Petropunk: The iron palimpsest

Sineus listened, his mind stripping the information down to its functional core. A source. A contact.

– His name?

– He has none that matters. They call him the Archivist of Ruin, – Morozov said. The name was absurd, something from a penny dreadful. It was the sound of the world he was now forced to enter. – He has a shop in the old book market, near the Obvodny Canal. A place of dust and decay. It will not be marked. Look for a door with no sign, painted the color of a faded bruise.

A name. A location. It was insane. It was occult nonsense. It was the only thing he had.

Sineus looked from the doctor to his sister. The black frost on her memory was spreading, a delicate, fatal lacework. He had tried to fight it with logic, with the clean power of a machine. Now he had to fight it with whispers and legends.

He gave a single, sharp nod. The debate was over.

The Archivist’s Price

The old book market near the Obvodny Canal was a maze of narrow alleys choked with the smell of decay. Not the clean, honest decay of rot, but the slow, sour death of paper. It was a smell of forgotten words and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat. Sineus moved through the labyrinth, his boots silent on the slick, uneven stones. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy with moisture, the grey light of Petrograd swallowed by the tight press of brick buildings. He was looking for a door. A door with no sign, painted the color of a faded bruise.

He found it at the end of a dead-end passage, a featureless slab of wood set into a crumbling brick wall. It was the color Morozov had described. A sick, purple-grey, like old blood under skin. There was no handle, no knocker. Sineus hesitated for only a second, then knocked. Three hard raps. The sound was flat, absorbed by the damp wood. For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to knock again when a dry, scraping sound came from within. A bolt being drawn. The door swung inward on silent hinges, opening into a passage of absolute black.

Sineus stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind him, cutting off the grey light and the smell of the city. Here, the scent of decaying paper was overwhelming, a physical presence. It was dry and dusty, with an undercurrent of something else. Something like dried herbs, or old bones. A faint light glowed at the far end of the passage. He walked towards it.

The passage opened into a room. It was not a shop. It was a cavern carved from books. They were stacked from floor to ceiling in teetering, impossible columns. They formed the walls, the furniture, the very air. A single, bare bulb hung from a wire, casting a weak, yellow light that was swallowed by the shadows. Behind a desk made from bound ledgers sat a man. He was as frail and dry as the pages surrounding him. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched thin over a delicate frame. He wore a simple, dark coat dusted with a fine layer of paper fibres. He did not look up.

– You are not one of my usual patrons, – the man’s voice was a dry rustle, the sound of a single leaf skittering across stone.

– I was told you could help me, – Sineus said. He kept his voice even. He would not show weakness here.

– People are often told things that are not true. It is the foundation of history.

Sineus placed his hands on the desk. The surface was a mosaic of faded leather and gilt lettering.

– I am looking for an artifact. They call it the Heart of the Artisan.

The old man finally looked up. His eyes were pale, the color of watered-down ink, and they seemed to hold a vast, tired knowledge. He looked at Sineus, but also through him, as if reading the title on his spine.

– You use the language of myth to ask for a thing of science. The Heart is not a jewel. It is not a talisman. It is a sealed death-memory. The final, perfect, creative spark of a master craftsman, captured at the moment his life was extinguished.

The Archivist of Ruin leaned forward. The movement was slow, his joints creaking like the spine of an old book.

– It is a moment of pure creation, so potent it can overwrite the chaos of the plague. But it is also a memory of death. To open it is to stand in the presence of two absolutes at once. It is not a cure. It is a gamble with reality itself.

– I need to find it, – Sineus said. The words were flat. A statement of fact.

The Archivist stared at him for a long time. The only sound was the faint, dry rustle of his own breathing. It had a strange rhythm. A quiet, ticking sound.

– The workshop where it was made, where the artisan died, was erased. The Censorium was thorough. But no erasure is perfect. There are maps.

He reached under the desk and produced a rolled tube of parchment. It was brittle, yellowed with age. He spread it carefully on the desk. It was a map of a section of Petrograd, but a version Sineus had never seen. The streets were different. The landmarks were wrong.

