Petropunk: The iron palimpsest

Petropunk: The iron palimpsest

Maxim Orlov

© Maxim Orlov, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-3792-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

PETROPUNK: The Iron Palimpsest

The Gilded Cage

The workshop was a vault. Not of money, but of silence. Sineus sealed the heavy oak door, the tumblers of the lock sinking into place with a solid, satisfying chunk. Outside, Petrograd dissolved into a grey wash of drizzle and fog, the clatter of steel-rimmed wheels on wet cobblestones a distant, irritating noise. Here, inside, the world held its breath. The air was his own, tasting of clean machine oil and the faint, sharp scent of ozone that clung to his tools. He moved through the ordered space with an economy of motion, his steps silent on the worn floorboards.

He ran a hand over the cool brass housing of the chronometer. It was the heart of his sanctuary, a machine of his own design built for a single purpose: to impose a clean, mechanical order on the messiness of time. For three days, he had been chasing a ghost within its gears, a resonance so faint it was less than a sound and more than a feeling. A flicker of imperfection. He leaned closer, his ear near the escapement mechanism. The rhythmic pulse was almost perfect. Almost. A clean, sharp click and release. The sound was the only one that mattered. The steady, uncorrupted beat of a world without history.

His eyes scanned the workbench. Every tool lay in its designated place, nested in a custom-cut felt liner. Calipers, gauges, drivers, each one polished, each one sterile. He had spent the morning purging them, running the humming tool over every surface until they were nothing but pure function, their histories of forge and factory and previous hands wiped clean. He selected a pair of fine-tipped tweezers and a jeweler’s loupe, the cold metal familiar in his grip. He fitted the loupe to his eye, and the world shrank to the universe of a single gear train. The balance wheel spun, a blur of gold. The pallet fork, a tiny anchor of polished steel, rocked back and forth, locking and releasing the escape wheel one tooth at a time. The sound was a precise, metallic rattle. A clean Ticker’s Rattle. But beneath it, he could still feel it. A drag. A weight. A memory.

The problem was the mainspring. He had sourced it from a new supplier, a workshop in the Tula province known for its quality. But quality meant pride, and pride meant a strong memory. He had to make a final adjustment, to tighten the barrel arbor just enough to alter the spring’s tension by a fraction of a degree. It required a specific wrench, one he had commissioned himself. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the dark, heavy steel.

It hit him instantly. Not a thought, but a full-body imposition. A shimmer of light, invisible to any other eye, bloomed across the wrench’s surface. With it came the phantom sensation of calloused hands, not his own. The air filled with the spectral scent of forge coal and hot metal. He felt a dull ache in a lower back that had stood hunched over an anvil for twelve hours. He saw a flash of a grimy, bearded face, sweat-soaked and streaked with soot, grinning with satisfaction at a finished piece of work. The man’s name was Pavel. He had a daughter with a cough that would not go away. He was proud of this wrench. It was the best thing he had made all week.

Sineus flinched, dropping the tool. It clattered on the workbench, the noise an obscenity in the quiet room. He hated this. This unwanted intimacy, this trespass of another’s life into his own. Memories were a disease, a contagion of emotion and experience that clung to the physical world like filth. He had been born with the curse of seeing it, and he had dedicated his life to the cure: a world scrubbed clean, a reality of pure, unburdened matter.

He took a steadying breath, his jaw tight. He would not tolerate it. Not here. He turned and picked up the humming tool from its charging station. It was his own invention, a sleek cylinder of polished obsidian and brass. He thumbed the activator. A low, resonant hum filled the air, and the series of small lenses at the tip glowed with a faint, violet light. The tool felt cool and heavy in his hand, a solid piece of logic against the spectral chaos. He picked up the wrench again, forcing himself to ignore the phantom ache in his back.

He brought the tip of the humming tool to the steel. The hum deepened as it made contact, the violet light brightening. The memory-shimmer on the wrench flared, resisting. Pavel’s pride was strong. It fought back, a stubborn ghost refusing to be exorcised. For a moment, the image of the smith’s daughter, her face pale and thin, flashed in Sineus’s mind. A pang of something – pity, connection – threatened to surface. He crushed it. He increased the tool’s power, twisting a dial at its base.

