Who are you really, Charles Gears?
Charles Orson Gears is 21 years old, the day he joins the American Secure Containment Initiative. The year is 1875.
Charles' tie is pressed, his suit unwrinkled, his already-thinning hair neatly combed. To look at him, one might think he hasn't been sitting in an interrogation room for the past six hours. One would be wrong.
A man enters the room. He isn't wearing a name tag—none of his interrogators have, though this one is new. The nameless man smiles thinly as he sits.
"You're Charles Gears, is that right?"
"That is correct."
"Hell of a name. And you're the assistant to Mr. Rothwell, the lawyer assigned to Dr. Claddeus' estate?"
"Yes."
"Wonderful. Now, I'd like you to tell me about what happened last afternoon."
"Have you not been informed?" Charles' tone is placid, nearly serene. "I have described this to two of your colleagues already. In the latter case, I believe his subordinate was writing a transcription—"
"I've read it. And I'm not afraid to say it seems a little… fantastical."
"I do not lie, officer."
The nameless man smiles again, leaning forward as if sharing a private joke. Charles notes that three of his teeth are rotten.
"Everybody lies, kid."
Dr. Gears is 143 years old the day he meets Troy Lament. The year is 1997.
Lament is young then and looks younger, all gawky limbs and nervous tics that haven't yet been smoothed out by hard-won experience. He is yet to grow into the overwhelming responsibility he will one day be made to bear. They are alike in this way, their deceptive youthfulness. Lament looms apologetically over Charles' desk, proffering a hand to shake, then retracting it when Gears makes no motion to stand.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Doctor…" Lament trails off, suddenly uncertain if he's just been hazed. He yanks at his right cuff—his uniform is one size too small. Charles make a mental note to have him fitted for a new one. An ill-prepared assistant reflects poorly on their superior, after all.
"Dr. Gears," he supplies.
"Dr. Gears," Lament echoes. "Right. That's quite a memorable name you have, if you don't mind my saying. Is there a story there?"
"Geier is a common German surname. My grandfather, like many immigrants, changed his name upon arriving to America. He was a clockmaker. I am told he had something of a sense of humor."
There is a brief silence before Lament realizes that Dr. Gears' tale has ended with as little fanfare as it began.
"That's… quite a story."
"It is."
You can learn a lot about someone by the questions they ask. You can learn even more by the questions they don't. These are questions that Dr. Gears has not been asked:
Did you know what you'd find in Dr. Claddeus' estate?
Geier may be a common surname, but was it your grandfather's surname?
Who are you really, Charles Gears?
Dr. Gears never lies. That does not mean he always tells the truth.
Charles Gears is 10 years old, the day his father first shows him the inside of the family clock. The year is 1864.
The exterior of the clock is rather unimpressive; plain, roughly cut wood, uncarved and unadorned. It looks more like a lopsided box with a clock face slapped on it than a proper grandfather clock. But the interior…
There is no pendulum inside this clock, no series of weights with which to measure the passing of days. There are, from the base of the clock to the very top, hundreds upon hundreds of intermeshed gears. They twist about in perfect geometric harmony, gold flashing upon gold, silver upon silver. Countless cogs move about its length in a perfect synchronized dance, intermingled, hands twined. The clock is reason and beauty and harmony all in one. The clock is the sky and the stars, and Charles, still so young, can no longer imagine a world without it.
"Remember this moment," his father says. "Capture it in your mind, the feeling of it. The glory. This is the wholeness of our Unbroken God. The world, as it could be. As it should be." His father's hands are firm on his shoulders. The clock is beautiful. "Remember this. Remember who made you."
"Don't worry, father," he says. "I will not forget."