– A pre-erasure map, – the Archivist whispered. He tapped a thin, dry finger on a specific point. – The workshop was here. In the district you now call the Iron Palimpsest.

Sineus looked at the map. It was a key. A tangible piece of a world that no longer existed. He felt a surge of something he had not felt since the cafe. Hope. He reached for it. The Archivist’s hand shot out and covered the map. His fingers were surprisingly strong.

– Everything has a price.

– I will pay it, – Sineus said.

– I do not want your money, – the Archivist said, his pale eyes fixed on Sineus. – Your kind always thinks in terms of currency. It is the most primitive form of memory. No. I want something real.

– What?

The Archivist leaned back, his fingers steepled. The dry, ticking rustle of his breath seemed to grow louder.

– I want a memory. A happy one. Of her. The one you are trying to save.

Sineus froze. The air in the room grew cold. This was the price. Not gold. Not a service. A piece of his own soul. A piece of Lilya. To trade a memory of her to save her life. The logic was a serpent eating its own tail. He could refuse. He could walk out, try to find another way. But there was no other way. Morozov had said it. The experts had confirmed it. The clock was ticking in the shallow breaths his sister was taking. This was the choice. Fail the quest and lose her, or cut a piece of himself away and hand it to this creature of dust and shadow.

– A specific memory, – the Archivist continued, his voice soft. – Not a grand one. A small, perfect moment. A moment of pure, uncomplicated joy. Give it to me.

Sineus closed his eyes. His mind was a fortress, every memory cataloged and secured. To give one up was a violation of his deepest principles. It was a surrender to the chaos. But Lilya’s face floated in the darkness behind his eyelids. Her cold skin. The emptiness in her eyes. The price was his identity. The cost of failure was her life. There was no choice.

– Very well, – he said. The words tasted like ash.

He searched his memory. He pushed past the arguments, the disagreements, the moments of frustration. He looked for the light. He found it. A summer afternoon, years ago. The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The smell of cut grass and warm dust. Lilya, her face flushed with effort and frustration, trying to ride a bicycle for the first time. She was seven.

He remembered the scraped knee. The tears. His own impatience, and then a sudden, unexpected wave of tenderness. He remembered holding the back of the seat, running alongside her, his legs longer than hers. He remembered the exact moment he let go. She wobbled. She cried out. And then she was riding. Her laughter, clear and bright as a bell, echoing across the lawn. A moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.

He focused on it. He held it in his mind, every detail sharp and clear. The color of her dress. The glint of sun on the handlebars. The sound of her laughter.

He felt a strange, pulling sensation in his mind. A cold, precise pressure, like a surgeon’s scalpel. It was not a violent tearing. It was a clean excision. The memory, with all its warmth and light, was drawn out of him. It flowed across the desk, a shimmering, silent river of light that only he could see. It flowed into the Archivist.

The old man closed his eyes, a faint, serene smile on his lips. He was savoring it.

When it was over, Sineus felt a void. A clean, hollow space in his mind where the memory had been. He knew he had taught his sister to ride a bicycle. It was a fact in a ledger. But the warmth, the laughter, the feeling of the sun on his neck… it was gone. He had paid the price. He had moved on the axis, sacrificing a piece of his past to secure a future.

The Archivist opened his eyes. They seemed brighter now, less tired. He pushed the map across the desk.

– Your payment is accepted.

Sineus took the map. His hand was steady. He rolled it carefully and placed it inside his coat. He felt a new emptiness inside him, a cold, clean wound. He had crossed the threshold. He had traded a piece of his soul for a piece of paper. He was committed.

The air outside was cold and sharp against his face. The smell of the city was a welcome assault after the dry dust of the archive.

He had a destination, but the Iron Palimpsest was not a place you could navigate with a map alone.