The hum rose to a sharp, whining pitch. The smell of ozone intensified, cutting through the scent of oil. The shimmer flickered violently, then dissolved like smoke in the wind. The phantom sensations vanished. The wrench in his hand was suddenly just a piece of cold, heavy steel. Nothing more. The erasure took twelve seconds. The tool’s power cell drained by a fraction of a percent. He had won. The workshop was clean again. But the victory left a familiar, hollow space inside him. The silence in the room felt heavier now, emptier.

He placed the sterile wrench back in its felt cradle. He ran a cloth over the spot where it had lain, erasing any lingering trace of the conflict. Order was restored. He stood for a long moment, surveying his domain. The gleaming brass of the chronometer. The ranks of silent, history-less tools. The neat stacks of schematics on his drafting table, their paper smelling of age and ink, not of the men who had drawn them. This was his fortress. This was his peace. A peace bought by a thousand tiny acts of un-making.

He felt a familiar thirst, the dry taste of concentration in his mouth. He moved to a small alcove where a samovar and a set of canisters stood in a perfect row. His tea ritual was as precise as his mechanical work. He measured the dark, coarse leaves into a porcelain pot. He checked the temperature of the water from the samovar with a dip-thermometer. Exactly 95 degrees. He poured the water over the leaves, watching them unfurl. The bitter, smoky aroma of strong chifir filled the small space. It was the only impurity he allowed himself.

While the tea steeped, he walked to the single, large window. It was made of reinforced glass, a full five centimeters thick, and looked out over the rain-slicked roofs of the Vyborg Side. Below, the city was a smear of grey buildings and dark, rushing water in the canals. A world of uncontrolled variables, of messy, unpredictable people. He felt a profound sense of detachment, the quiet satisfaction of a man looking down from a high tower. He was separate. He was safe.

He returned to his workbench, a cup of the scalding, dark tea in his hand. The bitterness was a welcome shock to his senses. His gaze drifted across the desk and settled on a velvet-lined case. He opened it. Inside lay a silver pocket watch. It was an old family piece, his father’s. The silver was polished to a mirror shine, the chain coiled in a perfect spiral beside it. It was a masterpiece of mechanics, its quiet ticking a counterpoint to the louder rattle of his own chronometer. But it was flawed.

He picked it up. The silver was cool against his skin. He ran his thumb over the crystal face. There, almost invisible, was a hairline crack. A tiny, branching fracture, no more than three millimeters long. It was the only object in the workshop he had not sterilized, the only imperfection he had allowed to remain. He had told himself it was because the memory of how it happened was too complex to excise cleanly. A lie. The truth was he was afraid to try. The crack was a flaw in the story he told himself, a constant, quiet reminder that his control was not absolute. It irritated him more than any ghost-memory on a stranger’s tool.

A sharp, insistent knock sounded at the workshop door.

Sineus froze, the watch heavy in his hand. The sound was an intrusion, a violation of the sealed environment. It was not the tentative rap of a servant. It was hard, official. The specific three-beat pattern of a Chancellery courier. A summons.

He did not move. He did not breathe. He willed the sound to go away, to be a phantom of the wind. Let the world handle its own messy affairs. He had his work. He had his order.

The knock came again, harder this time, echoing in the sterile silence of the room. A demand. The world outside did not care for his peace. It was rattling the handle of his cage.

The rain beat against the thick glass of the window. The chronometer ticked, a clean, steady rhythm counting down the seconds of his isolation.

A Debt You Cannot Pay

The knock was an obscenity. Three hard raps against the oak door, a sound as coarse and unwelcome as grit in a gear train. It was the precise, brutalist rhythm of the Imperial Chancellery. A summons. Sineus stood motionless in the sterile silence of his workshop, the flawed silver watch of his father still heavy in his palm. He had built this fortress of order to keep the world out. And the world was hammering on the gate.

