Petrópolis floated above the end of the world.

  The imperial city, protected by the altitude of the Serra dos órg?os, had isolated itself. While Rio de Janeiro sank in mud and monsters, the "City of Pedro" had closed its roads and erected walls of wrought iron and steam.

  We arrived at the portico of the Quitandinha Palace.

  The old hotel-casino, with its colossal Norman architecture, now served as the great entrance fortress. The windows were armored with copper. The chimneys spewed dense white smoke that mixed with the natural fog, creating perpetual camouflage.

  "Halt!" A metallic voice thundered from the guard booth.

  Two guards emerged from the mist.

  They weren't human. They were Mechanized Independence Dragoons.

  Polished bronze armor three meters high, powered by hydraulic pistons that hissed with every step. Where a face should be, there was a ventilation grate glowing with the orange light of an internal furnace.

  They wielded lances that were actually pressurized steam rifles.

  "Imperial Identification or commercial safe conduct," demanded the automaton on the left. The voice came from a gramophone diaphragm on its chest.

  "We are refugees from the Bay." I took a step forward, raising my hands (and hiding the scalpels). "We bring information about the Leviathan and technical skills."

  "Refugees are prohibited. The Sanitation Decree forbids entry to those contaminated by the Low Tide." The automaton cocked its lance. "Turn around and die on the mountain, or be incinerated here."

  "How charming," Gristle snarled, squeezing the handle of her cleaver. "Scrap heap, I'll open you like a sardine can."

  "Wait." Valéria stepped forward. She didn't look at the weapon. She looked at the robot's "leg." "You're leaking pressure at the left knee joint."

  The automaton stopped.

  "Diagnosis irrelevant."

  "Relevant, yes." Valéria pulled a wrench from her belt. "You're compensating for balance by throwing weight to the right. In fifty more steps, your gyroscope will lock up and you'll fall face-first on the ground. The seal dried out in the cold, didn't it?"

  The bronze guard hesitated. Steam hissed louder, like a frustrated sigh.

  "Maintenance is six months overdue. The Chief Engineer is... indisposed."

  "I can fix it in two minutes." Valéria spun the wrench on her finger. "In exchange, you open the gate."

  The two golems looked at each other (or turned their ventilation grates toward one another).

  "Non-standard procedure. Risk of sabotage."

  "Risk is my leg falling off mid-shift," the other guard argued. "Let the mechanic work."

  Valéria approached. With quick, precise movements, she tightened the escape valve, applied a sealing paste (which she scraped off our truck's own melted engine), and readjusted the pressure.

  The hissing stopped. The robot flexed its knee, silent and smooth.

  "Efficiency: 100%." The golem seemed satisfied. "Entry authorized under the Public Utility Law. Welcome to the City of Steam."

  The heavy iron gates opened, moved by gigantic chains.

  Entering Petrópolis was a culture shock.

  Down below, civilization had ended. Here, it had regressed to evolve.

  The cobblestone streets were clean. Horseless carriages, powered by compact, silent steam engines, glided along tree-lined avenues.

  Citizens walked with Victorian elegance, wearing long coats, top hats, and crinoline dresses. But everyone wore ornate gas masks, made of leather and brass, to filter the "moral pollution" of the outside world.

  There was no electricity. Illumination came from gas lamps burning Refined Ether. The light was yellowish, flickering, and cozy, but cast long shadows.

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  "It's beautiful," whispered Luna, looking at a candy shop window that seemed untouched by the apocalypse. "It looks like a dream."

  "Nightmares are dreams too, Luna," I observed, noticing the details the beauty hid.

  The servants cleaning the streets didn't wear masks. They had metal collars. And their movements were... repetitive.

  I activated my analytical vision.

  [TARGET: STREET SWEEPER NUMBER 45.]

  [DIAGNOSIS: PARTIAL LOBOTOMY. MOTOR CONTROL IMPLANT IN NECK.]

  "They turned the working class into biological wind-up dolls," I muttered. "The aristocracy here doesn't govern. It remote controls."

  We reached Rua Teresa. Formerly a fashion hub. Now, a market for luxury parts and scrap.

  Valéria was in heaven, looking at external combustion engines and Mithril pistons.

  Suddenly, the bell of the Cathedral of Saint Peter of Alcantara rang.

  It wasn't an ordinary bell. The sound reverberated in my bones, a low frequency that made the Parasite hide in my liver.

  All movement on the street stopped.

  Carriages parked. Nobles on the sidewalks bowed.

  A procession was coming down the avenue.

  Not priests. Techno-Priests.

  They wore red robes embroidered with gold and copper threads. They swung censers releasing lavender steam and burnt oil.

  And in the center, floating on an anti-gravity platform (lost Sovereignty technology, adapted), was Grand Duke Kaleidoscope.