Into the Palimpsest

The wound in his mind was cold and clean. A perfect excision. He knew, as a matter of fact, that he had taught his sister to ride a bicycle. He did not remember her laughter. The absence of it was a quiet, sterile space he could not fill. He hated it. He walked away from the Obvodny Canal, the pre-erasure map a brittle weight in his coat pocket. The Archivist of Ruin had taken his payment. Now he had to see if the purchase was worth the price.

He moved north. Towards the Vyborg Side. Towards the smoke that stained the grey sky a darker, bruised shade of grey. The streets here were still orderly. The grand, crumbling facades of Petrograd stood in their designated places. The laws of physics held. He passed a bakery, the smell of bread a memory he was still allowed to keep. He passed a patrol of city police, their grey wool uniforms soaked dark at the shoulders from the earlier rain. They did not look at him. He was just another man in a good coat, walking with a purpose.

The border was not a line on a map. It was a change in pressure. A drop in temperature. He stood at an intersection. On one side, the street was paved with worn but regular stones. On the other, it was cracked concrete patched with black tar. On one side, the buildings had the tired dignity of age. On the other, they were brutalist blocks of soot-stained brick and exposed iron, built for function and nothing more. This was the edge of the Iron Palimpsest.

He had to choose. Turn back to the world of predictable decay, or step into the world of active chaos. Lilya’s shallow breathing was a clock ticking in his head. There was no choice. The price was his safety, the comfort of a world that obeyed its own rules. He paid it. He crossed the street.

The air changed. It grew thick, heavy. It was something to be pushed through. The familiar city smells of wet stone and horse manure were gone, replaced by the sharp tang of coal smoke and the metallic scent of cold, wet rust. And something else beneath it. The faint, cloying sweetness of rot. The smell of forgotten things.

The sounds of the city fell away behind him. The rumble of trams, the calls of vendors, the distant clang of a church bell – all of it was muffled, then silenced. The soundscape here was different. A low, industrial drone was the foundation of everything, the hum of a thousand machines in factories both running and ruined. Above it, the rhythmic crash of a steam hammer somewhere to the east. And beneath it, the whispers.

They were at the very edge of hearing. Faint, overlapping, like a radio tuned between stations. Fragments of words in languages he did not know. Snatches of lullabies. The sharp crack of a single, angry curse. It was the background radiation of discarded history. And mixed within it, a sound he recognized from his own workshop, but distorted, made foul. A dry, mechanical ticking, like a watch made of ice. The Ticker’s Rattle. It was the sound of reality being unstitched.

He walked for a kilometer, following the crude line on the Archivist’s map. The district was a testament to brutal efficiency. Tenements for the workers, packed tight against the walls of the factories where they labored. Wide, straight avenues for moving material. No parks. No squares. No space for anything that did not serve the engine of production. The people he passed had the same look. Their faces were blank, smeared with soot, their eyes fixed on the ground in front of them. They moved with the trudging, relentless pace of men who had forgotten what it felt like to rest.

He turned into a vast factory yard. A sea of cracked concrete, stained with oil and rust. In the center of the yard, it happened. For four seconds, the world had two sets of rules. A narrow cobblestone alley shimmered into existence. It cut diagonally across the yard, a phantom limb of the city that had been amputated. He saw the texture of the stones, worn smooth by a century of cartwheels and boots. He saw the dark, wet gleam of them, the moss growing in the cracks. He could almost smell the memory of rain on old rock.

A worker pushing a cart of iron filings walked straight through the apparition without flinching. The man’s face did not change. He did not notice the ghost of a street that had appeared and disappeared in the space of a few heartbeats. Sineus stopped. The air where the alley had been was still, unnaturally cold. The silence that followed the vision had a faint, ticking quality. He was the only one who saw it. A curse he had once tried to cure, now his only tool for navigation.

He pressed on, his senses on high alert. He passed a tenement block, a monstrous brick box with a thousand dark windows. As he drew level with its entrance, a wave of emotion washed over him. It was not his own. It was a cold, specific, and overwhelming sorrow. The grief of a mother for a child lost to a fever in the winter of 1888. The memory was sharp, detailed. The smell of boiled cabbage and sickness. The feel of a small, cold hand in hers. The precise pattern of the cracks in the ceiling above the bed.