He set the watch down with deliberate care, the hairline crack in its crystal catching the gaslight. He crossed the workshop, his steps measured, silent. He did not want to open the door. Opening it was a concession, an admission that the chaos outside had a claim on him. He slid the heavy bolt. The door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a man in the grey, rain-soaked uniform of a Chancellery courier. The man was an automaton, his face impassive, holding a sealed oilskin pouch.

– A summons for the Technologist Sineus, – the courier said. His voice was flat, another mechanical part of the state’s vast engine.

Sineus took the pouch. He broke the wax seal, the insignia of the two-headed eagle crumbling under his thumb. He unfolded the single sheet of heavy paper. The request was a command, phrased as a courtesy. His presence was required at the Chancellery offices. A consultation. Regarding the analysis of contraband memory-artifacts seized in the factory districts. He read the words, and a familiar disgust rose in his throat. They wanted him to wade into the filth, to catalogue the psychic diseases of the city’s desperate and depraved.

He folded the paper with sharp, precise creases. He held it out to the courier.

– I am unavailable, – Sineus said. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a vault door swinging shut.

The courier’s expression did not change, but a flicker of something – confusion, perhaps even alarm – registered in his eyes. A refusal was not a variable in his programming. He was a delivery mechanism. The message had been delivered. A response was not part of the protocol.

– Sir, the summons is mandatory.

– I am unavailable, – Sineus repeated, his voice dropping lower, colder. He did not raise it. He never raised it. He simply removed the possibility of argument. He placed the folded summons back into the courier’s unresisting hand. Then he closed the door, the heavy oak cutting off the sight of the rain and the grey uniform. He slid the bolt home. The chunk of the tumblers was a deeply satisfying sound. He had refused. The price for that choice would be logged in some dusty ledger deep in the Chancellery’s bowels, an entry against his name. A debt incurred. He did not care.

He stood with his back to the door, breathing in the clean air of his workshop. The silence returned, but it was different now. It was the silence of defiance. He had pushed the world away. He had won. He turned from the door and walked towards the dining hall. Lilya was waiting. Another kind of chaos.

The dining hall was an extension of his will. The long table of dark, polished wood was bare except for two place settings. The silver was old, heavy, and arranged with geometric precision. The plates were white porcelain, empty. A single gasolier overhead cast a low, steady light, reflecting in the dark grain of the wood. The only sound was the drumming of the rain against the tall, armored windows, a frantic and irregular rattle that grated on his nerves. It was the sound of the world trying to get in.

Lilya sat opposite him, a splash of unruly life in his monochrome world. Her dress was a deep blue, the color of a twilight sky. Her hair was not perfectly coiffed. A few strands had escaped their pins, framing a face that was too expressive, her eyes missing nothing. She watched him as he took his seat. He could feel her gaze, an unwelcome probe into the state of his mind.

– You look tired, Sineus, – she said. Her voice was warm, a stark contrast to the room’s cold perfection.

– I was working.

– Always working. Shut away in your room of ticking things. You will forget what the sun feels like.

He picked up his water goblet. The crystal was cool, perfectly clear. He had sterilized it himself that afternoon. – The sun is a variable I have accounted for.

She sighed, a small puff of exasperation. She looked from his face to the stark, empty table. A servant entered, placing a tureen of clear broth and a plate of black bread on the sideboard. The servant ladled the broth into their bowls and retreated without a word. The meal was simple, pure. Uncontaminated.

– You could at least have flowers, – Lilya said, gesturing to the vast, empty space at the table’s center. – Something to remind you that things grow.

– Things rot, – he corrected her. – Growth is the first stage of decay.

She put her spoon down. The small clatter echoed in the hall. – Is that what you tell yourself? That everything beautiful is simply a disease in waiting?

– It is a statement of fact. Not a belief.

– No, – she said, her voice gaining an edge. – It is a cage you have built for yourself, and you are polishing the bars while the world outside is on fire. You cannot just cut away the parts of the world you don’t like, Sineus.

The words landed like stones thrown against the armored glass of his windows. A direct assault. He felt a muscle in his jaw tighten. She was talking about more than just flowers. She was talking about his work. His life. His entire philosophy. He had just pushed the Chancellery out his door, and now she was inviting the whole, messy, screaming world to his dinner table.