  He was a thin, pale man, dressed in a suit covered in lenses and mirrors. Instead of a right eye, he had a jeweler's telescopic lens that rotated and zoomed constantly.

  He looked at the populace with analytical disdain.

  The platform stopped in front of us. The Duke adjusted the lens, focusing on me.

  "Strangers." His voice was amplified, dry as old paper. "I smell salt. And rotten blood."

  "We are doctors and engineers," I replied, maintaining posture. "We came to offer services."

  The Duke laughed. The lenses on his outfit spun, reflecting my image from various angles.

  "Doctors? Petrópolis has no diseases. Flesh is weak, but Steam is pure. We replace failure with gears."

  He raised a hand. The hand was mechanical, a masterpiece of clockwork, with porcelain fingers and gold joints.

  "The Clockwork Emperor has decreed: Everything that bleeds is inefficient."

  "If there are no diseases, why did the gate automatons say the Chief Engineer is 'indisposed'?" I challenged.

  The Duke's smile faltered. His eye lens contracted.

  "Insolent."

  He made a gesture. Four mechanical guards surrounded us, steam lances pointed at our heads.

  "Take them to the Crystal Palace. The Emperor will decide if they serve as spare parts... or as fuel for the Royal Boiler."

  We were escorted (dragged) to the Crystal Palace.

  The glass and iron structure, imported from France in the 19th century, now glowed with a pulsating internal light.

  Inside, there were no flowers or exhibitions.

  There was a Surgical Workshop.

  Marble operating tables were arranged in a circle. Mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, holding saws, drills, and needles.

  In the center, seated on a throne made of giant gears that turned slowly, was him.

  Dom Pedro III, the Clockwork Emperor.

  He wasn't human. Not anymore.

  He was a brain and a heart, floating in a glass jar in the chest of a colossal robotic body, four meters tall, decorated with imperial velvet and medals.

  The body was a brass cathedral. The face was an immobile, expressionless gold mask.

  "Father..." the Emperor's voice came from organ pipes on the back of the throne. It was a polyphonic voice, musical and terrifying. "...they bring Entropy."

  Grand Duke Kaleidoscope bowed.

  "Your Majesty. They are scrap from the coast. Should I recycle them?"

  The Emperor raised a metal finger. The sound of ratchets turning echoed in the glass hall.

  "No. The one in the white coat... he has an anomaly."

  The gold face turned to me.

  "You carry a symbiote. A life form that consumes to evolve. Inefficient. Biological. Disgusting."

  "Efficiency is subjective, Your Majesty." I took a step forward, feeling the vibration of the machines in the floor. "Your city is beautiful. But it is static. You stopped time so you wouldn't die.

  "But the Leviathan down there didn't stop. And when the water climbs the mountain... steam won't hold back the ocean."

  "The Leviathan is flesh. Flesh rots." The Emperor leaned forward. "We are eternal."

  "No machine is eternal without maintenance." I pointed to the jar in his chest. The liquid sustaining the brain was cloudy. There were sediments. "Your preservative fluid is degrading. You're losing memories, aren't you? Forgetting names? Dates?

  "The 'Chief Engineer' disappeared because he didn't know how to change the fluid without killing the brain."

  Silence fell in the Crystal Palace. The Grand Duke looked terrified.

  I had touched a nerve. The Emperor had Mechanical Alzheimer's.

  "You... can change the fluid?" the Emperor's voice glitched, sounding like a toothed gear.

  "I am a bio-hacker. I make chemical cocktails that make dead cells dance." I smiled. "I can synthesize a new preservative fluid using mana from mountain flowers and... a bit of my own modified blood.

  "It will give you fifty more years of clarity."

  "The price?" asked the Emperor.

  "I want access to your workshops. Valéria needs parts to build a vehicle capable of facing the Leviathan. And we want safe passage to the mountains of Minas Gerais if things get ugly."

  The Clockwork Emperor processed the offer. The gears in his throne spun furiously.

  "Deal accepted. But if I lose a single memory during the process... your friends will be turned into porcelain dolls for afternoon tea."

  He extended a giant hand.

  I shook the cold metal.

  The Parasite hissed.

  [ALERT: THE EMPEROR IS NOT JUST A MACHINE. HE IS CONNECTED TO AN UNDERGROUND NETWORK.]

  [THERE IS SOMETHING SLEEPING BENEATH PETRóPOLIS. SOMETHING FEEDING THE STEAM.]

  I knew it. Nothing is free. The geothermal energy of this city came from somewhere.

  But for now, we had a roof, a workshop, and an Emperor as a patient.

  "Valéria," I tossed the wrench to her. "Start designing the new truck. And make it extra Steampunk."

  "Luna, prep the sonic anesthesia. We're opening up a tin god."