to do next. John placed two fingers under the boys arm andurged it up. With but a few hesitations, Tuppence reached out with the cane and tapped it againstBoxers side. He then quickly withdrew, shrinking close to himself. Boxer made no sound.Good, good, Scared said. Did you feel the way the flesh bounces back? Elasticity, its called: thepressure of moisture and fluid inside the body pushes the cane away.The two boys nodded slowly.Give the head a turn, my child. Come, Ill show you.Scared placed one hand over the boys, gripping the canes length with the other. Gently, he guided thelittle fingers in a slow swivelling of the canes head. The boy jumped as a four-inch spring-loaded bladeshot out the far end.Now give him another. In the same spot.He let his fingertips linger on the back of the boys hand as he withdrew. That was the softest part,between the rough knuckles and the bony wrist.And very soft, indeed, on this one.This time Tuppence needed no coaching. He reached out with the blade and stabbed a quick hole inBoxers flank, close to the kidney. Black oil-blood spurted out. Both children jumped back and Johncaught them with one hand against each small back. The blood splattered against the wall one storeydown.Scared gently retrieved his cane from Tuppences shaking hand.Using the canes blade, he tapped on several of Boxers mechanical parts as he spoke. You willnotice, he said, that these parts of his shed no blood or oil, while thesehe ground the blade througha muscleshed plenty.Boxer grunted but did not speak. John wedged the blade to a secure position between the ribs and leftthe cane hanging from Boxers body.This man cannot be
killed by the shedding of blood, grubbers. He has rejected the precious flesh givenhim by Our Lord, and embraced the fallacy of the machine. Now pay attention. I will show you how tokill such a man.Scared seesawed the cane from its resting place and deftly flicked open the slotted door coveringBoxers furnace, releasing a pulse of red light and a wash of heat. He then carefully scraped out athimbleful of embers, which fluttered down towards the glow of Aldgate Tower and vanished.Mr. Boxers body is not heated by blood, but coal. Deprived of this substance, he will cool and freeze,and then he will rot like meat left too long untended. Whether he will actually die... Scared shrugged.That is up to Mama Engine.And you do have a hard time letting go, dont you, my sweet?He scraped the rest of the coals from Boxers chest, leaving only a smattering of tiny embers coating theedges of the chamber. That done, he pressed the canes blade into the rooftop and forced it to retractonce more.I have one more task for you, my grubbers, and this lesson will be over. Scared dug out of one pockettwo lumps of coal. He passed one to each of the boys. Both of you will stand or sit, as you please, atthe edge of the roof and offer him your coal. Hold your coal out to him as far as you can reach, and askhim if he would like it. He made earnest eye contact with each lad as he spoke. Now, you are not togive him any, no matter his answer. Simply ask him over and over. Do this until I come back to retrieveyou; then there will be as much food as you can eat.The boys nodded, Tuppence more confidently than Shoe. John Scared guided them to the edge of theroof, his fingers gracing their delicate shoulders. He listened for a moment as their quiet voices made theoffers, and Boxer replied with weak, muffled squeals. Then he left them to their work and hobbled overto the trapdoor.Something troubling you, Sebastian? he asked.Sebastian Moran rubbed his round chin before answering. Not that I would doubt your methods, sir,but your treatment of Mr. Boxer is...unsporting.Scared chuckled. I do enjoy your outdated sentiments, my friend. I might have had him shot or tossedfrom the tower, but he presented an invaluable instructional opportunity for the children.Scared shuffled to the dockside edge of the roof. Moran clasped his hands behind his back and keptwith Scareds halting pace.Children are indeed a blessing, are they not, Sebastian? Scared said.Moran coughed. I wouldnt know, sir. They dont make terribly sporting targets.I regret never having any of my own, you know, said John. Though perhaps that was unavoidable, asno woman I have ever met seemed fit to bear them. Have you any children, Sebastian?I wouldnt know, sir.Beyond the docks, another zeppelin angled towards the docks spire, cables already descending to befastened on. It pitched and slid to its port as a gust of hot air from the Stack jostled it. The red, white,and black of the German empire