The sorrow was an infection. A piece of old, discarded pain that had found a new host. Sineus stumbled, his breath catching in his chest. He leaned against the rough brick of the factory wall opposite, fighting it. He was a man in a clean room, and a bucket of filth had been thrown over him. He focused on his own breathing. On the solid feel of the brick under his palm. On the cold weight of the useless, broken watch in his pocket. After a dozen heartbeats, the feeling receded, leaving him hollow and shaking. This was the Whispering Plague. Not just shifting streets, but ambushes of the soul.

He needed to get off the main thoroughfare. He found a recess between two hulking warehouses, a narrow space out of the main flow of workers, and pulled out his maps. The contemporary city map was a grid of straight lines and right angles. The pre-erasure map from the Archivist was a tangle of curved alleys and forgotten squares. He laid them one over the other.

They did not align. They fought each other. A street on his modern map, the Proletarsky Prospect, ran directly through a block of what the old map called the Weaver’s Rookery. The power station he needed to find was not on the new map at all. The old map showed a marsh in its place. His maps were useless. One showed the bones. The other showed the skin. He was in the flesh, and it was tearing itself apart.

His tools were failing him. His logic, his science, his belief in a measurable world – they were all useless here. He was a mathematician in a world without numbers. He needed a different kind of knowledge. He needed a guide. Not a mapmaker, but a ghost who knew the habits of other ghosts.

The Archivist had given him a name. Not a person. A place. A tavern called the Rusty Mug. A known hub for the city’s memory markets, where smugglers and criminals traded in the district’s toxic bounty. It was his only lead. He folded the maps and put them away. He would have to navigate by feel, by the currents of this sick, whispering tide.

He stepped back out onto the street. He needed a direction. He saw a man in the greasy overalls of a railway worker, leaning against a wall, smoking a cheap cigarette. The man’s face was a roadmap of exhaustion. Sineus approached him.

– The Rusty Mug?

The worker took a long drag from his cigarette. He looked Sineus up and down. The good coat. The clean hands. The man did not belong here. The worker exhaled a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, then pointed with a grimy thumb down a side street. He said nothing. He did not need to. The gesture was clear enough. Go that way. Get out of my sight.

Sineus gave a curt nod and turned down the alley. The drone of the factories grew louder here. The air was thicker, the whispers more insistent. He passed doorways that led into absolute darkness. He saw figures huddled in the shadows, their faces indistinct, their forms seeming to shift and blur at the edges of his vision. This was the heart of the district. The place where the decay was deepest.

He felt the pull of the tavern before he saw it. A concentration of memory. A nexus of traded histories and desperate bargains. Then it came into view. A squat, two-story building of dark, sweating brick, wedged between a foundry and a collapsed tenement. Its windows were boarded over, save for one on the ground floor, so thick with grime it admitted no light. A crude sign, a simple iron mug nailed to a plank of wood, hung above the door. The iron was bleeding a trail of rust down the wood.

The sound of rough laughter spilled out from inside, along with the smell of cheap alcohol, unwashed bodies, and something else. A low, rhythmic hum, shot through with a familiar, rapid ticking. The sound of active, weaponized memory.

He had traded a piece of his soul for a map that led him here. To the doorstep of the criminal underworld. He put his hand on the rough, splintered wood of the door.

The Smuggler’s Terms

He put his hand on the door. The wood was rough, splintered, and damp with the district’s perpetual cold sweat. He could feel the memories clinging to it. Decades of desperate hands, angry hands, hands slick with grease or blood. He ignored them. He pushed. The door groaned open into a wall of noise and heat.

The air was thick. It tasted of cheap spirits, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that always leaked from active memory-tech. It was the smell of a wound that refused to heal. A low, rhythmic hum vibrated up through the soles of his boots, the collective thrum of a dozen different devices running in the cramped space. And under it all, the sound he had come to despise. A rapid, mechanical ticking, like a watch made of ice being dragged over stone. The Ticker’s Rattle. It was the sound of the world coming apart at the seams.