He met her gaze. Her eyes were bright with a passionate, foolish fire. – I do not cut away what I do not like. I excise what is diseased. Memory is a contagion. Sentiment is a fever. I am seeking a cure.

– By becoming sterile? By feeling nothing? What is the point of a world with no memory, Sineus? A world with no love, no grief, no history? It would be a world of perfect, useless machines.

He saw her hand go to her throat, her fingers closing around the simple silver locket she always wore. It was a small, plain oval, slightly dented, hanging from a thin chain. An object saturated with sentiment. A vessel of the very disease he fought to eradicate. It was an offense to the clean logic of his world.

– Some things are worth more than a single life, – she said, her voice softer now, but no less intense. Her fingers tightened on the locket. – Some debts can’t be paid with machines.

There it was. The core of her delusion. The belief in unquantifiable things. Debts of honor. The weight of love. Ghosts. He had no patience for it.

– All things can be measured, – he said, his voice low and flat. – And what can be measured can be controlled. What you call ‘life,’ Lilya, is a cascade of chaotic, emotional impulses. It is a system spiraling into disorder. Control is the only sane response. The only moral response. To impose order on the chaos is a duty.

They stared at each other across the polished expanse of the table. An impasse. The gulf between them was a thousand kilometers wide. He had his logic. She had her faith. The only sound was the unsteady rattle of the rain, a frantic, chaotic beat against the glass. He had won the argument, in his own mind. He had presented an unassailable position. But he felt no satisfaction. He only felt the vast, cold distance between his chair and hers.

She knew what the summons was about. He could see it in her eyes. She had some network of friends, of gossips, people who traded in information as if it were bread. Another system of infection.

– They want your help, don’t they? – she asked, her voice quiet again. – The Chancellery. With the memory contraband. The things they are finding in the Iron Palimpsest.

He did not answer. He picked up his spoon and drew it through the clear broth. The liquid was tasteless, sterile. Pure fuel.

– You could help those people, – she pressed. – The ones afflicted by it. The ones trapped in the echoes. Your sight, the things you can do… you could make a difference. You choose not to.

– It is not my concern, – he said. The words were ice. He had made his choice at the door. He would make it again now. The cost was the look in her eyes. A flicker of pain, of disappointment, that was more damaging than any political fallout from the Chancellery. He had pushed her away, too. Another victory that felt like a loss.

She stood up, her chair scraping against the polished floor. The sound was a violation.

– No, – she said, her voice trembling with a sudden, cold anger. – It is your prison. And I hope you find comfort in its perfect, empty silence.

She turned and walked out of the dining hall, her footsteps echoing. She did not look back.

Sineus sat alone at the head of the long table. The broth in his bowl grew cold. The rain continued its assault on the windows. He was alone. He had his order. His fortress was secure. The silence he had craved was absolute.

But for the first time, it did not feel like peace. It felt like a vacuum. He listened. Not for a courier’s knock, but for the sound of her footsteps returning. There was nothing. Only the ticking of the grand clock in the main hall, a steady, mechanical rattle counting out the seconds of his isolation.

The Eagle’s Mandate

The room was cold. Not the damp chill of a Petrograd autumn, but the sterile, absolute cold of a surgical theater. The air, filtered and dry, smelled of nothing. The walls were paneled in dark, polished wood that absorbed the light from the electric lamps, giving nothing back. The only color was the vast, detailed map of Petrograd that covered the far wall. A city dissected, its arteries and organs laid bare in black and red ink. Captain Valerius Wolff stood before it, a scalpel before a patient. His grey uniform was immaculate, the creases sharp enough to cut paper.

He was an instrument of the Kaiser’s Ordo Umbrarum, the disciplined, occult-obsessed branch of the German High Command. His purpose was to bring logic to a world drowning in the chaos of sentiment. He held a steel pointer, its tip resting on a factory district near the Neva River. The Iron Palimpsest.

– The target is here, – Wolff said. His voice was calm, devoid of inflection. It was another tool, honed for clarity and command. – Intelligence confirms the Heart of the Artisan is located within a pre-erasure vault in this sector.