came into sharp relief as the vessel floated into the powerful electriclights of the dock. The silence dragged for some moments.Scared sighed. No reminiscing tonight, eh, my friend? Very well. You have a report to make, Imcertain.Moran nodded again, stiffly, and began in crisp military tones. The Crown agent captured by the BoilerMen was named Aaron Bolden. My contacts in the gold cloaks report he was hooked to the Chimneysoon after he arrived.I assumed as much. Even if he hadnt been, I dont expect any ordinary man to long keep his secrets insuch hands. He rubbed a dull ache out of one elbow. Bolden, though. I wondered who could havepenetrated my defences. The mans knack with machinery is legendary.Hes still alive, sir. Boxers team failed to remove him.That was immaterial, Sebastian. I merely had to get Boxer out of the hideout while I moved myoperations to locations unknown to him. He was a spy for the crows, and though I am unlikely to bearrested on account of my high allegiances, I do not want the bother of some ambitious young cloakcausing trouble.I see.Von Herder will have a rifle for you by tomorrow evening. Are you certain everything is in place?Moran snorted, incensed. My men are not to be doubted, Scared.Scared laughed. A mere prick in the flank to rile you to superb performance, my friend. No disrespectwas meant. John squinted against a gust of wind kicked up by the landing zeppelins propellers. Ourdear baron has far too much loyalty to his patron deities. It is a pity his fate must be a messy one. It willbe a stain on an otherwise artful enterprise.Yes, sir.John read the mans sudden uncertainty without having to look at him. Ask your question, Sebastian.Moran cleared his throat. Again, sir, not that I doubt your methods, but Grandfather Clock is only halfthe problem. What will we do about the Lady and the black cloaks?Scared looked out at the Stacks glowing apex.What indeed, my sweet? What shall we do with you?Grandfather Clock is a creature of logic and precision, John said. He allows neither change nor errorand can be handled in no way other than destruction. Mama Engine, however, is a creature of sentiment,a mother in truth. Leave her to me.Yes, sir.Our conference is at an end. Return to your men and prepare.Yes, sir.Moran quit the roof by the trapdoor, leaving Scared alone with the distant clamour of the dock and thequiet voices of the two children.The children would run away tonight, shortly after their meal. Repulsed by horror at him and atthemselves, they would hide in those holes they knew best. And in a few days or weeks, when they gothungry again, they would return. They would endure more lessons to quiet their hunger. They wouldgrow. Eventually they would see no need to leave.Ah, I am ever accepting, my sweet. Ever patient.The Stack threw its hellish glare into the sky. The heat in Johns brain stem quivered, like a lovershuddering in a tight embrace.But though we each love dearly our adopted sons and daughters, they will never be
How many worlds They have consumed, I cannot fathom. How many small creatures They have leashedto serve ThemI cannot count them all. How many ghosts have been thrown screaming into Theirbellies, I dare not guess.What I do know is that They will continue in Their way until the end of the universe, for They aremachines, and machines do only one thing, over and over.II. xviiPennyedge had to be killed.In the short time since retrieving Scareds precious tape, Bergen had discovered he could not bringhimself to take it back to its creator. He knew he couldnt stomach serving that troll one instant longer.The horrid things hed done to maintain his cover mounted on his conscience with each step, freed tohaunt him by the act of mercy just performed. He had to escape. He had to bring the tape into Baileyshands and rejoin his true comrades in arms.His cover might have been blown anyway. Scared would not have sent his child-killer along if he didntat least suspect.And so Penny had to be killed. Mulls as well, as an inescapable consequence. That saddened Bergen abit, for Mulls, if he had escaped Scareds trap and been raised by decent folk, might have become adecent man. Penny was a monster and Bergen spared not a scrap of remorse for him.The question washow to do it. Penny was sharp, and as silent as a snake in the ferns, and was at everyopportunity manoeuvring for a killing stab on Bergen. He probably wouldnt strike until Bergen led themto within