The tavern was a long, narrow room, its ceiling low and stained black with soot. A dozen men, maybe more, were hunched over small, round tables. Their faces were pale in the gloom, illuminated by the weak glow of gas lamps and the faint, pulsing light of the artifacts they traded. One man wept silently into his hands, clutching a child’s worn leather shoe. Another stared at the wall, his eyes vacant, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose after a fresh excision. This was the Rusty Mug. This was the heart of the memory markets.

He scanned the room. His sight, the curse he had spent his life trying to master, cut through the grime. He saw the shimmering auras of memory clinging to every person, every object. A cloud of violent rage around a heavy iron poker leaning against the bar. A faint, sad perfume of lost love emanating from a tarnished silver locket being passed between two men. He was looking for something different. A quiet spot in the noise. A place where the memories were not just present, but managed. Controlled.

He found her in the far corner, in a booth half-swallowed by shadow. She was alone. A mug of something dark sat untouched on the table before her. She was not looking at it. She was focused on a small, intricate device in her hands, cleaning it with a rag and a thin metal pick. Her movements were precise, economical. She had an aura, like everyone else, but it was tight, contained. A fortress. He knew it was her. Anja Kovac.

Sineus moved through the room. The patrons ignored him. They were lost in their own transactions, their own ghosts. He felt their discarded emotions brush against him like cobwebs. A flash of terror from a soldier’s last stand. A surge of bitter jealousy from a spurned lover. He walled it off. He was here for a tool, not to drown in the filth. He stopped at her table.

She did not look up. She continued to work on her device, her knuckles white.

– Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying, – she said. Her voice was low, rough at the edges like a chipped stone.

– I’m not selling, – Sineus replied.

– Then you’re in the wrong place. Get out.

He remained standing. He could feel the impatience of the room, the low-grade hostility of a place that did not welcome strangers. He had to force the interaction.

– I need a guide.

She finally stopped her work. She set the tool down on the table with a soft click. She looked up at him, and for the first time, he saw her face clearly. It was sharp, angular, and pale. Her eyes were a flat, washed-out blue, and they held no warmth at all. They took in his clean coat, his polished boots, the way he stood. A faint, humorless smile touched her lips.

– A nobleman, – she said. The words were an insult. – Your boots cost more than this bar.

– I need to get to the old power station, – he said, ignoring the jibe.

– Everyone needs something. The power station is a bad place. Even for the Palimpsest. It’s hot. The Ordo Umbrarum are crawling all over it. The Unremembered are, too. You’d last ten minutes.

– That’s why I need a guide.

She leaned back in the booth, crossing her arms. The movement was slow, deliberate. A predator assessing its prey. She was enjoying this.

– A guide for a nobleman into the heart of a war zone. That’s expensive. Very expensive.

– I can pay.

Her smile widened. It was not a pleasant sight.

– I’m sure you can. Let’s talk numbers. Twenty thousand rubles.

The price was absurd. It was more than a factory worker made in a decade. It was a test. A way to see how desperate he was. He did not flinch. Lilya’s face, pale and growing colder, was behind his eyes. The money was just paper. Time was the only currency that mattered now.

– And, – she continued, holding up a finger, – anything we find along the way that isn’t your primary objective is mine. Artifacts, tech, information. All of it. My salvage. My rules.

This was the true price. Not the money, but the surrender of control. It went against every principle he had built his life on. To allow this cynical scavenger to pick over the battlefield of his quest, to profit from his desperation. The cost was his dignity. His pride. He thought of the cold, clean wound in his mind where the memory of his sister’s laughter used to be. He had already paid a higher price than this.

– Agreed, – Sineus said. The word was flat. Final.

The smile vanished from her face. She had expected him to argue, to haggle. His immediate acceptance threw her off balance. For a moment, she was the one who was uncertain. He had bought her services, and in doing so, had seized a small measure of control. He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes before she masked it.

– Half now, – she said, her voice hard again.