Around the heavy oak table sat six men. Two admirals from the High Command, their faces hard and weathered, their uniforms heavy with gold braid. Three diplomats from the Foreign Office, their civilian suits looking soft and flimsy in the severe room. The sixth man sat slightly apart, a nondescript functionary in a simple grey suit, his eyes fixed on a leather-bound notepad. He said nothing. He simply observed.

– The Heart of the Artisan, – one of the admirals grunted, his voice thick with skepticism. Admiral von Hessler. A man of steel ships and high explosives. He dealt in tons, not whispers. – More ghost stories from your department, Wolff. I have a fleet to run.

– A ghost story that can win a battle, Admiral, – Wolff replied without turning from the map. – The artifact is a vault-sealed kernel of solidified memory. The final, perfect moment of a master craftsman’s life. A moment of pure creation. Its resonance is sufficient to overwrite reality on a strategic scale.

The senior diplomat, a man named von Schulenburg with a carefully trimmed mustache, cleared his throat. – Overwrite reality? Captain, such language is… alarming. It violates certain understandings.

– War violates understandings, Herr von Schulenburg, – Wolff said, his voice flat. He turned from the map, his pale eyes sweeping over the men at the table. He saw their doubt. Their fear. Their conventional minds clinging to a world of treaties and tonnage. They needed a demonstration. They needed to understand the new physics of this war.

– Bring him in, – Wolff ordered.

Two guards in the black uniforms of the Ordo Umbrarum entered. They were large, silent men, moving with an unnerving efficiency. Between them, they held a third man, a captured Russian spy. The spy was thin, his face bruised, his eyes wide with a terror that had burned past screaming into a state of pure, animal fear. He trembled, a constant, low-frequency vibration.

The guards forced the spy into a steel chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room. A single, bright lamp was angled down at his face, throwing the rest of the room into deeper shadow. The spy squinted, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Wolff walked to a small, velvet-lined case on a side table. He opened it. Inside lay an object that looked like a surgeon’s scalpel, but its blade was forged from a dark, non-reflective metal that seemed to drink the light. It was a Memory Blade, a tool for excising history. The metal was cool and solid in his gloved hand.

He approached the chair. The spy flinched, trying to pull away, but the guards held him fast. Wolff ignored the man’s fear. It was an irrelevant variable. He placed the tip of the Memory Blade against the spy’s temple. The metal was cold enough to raise gooseflesh.

– What is your name? – Wolff asked, his voice quiet.

– Dmitri… Dmitri Volkov, – the spy stammered, spit flying from his lips.

Wolff activated the blade. It did not cut the skin. Instead, it emitted a low, almost inaudible hum, a high-frequency vibration that traveled from Wolff’s hand into the spy’s skull. The hum was a clean, metallic sound, like the rapid ticking of a watch made of ice. A Ticker’s Rattle. The spy’s eyes went wide. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, then blankness. The process took four seconds. The price was the man’s identity. A small price.

Wolff removed the blade. The hum ceased. He looked into the spy’s now-empty eyes.

– What is your name? – Wolff asked again.

The man stared. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He did not know. The concept of a name was gone. The memory had been cut, cauterized, removed. He was a shell. A body without a history. The man’s head slumped forward, and he collapsed in the chair, a puppet with its strings cut. The admirals stared, their skepticism replaced by a grim fascination. Von Schulenburg, the diplomat, looked pale. He had the expression of a man who had just seen a law of nature broken.

– That is the erasure of a single man, – Wolff said, placing the Memory Blade back in its case. He wiped his gloves with a cloth, a gesture of clinical finality. – With the Heart of the Artisan, we can erase not a man, but a fortress. A naval blockade. A rebellion. We can cut the memory of resistance from an entire city district, leaving behind a compliant, docile population. No rubble. No martyrs. Just… order.

He let the silence hang in the room. He let them contemplate the scale of it. The power to un-write the enemy’s will. To win the war not by destroying bodies, but by erasing the ideas that moved them. This was the future of conflict. Clean. Efficient. Absolute.