sight of the rusted stair, which gave him perhaps two hours of time.He passed up several opportunities to take his shottimes when Penny was beyond the range of agood lunge and scanning the dark after some suspicious soundbecause Bergen was unsure of what todo with Mulls. How many shots would it take? Would the bullets even hurt him through all thosemechanical growths? Mulls might have to be down long enough for Bergen to hit him with the steam rifle,and that was a long space of time indeed.They passed a mound of sodden and collapsed debris on their right. Bergen heard the click of metal tines on stone. He drew his sidearm with his left hand, and aimed it into the dark. Penny spun the wheelon his flasher, then dropped into a crouch and spread his arms, knife in one hand and striking rod in theother. Mulls, after a moments delay, brought his rifle up to his shoulder, though he apparently did not seeanything to aim at yet.A clickrat scuttled into the radius of their electric lights. Mulls let off a rough chuckle.Ha. Just a littlun.Quiet! Bergen hissed. The clickrat stopped and began to make buzzing and ticking sounds. Bergentuned it out and listened to the other sounds of the dark around them. He let his ears guide his weapon,until its aim rested at the top of the mound.Come out where we can see you, Bergen ordered.Mulls started and locked his rifle onto the same location. Penny did not move.The voice came back. We have you surrounded. Throw your weapons on
the ground.There is only one of you, Bergen said. And there are three of us. Can you shoot us all, do you think,before we kill you?The enemy fell silent, considering, Bergen supposed, what to do now that his bluff had failed. It was anopportunity.Boy, rush him, Bergen whispered. Mulls and I will pin him down.Penny turned his head just enough to examine Bergen in his peripheral vision, and did not move.What are you waiting for, boy?Pennys fingers flexed on the handle of his knife.He knows. It must be now.He reaimed his weapon and fired at Pennys back, but simultaneously, the youth darted to the left,ducking under the swing of Bergens arm and dodging entirely the arc of fire. A clean miss.Mulls, perhaps misinterpreting the action, fired his rifle at the hidden man on the mound.Penny had spun about, quick on his feet like a dancer, and had already covered one of the two stridesnecessary to slip his blade into Bergens throat. Bergen flicked his arm into position and dischargeddirectly into Pennys chest. A spark exploded there, and the bent remains of the flashers striking rodflew smoking from Pennys hand as he closed the final step.Quick.Bergen slammed the butt of his pistol onto Pennys stabbing arm as it swung in. The strike crackedsoundly on bone, but an instant later Bergens flank split with the passing of the boys blade. Numbingshock spread like lightning into his left leg and arm. His follow-up swing went wildly askew as Pennydarted past.Another shot rang out and Mulls tumbled to the street in a spray of blood and oil. Penny pivoted on theball of one foot and plunged the knife towards Bergens belly.Bergen locked the fingers of his right hand around the boys wrist, keeping the knife still. Penny yankedaway but was held prisoner of the older mans greater strength. With a kind of calm and deliberation,Bergen planted his revolver against Pennys chest and blew a hole in him.The youth spasmed and fell, releasing the knife. Penny writhed and sputtered across the flagstones,gurgling and chokingthe first genuine sounds Bergen had ever heard him make. Bergen raised hisweapon and sighted on Pennys head.Dont move! came the command from atop the mound. The hairs on Bergens neck tingled.Lower your weapon, Bergen shouted. In a moment we will talk face-to-face, but these two must beeliminated first.No one else dies without my say came the reply. Throw that pistol on the street and well converselike civilised human beings.Penny gasped in a shuddering lungful of air. He began to look around and take stock of his situation; hisright hand fished into the pocket of his ragged trousers while his left clutched at blood streaming from thebullet hole.Bergen held his aim steady. I am an ally, he yelled. A comrade of Sir Winfred Bailey Howe. I am notyour enemy.Unsteady footsteps approached from behind, twitching at Bergens instinct to spin and face the danger.The unseen man did not sound experienced in combat; Bergen could probably cut him down before theman got a shot off, but he dared not take his eyes from Pennyedge. At his